Page 36 of Our Long Days
Guilt paints his face. “I’m sorry for pushing it on you. I was trying to help, but I get it.”
“It’s not your responsibility.” I cast him a pleading look. “Please don’t tell Graham or Pat. The last thing I need is their pity. Sometimes, it feels like I’m the runt of the litter.” I slump into the cushions. “You’re all so put together, your lives mapped out, and I’m just going around in circles. This job means everything to me, and I’m so grateful, but there’s a part of me waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dex is all serious,and I’m just…not. It’s only a matter of time before I screw up, and he comes to his senses. It’s the first time in my life I feel I have something worth being proud of, something to call my own.”
“Listen, I haven’t spoken to Dex, but he’s not one to do anything without thought. He knows who he hired.” He might be a goofball with an ego the size of a semi-truck, but Booth cares immensely. “We’re proud of you no matter what. Dad would be too, and he’d hate to hear you talk about yourself this way.”
“It’s my brain. My stupid, mean brain.”
Booth rubs slow circles on my back. “Don’t listen to it.”
Swiping at my eyes, I stare at him. “Easy for you to say. You’re living your best life in New York with your dream job and dream girl.”
“And you think it came to me like that?” He snaps his fingers. “For years, I buried my head in the sand because I was too chickenshit to step out of my comfort zone.”
“How did you overcome it?”
Booth’s gaze drifts, sending him far away as he fixates on the refrigerator. He pats down the front of his jacket, and a sad smile surfaces. “You’re not alone in feeling a little lost. Even Pat and Graham need guidance. We all do.”
“Can I get some of this guidance?” I ask sarcastically.
“I’m not sure I’m the best person to give it to you, but I can give you this.” A white envelope materializes from his pocket.
Scrawled on the front is my name, in handwriting I’d recognize anywhere.
“Booth,” I whisper. “Is that from…”
He nods, eyes bright with tears.
Grief takes no prisoners; it raids your heart, pillaging and ransacking, leaving you hollow. Even seven years on, you think you’ve overcome the worst of it, and then it returns with a vengeance.
Like right now, as Booth silently places the envelope on my lap.
“Last spring, Patrick found a bunch of envelopes with all our names on them. When he opened his, it was a letter from dad written over ten years ago,” Booth explains.
My hand flies to my mouth. “Why am I only getting mine now?”
“Pat gave Graham his in December, Graham gave me mine in February, and I’m giving you yours. It’s not that we wanted to keep it from you, but we’ve all received them exactly when we needed them. Something tells me you could do with Dad’s sage words.” He swallows, a sadness sweeping through him. “If not for Dad, I’m not sure I would’ve taken the dive to move to New York or be lucky enough to call Aly mine.”
A kernel of hope grows in my chest as I trace the tail of thee.
I blink up at Booth. “Will you stay with me while I open it?”
“Of course.”
The tear of the seal is loud, drowning out the roaring in my ears. I don’t overthink it or hesitate, just slip the piece of paper out of the envelope and unfold it.
Excitement, sorrow, anticipation blend until my eyes take in the words. Then, they come crashing down, splintering on the floor and slicing through my last shred of hope.
It’s not a letter.
No sweet words of encouragement or reminisced memories from the first man I ever looked up to.
There are barely thirty words.
The corner of the paper flops, a lot like my heart.
“Flo…” Booth whispers.
I picture the universe tutting and calling me ungrateful. Of course, I’m amazed I’m holding a piece of my dad, but this is cruel.
