Page 98 of We Redeemed the Rain

And you deserve far better.

That’s why I stopped writing. If you asked me one more time to call you, or send you a picture, or show up at a funeral, or visit over the summer, or doany other thing…I’d be that guy to show up and destroy your life. I’m weak for you, Strings.

Mere words and one midnight memory can make a person fall in love. At first, I wondered if I was in love because I was careless or stupid or something. I thought maybe my history made me too hungry.

But, I know you love me, too.

And knowing I’m breaking your heart by not writing to you anymore makes this so much harder. Some wounds heal with time and I’m praying this wound is one of the some.

One day, I’ll be a mist of fond memories and clutter in the top of your closet. Maybe by then, you will have forgiven, or better yet forgotten, me.

I wish I could put this letter in the mailbox. I wish you could clasp these words to your chest and feel them sink into your heart. I wish you could see my tears on the page and know, deep in your spirit, my love is real. I wish you could hear me one final time.

But some things are better left unsaid.

Please…damn it all…I’m so weak…please don’t let this mar your memory of our times together in these pages, alright? Let’s remember us for what we were. Remember me for who I will always be—your biggest fan and most eager friend.

With every scrap that’s left of me, I adore you.

I love you, Strings.

Always yours,

Scribbs

THIRTY

Bea

Iwoke a little later than I’d planned. My coffee blazed hot in my thermos. I tried to grab a sip ten minutes ago, and it scalded my tongue. Tag quietly drove down the driveway, past the pond and toward the pastures, so we could start the feed routine. I stifled a yawn.

My eyes were dead set on closing again. I pulled them open and sat forward, determined to stay awake. If Tag saw me dozing, he’d force me to go back to bed.

Even though the drive was two minutes, my head lolled to the side against my will.

I snapped upright when Tag said, “What in the world?”

“What?”

I scrambled to get my bearings and realized he was frowning out the front windshield into the purple haze—at a big, deep puddle over the gravel drive.

“Where in the world did that come from?” He opened his door. “Get in the glove compartment and grab my Larry.”

I popped the drawer and ruffled registration papers and ketchup packets. “What’s a Larry?”

“A flashlight.”

“This?” I pulled out a rectangle-shaped thing that looked like a thick pen.

“Yep.” He took it and we both got out to look at the puddle.

The water was brown and murky, stagnant. Tag flashed the light all around the edges of the puddle.

“It didn’t rain last night did it?” I asked.

“I don’t think so?” He stepped a few paces to the side and leaned down to touch the grass. “It’s dry over here.” He came back and tapped his boot into the puddle. “Ground’s soggy as quicksand.”

“Is there a pipe around this spot?”

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