Page 76 of Nineteen Letters
“Lucas, don’t do this.” He takes a few more steps before grinding to a halt.
“Do what?”
“Don’t shut me out.”
This time when he turns to face me, I’m taken aback to find him on the verge of tears. “What do you want me to tell you? That I’m madly in love with her, and she doesn’t feel the same way about me? That she played me? That she ripped my fucking heart out and stomped on it like a cold-hearted bitch? Is that what you want me to say?”
His revelation floors me. “If that’s the truth, then yes.”
I can already tell by the look on his face that it is. I stand there dumbfounded, at a loss for words. It’s true what they say: there’s a fine line between love and hate. I’ve never seen him so angry.
Chapter 24
Jemma
“Are you awake, honey?” Christine asks, softly knocking on my door.
“Yes. Come in.”
I’ve been awake for a while, but just lazing around in bed. It was after one in the morning when the taxi dropped me off. I had such a good night with Rachel—she’s fun, and I’ve become very fond of her.
She hugged me so tightly last night and told me how much she’d missed me.
“How was your night out?” Christine asks, placing a cup of coffee on my bedside table.
“I had a great time.”
“I’m glad. You two always had fun together.”
“Rachel told me last night she’s going back to New York,” I say, sitting up and reaching for my coffee.
“Really, when?”
“In a few days. She said she had some things to sort out. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”
Christine sits down on the edge of my bed. “I knew it would only be a matter of time. She loves her job in New York.”
“I know. I’m going to miss her.”
“She’ll come back. She always does.”
I smile, trying to mask my true feelings. The thought of her leaving makes me sad; I’ve become accustomed to having her around.
“We’ll make her a special dinner before she leaves,” Christine suggests.
“That’ll be nice, she’d like that.”
Christine places her hand briefly on my knee and smiles, before standing. “This came for you earlier.” Excitement bubbles inside me as she holds up a letter, along with a pink sports bag. “Braxton dropped it off, as well as this bag.”
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, reaching for it.
“Your running gear.”
“I run?”
“You used to. You loved it. You even did it competitively for a while when you were younger.” She stands and walks towards my desk and returns with three medals. “You won these when you were in high school.” I’d noticed them hanging on a hook below the shelf that houses a few trophies and ornaments when I first came to live here, but I’ve never inspected them closely.
I take them out of her hand and study them. One has an inscription engraved on the back:Jemma Robinson—2005 cross-country state champion.
