Thirty-Six

Julia

My hands were covered in paint. Drop cloth obscured the hardwood floor of my studio. Canvas took up every open space.

It was perfect. A messy perfection.

Just like me.

Something had taken over me ever since I moved in. I couldn’t stop painting, drawing, sketching. I’d even tried my hands at sculpting. Art infused my body and my mind. It made my soul sing.

It was like I’d found my muse.

My eyes moved to the only one hundred percent finished painting in the whole room. It was the naked picture of Austin I’d painted in art class this summer.

Nina had called me to come pick it up even though I wasn’t taking any more classes. She’d been impressed with my work and asked me to come back. She’d introduced me to the art community in Lubbock.

And, suddenly, I’d come alive. I had a naked muse in my studio and a group of people encouraging my art in a way I never had before. It felt right. Wright even.

The doorbell rang, and I actually didn’t jump. I’d destroyed a few good paintings that way. But art had become my therapy. With it, I was finally de-stressing, post-Dillon.

I wiped my hands off the best I could on a red towel and then gave up. I was in leggings and a tank top that used to be white before I covered it in paint. My hairdresser, Lisa, had dyed my hair into a rose-gold ombré, so it was lighter on the top before it faded out into the red I’d had for so long. I liked the new look. Not that anyone could see it in the messy bun I had on the top of my head.

I looked out the peephole and didn’t see anyone there. After deactivating the security system and unlocking the door, I pulled it open. I warily looked around before realizing there was a giant box on my doorstep.

My eyes rounded in confusion.

“What the…”

I hadn’t ordered anything.

I checked the shipping address. It was from somewhere in California. Huh.

It wasn’t heavy when I kicked it inside. I found a pair of scissors in a drawer in my coffee table and tore into the packing tape. The box was covered from top to bottom in little green Styrofoam peanuts.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

I dug my hand in, up to my elbow, before I came across whatever was in the box. I wrapped my fingers around something soft and tugged. In a shower of peanuts came a shiny pink-sequined unicorn with a ribbon tied around its neck and a letter attached to it.

I burst into laughter when I saw Waffle.

I’d known that the unicorn had ended up at Austin’s house, but I’d thought he’d just forgotten about it. And maybe about me, too. He’d been able to have outside communication for three weeks, but he hadn’t reached out to me.

With excitement that I couldn’t explain, I plucked the letter off of Waffle’s neck and placed our unicorn on my kitchen island. I ripped open the envelope and stared down at the neat print of Austin’s handwriting.

Dear Julia,

I’ve wanted to write to you every day that I’ve been here, but my therapist and I agreed that it was better for you to have space. I’d asked you not to forget me, yet I had to give you room to if you chose. So, in the event that you continue to want nothing to do with me, feel free to stop reading and throw this in the trash.

I’m going to assume…or maybe just hope that you’re still reading. If that’s the case, here’s your damn unicorn. Waffle got me through the hardest parts of detox. But, since we share custody, I thought it only appropriate that you got her for a while. That way, I stop getting jabs from my brothers about having a pink-sequined unicorn in my room.

Why the snail mail? I’m sure you’re probably wondering. I could have called you or emailed or whatever. You could come visit even. But, strangely enough, I found that I can articulate how I’m feeling best when I write things down. I apologize for my penmanship in advance.

Anyway, all I really want to say is that I’m sorry. I took you for granted and didn’t listen to you or appreciate you. If I could go back, I’d fix things. But I don’t have that ability. I have to accept that I hurt you and that what I did might be irreversible.

But…if there’s maybe a small chance that you might be willing to meet a new Austin Wright—not perfect but maybe better—I’d be the luckiest guy in the world. If that’s something you are interested in, then write me back. You can send it to the address on the envelope, and it’ll get to me.

I’ll be anxiously awaiting your letter. And, if I don’t get one, then…I understand.

Still yours,

Austin

I read the letter three times. Each time, my smile grew bigger and bigger. After the last time, I found my own piece of paper and started writing.

Austin

Julia’s letter showed up three days after the package was delivered.

It had taken fifteen different sheets of paper before I got the wording right on mine, and even then, I’d thought it sucked. I hadn’t wanted to send it. And, at the same time, I’d been dying to send it. I thought I had been more worried that she’d ignore me. I wouldn’t have blamed her, but a guy had to have hope.

Dear Austin,

I might be interested in a new Austin Wright.

Just not totally new. Maybe one more like that guy who “won” me Waffle in the first place. Or who walked me through the First Friday Art Trail. Have you seen him lately?

I’m glad you’re in therapy. I’ve had my own brand of therapy. Found a muse, which is nice because I converted a bedroom in my new apartment into an art studio. Finding my art again…you know? Waffle likes the studio, too. She might not be just pink anymore.

Anyway, I talked to Maggie. I don’t think you actually expected me to, but I did. So, I believe you. I’m still upset about what happened. That anything happened at all. Maybe my moral high ground should say that I have no right to be upset, considering we were broken up at the time, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling it. I want to move past that, but even after talking to her and her yelling at me about you, I still feel panic at the thought of you two.

Phew. Okay, had to get that off my chest.

I don’t know where this leaves us. Maybe I don’t have to figure it out right now. Write me again, and I’ll keep thinking about it.

Julia

P.S. I like the snail mail, and your handwriting doesn’t totally suck.

I answered that letter. And the next. And the one after that. Every three days, I had a letter from Julia. I thought we’d talked more in the weeks I was away than we had when we were together. Without her sexy body in front of me and the weight of the alcohol abuse clouding everything, I found that I always had something to say to her.

The fact that I hadn’t just picked up a phone or emailed or flown her out to see me made the anticipation so much more intense. No instant gratification in that. With each passing day, I ached for her more and more. Ached for her like I hadn’t known was possible.

But I had a long way to go. Another month of rehab before I could even get out of California. Who knew what would happen when I was finally back in Lubbock? All I knew was that I’d do anything to make up for what had happened with Julia.

One of the things that the center really pushed was family therapy days. It helped the therapist connect to the entire situation. And mine was always trying to get to the root of the problem. What had caused me to be this way?

I insisted I had always been this way. He smiled and assured me that I didn’t come out of the womb as an alcoholic. It might run in my family, but that didn’t mean I had to succumb to it.

We were in one of those sessions when Jensen leaned back in his chair. “I wonder if some of this goes back to the fact that you were there when Mom died.”

“You were there when Mom died?” Sutton whispered. Her voice was as light as a feather caught in the wind.

“Yeah,” I said, angling away from that particular conversation. “I was with her…or…well, yeah.”

“Tell us more about that, Austin,” my therapist said. He pointed his pen toward me, as if to say, Go on.

“About Mom?”

“I didn’t know you were with her either,” Morgan said.

“Me either,” Landon admitted.

My eyes found Jensen’s in a panic.

He nodded and patted my back. “It’s okay. We’re not Dad. We can talk about Mom.”

I swallowed and nodded. “Okay. Well, I hadn’t known how sick Mom was. Dad didn’t like to talk about it, and Mom tried to hide it. She was the perfect wife and mother. She was still cooking, cleaning, and taking care of us kids through chemo. It was a pretty traditional marriage by that standard, I guess.”

I reached for the glass of water in front of me and took a long drink. I was off on a tangent. That wasn’t what they wanted to know about anyway.

“I didn’t even know about the pancreatic cancer until she died when I was nine. Maybe you did,” I said, gesturing to Jensen, “but I was in the dark.”

“I guessed,” he said. “It definitely wasn’t what Dad had said it was, but he wasn’t ever honest with us.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Landon muttered.

“She wasn’t even supposed to have it,” I continued. “She was so young. Only thirty-five. With five children, ages twelve to one.”

“That had to be hard,” the therapist said.

“It was.”

My siblings nodded. I could see that they were all remembering their version of what had happened after Mom died. Jensen had taken over. Life had gone on, but it was never the same.

“I was watching her one day. Dad had told me to stay with her. She was sick and got into bed. I remember telling her that I wouldn’t nap with her because I didn’t want to catch her cold. I went out to play instead of staying with her, and when I came back, she was gone.”

“Oh, Austin,” Morgan said softly. “That isn’t your fault.”

“I agree with your sister,” the therapist said. “As a nine-year-old boy, you were not responsible for the care of your terminally ill mother. It’s perfectly reasonable that you wanted to go outside and play.”

“Logically, of course, I know that. But I wasn’t logical. I covered up my distress as a kid and through my teen years. I looked adjusted. Maybe I was adjusted.”

“Of course. It sounds like you internalized the issue. When did you start drinking regularly after that?”

“After Dad died.”

“Tell us about that,” the therapist continued.

“I was twenty and in college at Tech. I was at a bar when I got the news,” I said, as if that memory had just dropped into my mind.

“So, you were around alcohol when you found out about the death of another parent?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I remember thinking about all the stuff that had happened with my mom, and suddenly, I just…I couldn’t cope. Not that any of that is an excuse. I suppose it’s my reason.”

“Shit,” Landon said.

“That’s awful,” Morgan said.

Sutton’s eyes were red, and she was looking down at her hands. She looked like she might burst into tears at any point.

“I didn’t realize,” Jensen said. “All this time, you were self-medicating over Mom’s death, and you weren’t even responsible.”

“This feels like a breakthrough,” the therapist said. “Something we can work with from here on out.”

I looked around at my family in shock. Deep down, I’d known that Mom’s and Dad’s deaths had affected me, but I hadn’t ever wanted to believe that I was drinking to cover up that hurt. Now that it was in front of me, it felt like a hurdle I could overcome. And maybe it would help all of the Wrights to finally deal with it.

Julia

Dillon’s trial had been moved up.

I’d been dreading this day for a long three months. But I was also glad that I could deal with this before Austin got back. I kept his last letter in my pocket through the entire ordeal.

Dear Julia,

You are the strongest person I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine how it must feel to testify against Dillon, but if anyone can do it, for a second time, then you can. You held him at gunpoint in your apartment. You got away from him twice. You can do this.

My only regret is that I can’t be there, too. I’d be the best moral support you could ask for.

I’ll be thinking about you, worrying over you, anxiously awaiting another letter to find out how it went. I have faith that the judge will make the right decision.

Counting down the days until I see you again.

Always yours,

Austin

Having his words with me helped.

Dillon was a shadow of himself after spending three months behind bars again. He looked like a wreck. And that helped, too.

When the jury came back and found him guilty, I nearly stood up and cheered. The judge gave him thirty years in prison for a laundry list of crimes. And, just like that, I was free. Finally free.

Heidi and Emery were waiting for me when I left the courtroom. They threw their arms around me, jumping up and down at the victory.

“How do you feel?” Heidi asked.

“Amazing.”

“God, I’m so glad that asshole will be behind bars for the rest of his miserable life,” Emery said.

“You and me both.”

“If you’re so happy…then how come you don’t exactly sound happy?” Heidi asked.

“I don’t know.” I bit my lip and pulled out the letter from Austin. “I need to write to Austin.”

Heidi and Emery shared one of their looks.

“What did he say this time?” Heidi asked.

“And how aren’t you swooning over these letters?” Emery added.

I let them read the letter, and they both sighed dramatically.

“Counting down the days until I see you again,” Heidi read aloud. “Is he for real? Jesus, these Wright men.”

“I wish he were here,” I said, finally admitting the feeling that had been building in me over the last couple of weeks.

“He’s going to be out of rehab soon. What are you going to do when he gets out?” Heidi asked.

“We’ll have to see when he gets here, won’t we?”

“But…do you want to get back together with him?” Heidi asked.

“God, Heidi, so nosy,” Emery muttered.

“Don’t act like you’re not dying to know!”

“Well, yeah, I am. But I’m going to wait for her to tell us.”

I laughed. “You two are so ridiculous.”

“Truth.” Heidi smacked Emery’s ass and grinned wickedly.

“Hey!” Emery groaned.

“So…Julia?” Heidi prodded.

“It’s been three months since I’ve seen him. The letters are…everything. I just won’t know though until I see him.”