Page 119 of Play Me
“Yeah. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
“And Astrid?”
“Yeah?”
He takes a breath. “You’re the only thing that will get me through this day. Remember that. See you soon.”
And the line goes dead.
“What the fuck was that?” I pull the phone from my face and look at the screen.Call ended.
Oof.
I shove the device in my pocket and punch the code in the lock before I forget it. I’m operating in a haze, my brain preoccupied with making sense of Gray’s emergency.
The door clicks open, and I step inside the apartment, propping it ajar with a bag of rice. Nothing about what he just said makes sense. But, he did sound frazzled, and he doesn’t get frazzled often. So whatever is going on must’ve blindsided him.
Poor guy.
I cart the bags into the kitchen and then close the door securely. The apartment feels different without Gray here, but I still love it. Maybe it’s because I can seeusall over the place. Atthe coffee table playing chess, having tacos on the kitchen bar … Gray carrying me down the hall to the shower after our fun got a little messy on the couch.
That was such a great night.
I turn to grab a carton of eggs when I notice a letter laying open on the counter. A strange calm washes over me as I peer at the letter like it’s going to leap across the room and bite me. Something tells me it can … and it will.
An envelope is on top of the sheet of crisp white paper. I flip it over in my hand and see a Denver return address. It’s made out to Gray specifically, but there’s no last name on the return address.
My hands shake as I toss the envelope on the bar and pick up the paper. It’s a single sheet with no letterhead or logo, and the words are handwritten in a woman’s penmanship.
I lean against the counter for support, knowing I shouldn’t read this, but I’m unablenotto.
Dear Gray,
I’ve started this several times over the last couple of months but can’t seem to get it right. There’s a lot to say, but it’s all so complicated and laced with pain and grief, and the last thing I wish to do is to bring you any more suffering.
The paper trembles as I hold it, fighting the lump in my throat so I can continue to breathe. I don’t know what I expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.What is going on?
First, and most importantly, I want to thank you for paying for my rehabilitation services over the last two years. I know it was you. I just put it together over the last few months. I can’t fathom how you found the money, Gray, and the sacrifices you’ve had to make to do this for me. There aren't enough words to sufficiently thank you. You are an amazing man. But we knew that before this happened.
I swallow, the action hot and nearly painful. It feels like I’m peeking into a room that I haven’t been invited into, but I can’t stop reading.
I was so angry with you for a long time. Blaming you was easier than blaming my sister, and it was easier than blaming the weather or the other driver. You were still living and breathing and hating you for the accident gave me a place to put my grief. But I saw you on television late one night doing an interview, and I saw the pain in your eyes. It was the kind of grief that those who have experienced it can identify. I lay in my hospital room and bawled my eyes out, praying for you. You were hurting this whole time, too. And instead of being angry at Caroline,you were figuring out how to take care of me, her baby sister. I’ve never felt so low and like such a bad person.
Tears stream down my cheeks, staining my shirt, mixing with the snot running out of my nose. I can barely make out the words anymore. My heart aches for Gray, for whoever is writing this letter—for whatever has happened. Something horrible and tragic.But what?
Caroline loved you, Gray. I don’t know how you feel about her now, and I hope this letter isn’t bringing up unwanted memories, but I want you to know that none of this was your fault. I hope you don’t carry around guilt for something you didn’t cause. You are a good man, Gray Adler. And I will always root for you and will be here if you ever want to talk.
Again, thank you. You’ve given me another shot at life, and I can never repay you. I had what I hope to be my final surgery and I’m leaving the rehabilitation facility next week. I want to leave this behind me and, to do that, I had to clear the air.
Love,
Liza
I hiccup a sob, and the paper falls from my fingers, joining the rest of the mess on the floor.
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