Page 97 of We Redeemed the Rain

“I won’t ever be more for anyone.”

How could that even be true? Scribbs had told me repeatedly in our letters that he wanted to have a family like mine someday. Big family, full table. Laughter, game nights, never a dull moment. He even said the mishaps and siblings’ brawls sounded like magic to him.

What changed?

He backed away. “I need to, uh, get back at it. Sawyer’s still clipped in.”

“Okay.” My voice felt distant. The only present reality was my body and the very real way Tag’s had affected it. “I got…stuff to do.”

It took me a full thirty minutes of fluttering from room to room in the big house for me to sheepishly return to his side. We finished out the day in silence.

I turned my feelings inside and out, inspecting them over and over again. Lost in my thoughts, lost in my memories, lost in the palpable tension between us.

He had to be doing the same.

TWENTY-NINE

My Strings,

I’m sitting in the hayloft right now. Right where we met. I’ve been in the hayloft hundreds of times over the course of my life, but I never imagined this spot would change my life. I never imagined it would magically introduce me to my favorite person in the whole world.

I used to rush up here when I’d get that quivering feeling in my chest. I’d come to this safe space to cry, shake, and puke my guts up. Now, I rush up here to laugh with you. I settle against the hay to pour out my thoughts and ramblings. I climb the ladder to hear your heart. I plan my entire day aroundthisbecause for the first time in my life—someone listens, responds, asks questions, and actually cares about the answers. For the first time ever, someone is there—day after day—because they want to be. Not while they’re passing through or when I’m in convenient chatting distance or because they need money.

For someone like you, maybe that doesn’t seem life changing.

But it’s brought gravity to my existence, Strings.

As much as I personally gain when I read your words, that’s not even the best part…

The best part is you, the person behind the words. You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful soul I’ve encountered. You have no idea what you offer to people. I hear your heart for others and your heart for me. In my nineteen years, I’ve never met someone who loved so big and so loud. You are in every corner and treasure every shard of life. You can’t hold it back. It spills all over the pages and it is…this is where I get frustrated with words. Trying to encapsulate you is an injustice.

Intoxicating? Beautiful? Enchanting? Precious? I flipped through the dictionary a while ago and that didn’t help in the slightest.

I have a confession to make. I hope writing it down will ease the guilty ache in my chest. I’ve loved your words, but recently, they aren’t enough. I read them, and…the thoughts I get scare me. I’ve started wondering what you look like. Or what your hair might smell like. I’ve wondered what it would feel like to hold your fretting hand.

My brain has pieced together an image of you. And I imagine you leaning against me, playing Glory, while I fiddle with the ends of your hair. I imagine us laying in the hayloft, laughing this time. I imagine us around the ranch—riding Tillie and swimming. I imagine us watching a pink sky and listening to the starting chords of a Texas night. I imagine you whispering my real name, and me whispering yours.

I imagine kissing you, Strings, and holding you.

Because I’ve fallen in love with you.

I love you. I love you so much my chest is ripping open.

And I hate it. These feelings are incapacitating because I shouldn’t be having them. Maybe one day, for someone. But not you, not now. You’re still young and our lives are as opposite as the sun and moon. Having you is as possible as sprouting wings and flying through theclouds.

Two weeks ago, I wrote you a final letter under the guise of a busy schedule. You’ve written me a couple letters since then. I threw both away without opening them. I’m so sorry. But I knew I didn’t have the backbone to hear your voice and not respond. I would crack so easily.

It’s wrong for me to love a girl still finishing her sophomore year of high school.

But I’m sick with missing you. I crave your words like a man running out of oxygen.

In an attempt to do the right thing, I’ve wrecked myself. But taking care of you is worth it. I won’t be that guy that loves you young and destroys your life. You deserve the right guy at the right time. I like to pretend there will be a right time for us, but the truth is—as much as it guts me to even write it—I’m not the guy.

The right man is going to stand in the light of your window and hear the music of your soul. He’s going to pull you close, treasure you, beautify you, and shower you with every good thing his safety has to offer. His love is going to make you better, if that’s possible, than you already are.

And I can’t do that. I can’t get through a day without emotionally collapsing like some screwed up piece of garbage. I could try to be all the right things for you. I could try to take care of you. Try to protect you. Try to make you better. Buttryis not good enough in love. I’m bleeding out. I’m on life support when it comes to love. How could I possibly give love away? I can’t be strong for you when I’m needy, desperate, and clinging.

If we were a chain, I’d be the weak link. Every damn time.

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