Page 64 of Nineteen Letters
“I’m kidding,” she replies as she grabs hold of her stomach and falls back on the bed. When a loud boisterous laugh erupts from deep in her throat, I reach out and slap her again.
“You bitch.”
My comment only makes her laugh harder, and as much as I try not to join her, it’s infectious.
When we finally get our emotions under control, she assures me my dancing isn’t as bad as she made out—though the fact that she seems to be suppressing a smile when she says this makes me sceptical.
“So, Saturday night … it’s a date, right? Dinner, dancing and lots of fun.”
“The jury is still out on the dancing part, but yes, I’d love to come.”
“I almost forgot; Christine asked me to give you this.”
She pulls a letter out of the back pocket of her jeans, and I recognise Braxton’s handwriting straightaway. The usual excitement I feel when I get one of his letters isn’t present this time round. Maybe because I’m still hurting, or maybe it’s because this time I’m unsure what it’s going to contain. Is it about my past—our past—or is it a letter wishing me a nice life so he can run off into the sunset with Bella-Rose?
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from her and placing it on my bedside table. I’m certainly not going to open it in front of her … I’m not sure if I’m going to open it at all.
Letter seven…
Dearest Jemma,
The seventeenth of September 2004. It was a day of mixed emotions for me. There was a bounce in my step as we climbed off the school bus that afternoon. It was a Friday afternoon and that meant I had you to myself forthe entire weekend. Since you’d become my neighbour, they were my favourite days of the week.
Your mum had drinks and snacks waiting for us when we arrived home. I was old enough to look after myself by now—I was almost sixteen—but I continued to go to your house every day after school. My father was still working late, so I would also stay for dinner, and Christine would make him up a plate for when he got home. Four years had passed since my mother’s death, yet your mum still looked after us both.
You and I were sitting at the kitchen table getting our homework out of the way when the call came in. Your mother answered it.
“It’s for you,” she whispered, placing her hand over the receiver. “I think it’s him.”
That immediately got my attention.
“Oh, my god!” you squealed, jumping up from your chair and hurrying to take the phone from her hand. Who the hell was ‘him’? I was totally confused, and I’ll admit, a little angry. If I was honest, though, it was more jealousy than anything. I wasn’t prepared to share you with another guy. “Hello? … Yes, this is Jemma … Uh huh … Really? … Yes, I’d love that.” The one-sided conversationwas doing nothing for my rising blood pressure. “Okay, of course … No, I’m free tomorrow.”
Your eyes darted to me, and I am pretty sure I was scowling by this point.
The smile on your pretty face was huge as your gaze moved back to your mother, I’m surprised it didn’t split in two. Seeing you happy was one of my favourite things, but I was learning fast that this wasn’t the case if the cause of your happiness involved a male other than me. Well, unless it was your father, or mine, or Pa, or even old man Jenkins from the newsagent … he was funny and always made us laugh with his wacky sense of humour.
I didn’t mind seeing any of these men in your life make you happy, but this … this, I minded a lot.
I stop reading and rest the letter on my lap. I can relate to everything he was feeling in that moment, because that’s exactly how I felt listening to his message from Diane.
There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to hear what happens next, or who I’m talking to on the phone. I don’t want it to be a boy. I don’t want anyone to come between our friendship, which is crazy. This letter was about our past, so whoever it was, it has already happened. There’s not a damn thing I can do to change it.
You hung up the phone and shrieked so loudly my ears rang. “He wants to see me tomorrow.”
I sat there stunned when you leaped into your mother’s arms. “That’s wonderful news, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Who wants to see you tomorrow?” I grumbled.
I have never been a violent person, but I was already gearing up to rip him apart.
“Mr Jefferies,” you replied. “He owns the ice-cream parlour in town.”
“He’s old. Like, pushing fifty.” My tone was abrupt.
“Fifty isn’t old,” Christine piped in, but neither of us paid her any attention.
“So! What does his age have to do with it?”
