Page 172 of We Redeemed the Rain

“I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I held out my hands to stop him. “You didn’t. You seriously didn’t. I’m okay.”

Blinded by tears, I stumbled into the hall where I found Erica. Sweeping past me, she said, “I put some mail on your dresser, Bea. You had a package.”

“Thanks.”

I pulled on some sweats and the red t-shirt I’d stolen from Tag. Lifting the collar, I sniffed, catching only the faintest hint of his rigid laundry routine—the softener scent fading from the fabric.

I imagined him in it.

I tucked my arms around my body as a silent tear slid down my cheek.

All I wanted was to freaking sleep—sleep until the pain wore off.

I finished up my bedtime routine then stopped at the stack of mail on my dresser. A bill, some junk, a credit card offer, and beneath…a package.

I audibly gasped when I recognized the handwriting.

The package read,Bea Thompson (Strings).

Tears raced down my face like someone turned on a faucet. Fear and hope blended together until I felt like I was going to be sick to my stomach. Did I leave something behind and he was returning it? Was this a gift?

It had been three weeks since I left. I’d texted and called, but the only thing I received was one text back that said:

Tag

Bea, sorry for being unavailable. Really busy right now and taking some time to sort a few things out. Thanks for being patient with me. I’ll be in touch soon. I promise.

That was a week ago.

All the text did was make me jumpy, check my phone obsessively, and constantly wonder if the dumb thing was malfunctioning.

I’d given up hope a few days ago.

But now, a package? What did it mean?

It was actually a padded manila envelope. The contents were flat, hard. Maybe a book? I didn’t take a book to the ranch, so he couldn’t be returning something. With trembling hands, I ripped into the thick paper and glue like a wild animal.

A carefully folded piece of paper came out, along with a black, leather notebook.

Like an instinct, I lifted the black notebook and took a deep inhale of its scent. It smelled like him somehow. Tears filled my eyes and I had to blink them away in order to unfold the letter. My heart thumped with adrenaline as if I was running through a pasture, trying to get a halter on Sawyer.

My Dearest Strings,

The last three weeks have been a journey. One that has forced me to make changes in myself. I hope you’ll eventually forgive me for notstaying in touch like I promised. I want to explain all the reasons you didn’t hear from me, but it doesn’t honestly matter right now. Defending myself at a time like this won’t help either of us.

I’m writing this letter for one purpose only—I need to be honest.

You need to know who I truly am.

I’ve kept this part of my story under lock and key for nineteen years. But a week ago, it all spilled out for the very first time to a woman named Miss Simone. She was the counselor at Burton Falls Middle School where I attended before moving to Meadowbrook. She advocated for me as a child and I knew she would listen to me if I went to her.

Sharing my story with Simone led me here—to this, to you. If only one person in this entire world could know and understand me, I’d want it to be you. I wanted to tell you all this voice to voice, but the shame I feel is drowning. I don’t want shame to control me, but I’m a long way from being free.

Years ago (I think I was twenty-four), I heard someone say talk therapy can relieve the invisible burden of an untold story. I didn’t have anyone to talk to, so I spent weeks writing down my story in order to find that relief.

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