Page 60 of The Best Worst Mistake
Needing to delve into the picture Grant’s just painted of the three of us — but especially of Silas — while I try to close the freshly opened wound in my chest.
I feel inexplicably guilty for leaving Silas to struggle all alone after his father died. Knowing, now, how unmooring the experience of losing someone can be.
I always knew how important he was to me, but could never have guessed just how much the feeling was the same for him too.
I remember that night. I remember waking up all stiff and smoky in the morning, telling Grant how shocked I was that I didn’t get attacked even worse while I slept.
“Some kind of miracle,” I’d told him.
Then I’d asked Silas how he’d slept that night as we all made instant coffee over the fire and rolled up our makeshift beds.
“Pretty decent,” he’d said, not really looking at me.
He hadn’t mentioned what he’d done, or bragged to the other guys that he’d been the only gentleman among them to stay up all night stoking the fire.
This is the first I’ve ever heard of it.
I have so many questions I want to ask them both.
Why did Silas stay so far away from me this entire past year?
And why did Grant choose this exact timeframe to tell me everything he thought I should know?
Chapter 27
Silas
An hour later, I’m pacing the lobby, still waiting for Jules to come down. Each time the elevator dings, I watch the doors, hoping it’s her standing on the other side when they open.
But another ten minutes goes by without her showing up, and I’m starting to worry that whatever Grant wrote in that last letter was too much for her.
When the elevator chimes once more, I hop into it and ride up to her room, locating the room number that the receptionist said aloud when handing us our keys. I walk down the hallway and pound on her door.
My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text from Jules:
That better be you pounding like a maniac on my door. Because if it isn’t, you might need to come up here.
I smile before typing back:
Would you be mad if it was?
Within seconds, the deadbolt slides over and the door opens. She’s standing behind it, still wearing the same sweatsuit she wore on the plane ride this morning.
It’s a stark contrast to my crisp dinner suit, the one I know I won’t be eating in anytime soon, and my stomach growls in response.
She shrugs, taking a step back. “I was about to text you to come up.”
“Hangover still going strong?” I ask, knowing damn well her appearance has nothing to do with her hangover from the wine last night.
“Not hungover anymore.”
She walks back into her room and collapses down on the bed.
I sit on the edge right next to her, me sitting and her lying, while we study each other’s eyes. I wish I could read her mind.
I wish this trip didn’t have to unfold like this — a letter at every stop. Dragging her through the mud again each time she’s finally starting to enjoy herself. It’s a byproduct of the trip’s design that I’m sure Grant didn’t account for. If she didn’t know about the letters already, I’d be tempted to steal the next two before she can retrieve them, just to relieve her of the weight she still has yet to bear.
“What’d it say?” I ask, gently.
