Twenty-six
Kristmas
I wake up the faint snap of the front door closing, followed the sound of a truck engine starting and then driving away.
Mad is gone.
And even though I knew he would be, waking up alone sucks.
I lay here in the quiet, feeling the silence wrap around me like a tomb and roll over, trying to shake the feeling that this isn’t my life. This isn’t the way things are supposed to be. I should have a family. Friends. People who love me. Who would crawl through broken glass to get to me.
Or just one specific person.
Maybe two.
Instead, it’s Christmas day and I’m alone.
I can get up. Put my coat and boots on and trudge over to Nan’s. She’ll make hot chocolate and we’ll eat leftover lasagna for breakfast… but again, I get the feeling that that’s not my life. Not what was meant for me.
I spot the box, sitting on my nightstand, the sight of it ripping and snagging at my heart. It’s not bubble bath and it’s not a coffee mug. I know what it is. I knew, the moment I saw the box in Mad’s hands.
On top of it is a dirty, crumpled piece of paper.
I know what that is too.
Turning the stained envelope over in my hands, I trace my name, penned in Mad’s haphazard scrawl.
This letter makes one hundred twenty.
I have a feeling there won’t be anymore.
That whatever he wrote in it we meant to be the last word he ever said to me.
I hold my breath and slip my finger under the flap to tear it open. Pulling out the single sheet of paper, I unfold it with trembling hands and begin to read.
Kris ~
This is letter 120. It seems like a good place to stop, and if this is my last letter to you, I’m going to fill it with every good thing I remember about you.
When we were six you marched up to my porch steps and knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted to play with you. You later told me that you heard your mom talking about the kid next-door having chickenpox and you wanted them. That’s why you wanted to play with me. For the record, I never minded being used for my chicken pox.
When we were eight, your dad built you a treehouse. He let me help. Showed me how to hammer a nail. Frame out a window. By the time we were finished, I felt like I built it for you myself. I was so damn proud. Regardless of my hard work, you made me say Terabithia every time I wanted to come up. For the record, I never minded that either.
When we were twelve, my parents split up. I remember how blindsided I felt. How confused and out of sorts I was. You were the only one I wanted. The only person I could even look at for months. You came over every day. Barge into my room and kick off your shoes before flopping down on my bed to shove your feet in my face, wiggling your toes under my nose until I laughed and pushed them away.
You made it better. Hurt less.
You’ve always been able to do that for me.
You’re the only person who ever has.
I think that’s when I started to fall in love with you.
By the time we were fifteen, our parents were married and I thought about you constantly. Wanted things from you I couldn’t have. I hated them for taking you away from me. I hated you for letting them. I was an asshole to you but you never gave up on me. You were always willing to give another chance. Always hoped that we’d find our way back to each other.
When we were eighteen, I told you that I loved you and you said you loved me back. We laid together in the tree house and talked about our future. We were going to get married. Have babies. Not right away but that didn’t matter to me. Nothing ever did as long as I was with you.
I don’t know what happened, why you changed your mind. If you decided you didn’t love me after all or that loving me wasn’t worth the risk and I don’t care. I love you and for that I’d risk almost anything.
If you read this letter, all you have to do is show up. Knock on my door. If you still love me and you’re brave enough to do that, then nothing else will matter.
I’ll be waiting.
Forever~ ~
Mad