Page 99 of Married to the Frenemy

“He can deal. If you need me, I’m there. You know that.”

I push out a tired sigh. “And I love you for it. But really. I’m fine. Promise.”

“Okay,” she concedes reluctantly. “But if you change your mind or want to go toilet paper Beckham’s yard, I’m your girl.”

“I know you are. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I end the call, then set my cell on the dresser. After another large gulp of wine, I grab a new box and head into the giant walk-in closet. Beckham’s clothes still hang on his side, although I’ve noticed more and more of his things disappear over the past few days.

I have to push down the lump building in my throat when my eyes fall on the suit he wore on our wedding day. A bittersweet ache fills me as I remember how incredible he looked in it. And the way he admired me as he called me his wife for the first time before kissing me…

I shake off the memories. Remind myself it wasn’t real.

At least not for him.

Setting the box on the floor, I stalk toward the shelves at the far end of the closet. I start pulling down box after box of shoes, packing them as quickly as possible so I can get out of this room. Out of this space that holds so many memories, despite the short amount of time I’ve lived here.

But as I reach for a box toward the back, it slips from my grasp, heavy enough to catch me off guard. When it spills open onto the floor, I see why it was so weighty. Instead of shoes, it’s filled with hundreds of envelopes, the papers yellowed with age, some frayed at the edges.

My pulse increases as I gather them up, seeing Beckham’s name, address, and inmate number written in my flowing girlish handwriting.

Lowering myself to the floor, I open one of the already-torn envelopes and pull out a letter on delicate stationary. As I unfold it and begin to read, tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

Dear Beckham,

I’ve been out of the hospital for a month now. And you’ve been away for a month. I still can’t bring myself to say where you are. In my mind, you left for college like you planned and are having the time of your life. You’re going to parties and learning that signing up for that 8 AM math class probably wasn’t the smartest idea. And you tell everyone about your girl off at a different college. How you can’t wait until the long weekend next month so you can go see her.

It’s a bit of a pipe dream, isn’t it? But it’s what I tell myself to get through the day. Maybe I’m in denial. Maybe I should just face reality, but I hate what happened.

Hate what you’re going through.

Hate that it’s my fault.

I don’t blame you for not replying. If I were in your shoes, I probably wouldn’t want a reminder of my biggest mistake. But writing you these letters has been the one good thing in my life. It’s helped me cope with, well…everything.

I don’t care if you never write me back. I’m going to keep writing to you.

I just wish you’d write back.

Wish you’d forgive me.

Wish you’d forgive yourself.

Yours,

Haley

I run my fingers over the faded paper, the words I once wrote to Beckham causing a myriad of emotions to stir within me. They’re words I didn’t think he read. Not only did he read them, he saved them. Even all these years later.

“You sprayed the paper with your perfume.”

I jump to my feet at the unexpected voice, sucking in a sharp breath when I see him standing in the doorway of the closet, clutching Fred in his hands.

“I didn’t even care that some of the guys teased me about it. Your letters were the only thing that kept me going,” he admits, his voice filled with raw emotion. “I looked forward to them every damn day, Haley. Read them over and over again until I fell asleep with them under my pillow, pretending I was falling asleep with you.”

I wipe away the tears moistening my cheeks. “Why didn’t you write back? Why did you refuse to see me whenever I tried to visit?” I suck in a quivering breath. “Why did you ignore me when I showed up the day you were released?”

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