The Girl and Her Ren (The Ribbon Duet 2)

He grinned. “I think he’d let me read it.”

“I think you’re getting too bossy.”

“I think you’re afraid.”

I sucked in a breath, jerking back a little.

He noticed, crawling closer and hugging me tight. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

It took a moment for me to swallow my sobs. “You’re right, Jacob. I am afraid.”

We sat huddled together for a while, letting the sun warm us even when the hollowness in my heart was always cold.

Finally, Jacob pulled away. “Read it, ’kay? Don’t leave him in the box.”

A tear escaped. “Okay.”

“You will?”

“I will. I’ll be brave. I owe him that much.”

He nodded. “Yep and then you can read it to me.”

I smiled, doing my best not to let my mind run away with questions. What had Ren done? What ending had he written? “We’ll see.”

Standing, I took his hand in mine and headed toward the house.

Jacob squeezed my fingers with yet another question. “Even though he’s gone…he would want us to be happy, right, Mom?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you think he’s watching us right now?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Do you think he’s happy watching us?”

I pictured Ren somewhere free in the forest, peering through leaves and fantasy to protect us from afar. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, that settles it then.” His hand slipped from mine as he ran toward the house shouting, “Read it tonight. And maybe you’ll be happy, too.”

EPILOGUE CONT

DELLA

* * * * * *

2033

THAT NIGHT, ONCE I’d cooked for Jacob and we’d watched some movie of his choosing, I curled up in bed and reached for the book.

I didn’t want to.

I wasn’t ready.

But I’d made a promise to my son, and I couldn’t let my husband down.

The thought of Ren’s voice locked in a cardboard box, ready to share his secrets, prepared to shed light on shared circumstances was too sad to refuse.

It would be the hardest thing I’d done since scattering his ashes, but I owed him this.

I owed him my strength to listen.

Tears fell again as I cracked open the pages and re-read Ren’s letters.

I cried.

And cried.

And when my tears finally slowed, I sucked in a wobbly breath, gathered my courage, and pushed the heavy, sweet-smelling papers to the end.

One day, I would read the entire thing.

I would break my heart all over again all while being privileged enough to read the innermost thoughts of my husband. But for now, this book would sleep on his pillow beside me, something to hug when it all got too painful, something to stroke when I whispered to him in the dark.

One day, I would be ready.

But not today.

Today, I was barely clinging to sanity, shoved into the awkward admittance of wishing time away so I could find Ren sooner, all while begging the minutes to slow so I could have longer with Jacob.

Ren was a natural storyteller—his skills honed from years of telling me bedtime tales and indulging my every whim.

And tonight, just like old times, he was about to tell me a story.

Our story.

The only one I ever cared about.

The pages fell to the final chapter and I stroked the letters as I breathed, “Chapter Fifty-Nine. Ren, 2018.”

My mind skipped back to that time.

A time when emotions were daggers and youth diesel on the fiery burn of desire. Everything was sharper then, more urgent then, more desperate.

Countless memories unravelled, reminding me of what I’d done.

How I’d been so hurt I’d lost my virginity to another.

How I’d been so tangled in my unrequited agony that I’d broken Ren and myself.

Only…as my eyes skimmed Ren’s side of the tale, learning how much he loved me, how distraught he was as he left me that note and walked out the door, a strange smile twisted my tear-glossed lips.

The book didn’t end there.

It didn’t stop in a standalone of tragedy but led into a heart-happy duet.

And I understood what my brilliant husband had done.

And I was braver.

And I was thankful.

And my fractured heart glued a tiny piece back into place.

My fingers itched for my keyboard to finish the magic he’d begun.

A final letter was waiting for me.

This is where you come in, Della Ribbon.

You’ll get another box soon.

A box of chapters from the moment I admitted I was in love with you and kissed you for the first time to the second we got married, held our son, and grew as a family.

I’ve been honest. I’ve shared everything.

Now, it’s your turn.

Finish our story, Della.

But this one, blend fact with a tiny piece of fiction.

Call the book The Girl and Her Ren—because that is what I am.

I am yours.

But fashion our story where we found that miracle.