Page 13 of The Best Wild Idea
And who the hell is Monica Braverman?
Again, I start at the top, my mind a jumbled collection of explanations for what I’m about to read, though none of it makes any sense.
My dearest Jules,
Don’t hate me for doing this.
What the hell?I can’t help it. I flip to the last page, and sure enough, it hashisname there at the end. Written just like he would write it.
Grant
I flip back to the top and strain my eyes to keep reading through a fresh set of tears that quickly pool up along the rims.
This just can’t be.
“How the hell?” I mumble to no one in particular and look around for someone to jump out and yellsurprise!like I’m caught up in some sick joke, but my house is empty. It’s alwaysempty. I race to the little window by my front door and look out toward the street, needing to know if that guy is still standing out there, ready to slink back in to claim ownership over this poorly timed prank that someone thought might be funny. To deliver a letter on the anniversary of his death. One that looks eerily similar to something that might be written by him.
But no one is outside, and no one is hiding in my house either.
“He wrote this,” I say out loud as if I’m reciting a spell. Somehow making it real.
I don’t know whether to read it or hold it, savoring the knowledge that it exists in the world, looking forward to reading it for just a little while longer.
“Read it now,” I whisper to myself.It’s the last you’ll ever hear from him.
But why now?
Why today?
And why did I have to wait one whole year to read whatever this is?
With every conceivable, crazy notion running through my head, I start again from the top.
And this time, I don’t stop.
Chapter 4
Grant
One year ago
My dearest Jules,
Don’t hate me for doing this.
But here it goes.
My love. My heart. My everything. You have no idea how much I wish you were holding me right now instead of this stupid piece of paper.
First off, I’m going to start by saying it again, and then once more at the end, and possibly in every letter forthcoming from now on until it sinks in and I am sure that you can’t possibly: Please don’t hate me.
Don’t hate me because what I’m about tosuggestdemandsuggest sounds utterly ridiculous.
So just hear me out.
Because right now, I’m watching you quietly snore in that horrid blue fold-out chair thing that the hospital has given you to sleep on in this stupid white room, void of anything remotely cheerful. And while everything in here screams medical! Sterile!—you are the most pure form of oxygen there is. My breath, my life. Like a daisy springing up in the dark. The way your sunny blonde hair spills out across that craggy, old plastic bed, your always-red lips parted, just so. Your lashes curled up at the ends, even when you haven’t showered in threedays since you’ve basically refused to leave my side for weeks at this point. Sweetheart, you are the sun in a room that lacks windows. The best of everything I’ve ever loved—and everything I’ll never get the chance to love again.
You passing out in that chair is the only thing that’s given me the chance to write you this letter in secret without you catching me. And what I’m about to say is something I’ve thought a lot about ever since Dr. Solano, well, you know. Ever since my future was cut short from yours.
