Page 86 of Miss Understood

For example, not telling you that I trust you. You were right to leave the firm. You are right to follow your dreams. I would never hold you back, or want to. Because any version of you that is less than the woman I married is an absolute travesty.

The best mistake I ever made was marrying you.

The worst mistake I ever made was keeping my mouth shut and letting you go.

I still haven’t figured out what to do with that.

But the truth is, if I could turn back time, I would. If I could make you stay, I would. If I could keep you forever, I would.

I love you.

—Jesse

My head spins with each word. I read them over and over. A pile of confessions and half-formed sentences. Not like the composed Jesse I know, but a raw, unabridged man laying his truth out in the open.

I fold up the piece of paper and put it back in the envelope. The weight of it is ten times what it was when I opened it.

Dare.

My throat feels like cotton. That’s what got me into this. Picking dare when I should have said truth—playing the game at all, for that matter. I pick it up and peel it open, noticing only a small, folded piece of paper inside. I unfold it.

Say yes.

I flip it over and back again, looking for a hint as to what he’s talking about. I already said yes, standing at an altar in jeans and cherry-red lipstick—that’s how we got into this.

My eyes dart between the two envelopes, and I lay them out side by side.

Truth or dare.

Truth or dare.

A knock at the door makes me jump, and I know who is on the other side before I even get there. But each step I take makes my heart beat harder, and I’ll be surprised if the whole building can’t feel an earthquake coming.

I open the door to see Jesse’s face towering over me. I’m hit by the spicy, warm scent of his aftershave. His hands hold either side of the doorframe, like he might fall over if he doesn’t prop himself up. God, how I missed those brown eyes, swimming with thoughts. His stubble is at least a couple days old, and there’s a hard nervousness in his tight jaw. He looks fresh off work, but he’s ditched the jacket. His tie is loose, and his dress shirt is rolled to his elbows. It contours every thick muscle in his chest.

“Jesse.”

His eyes look past me to the envelope on the table; then his stare is back on me.

“I miss you,” he says in a confession that feels like it drains the fight straight out of him.

Stepping aside, I motion for him to come in, feeling the static of his body as it passes me. But instead of moving all the way into the living room, he stops right inside and closes the door behind him.

“I—”

“Me first,” he says, reaching for my hands, and I realize his are clammy.

Jesse isn’t the type of man who gets nervous, but right now, the anxious energy is palpable.

“You read my letters?”

I nod.

He steps closer, and that chasm of space I’ve been feeling closes with every inch.

“Good,” he sighs. “Because I need to say what I should have said two weeks ago. Well, what I probably should have said weeks before that.” He squeezes my hands, and I squeeze back, unable to speak but silently urging him to go on anyway.

“A lot about that night in Vegas was blurry, but over the past couple months, things have come back in bits and pieces. The bar, the hotel room, the stupid game we were playing. And I’m not talking about truth or dare.” He swallows hard, and I can feel the struggle of his words trying to escape.

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