Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84370 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84370 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“I assumed it would just be us.” He holds up the bag in his hands. “I don’t know if their burritos are still your favorite, so I also grabbed your second favorite, too, the turkey club melt.”
“I can’t eat all of that.”
Copeland shrugs. “I wasn’t sure, but I was hopeful that one of the two would hit the spot for you.”
“Thank you, Copeland. The burrito will always be my favorite. A chili burrito covered with more chili, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and sour cream, yes, please,” I say, laughing, because again, I’m making a fool out of myself.
“Good to know,” he says, his voice husky. “Do you want to eat while it’s still warm?”
“Uh, yeah, we can do that. This way.” I turn and lead him toward the kitchen. “Not that you’ve never been here,” I say.
He places the bag on the table, then that same hand reaches out to settle on my shoulder. “It’s just me, Ells.”
I hate that he can read me so well after all these years. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
“You do. I’m still me.” His tone is gentle, yet it holds something else. Something that sounds a lot like yearning or maybe regret.
I ignore his words because he changed the minute he walked away from me and never looked back. That’s not the Copeland I fell in love with. “Let’s eat,” I say instead. I grab two beers from the fridge, because I’m thinking we’re both going to need them, and place one in front of him. Copeland waits until I’m seated before taking a seat himself.
The only sound filling the room is us as we eat. The silence is killing me. “How’s your mom?”
He swallows and takes a drink of his beer before answering. “As good as can be expected. She’s staying positive. She starts chemo next week.”
“Let me know if there is anything I can do. My sisters, too,” I offer, because I know they’d do anything they could to help Mary James.
Copeland nods. “I appreciate that.”
The quiet surrounds us again, and my heart severs just a little. There was never silence between us, and if there was, it was comfortable, but this is anything but. Copeland was my best friend, the love of my life, and then one day, he was just gone.
He closes the burrito box and places it back in the bag. I do the same. I’ve lost my appetite. “I’ll put this other meal in the fridge for you to have tomorrow, or your sisters, whoever,” he says, standing and moving toward the fridge. When he turns around, I know the stalling is over.
“Why did you leave?” I blurt the question before he can ask one of his own.
Copeland grabs his beer, then mine, and heads toward the living room, leaving me to follow him.
He nods toward the couch, so I sit. He offers me my beer, and I take it gratefully, needing something to do with my hands. Only then does he sit. “I wanted to have something to offer you,” he says quietly.
I furrow my brow. That’s not what I expected him to say. “What? I don’t understand.”
He nods. “I know. I’ll explain it the best that I can. When Chandler came home, I was stoked. I’d missed him so much. We were sitting outside chatting one night. I’d just dropped you off, and he said something that resonated with me. He said he joined the military and opted for the spousal benefit so that when he came home to marry Macie, if something were to ever happen to him, he knew she would at least have that.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts, while I process what he’s telling me.
“I saw what losing my dad did to my mom. She had to work the family business and another job to make ends meet, and I didn’t want that for you. I wanted to have that peace of mind for you and for me, that if, God forbid, I left you and this earth too soon, you’d be taken care of. Not rich, by any means, but that little extra goes a long way when you have nothing.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“I did, Ells. I wrote you letters. My decision to enlist was fast, and fuck me, Ellison, the thought of saying goodbye to you, even for a short period of time, tore my heart out. Then I never heard from you. Not one single reply to any of my letters.”
“Don’t lie to me,” I say. “We said we would talk today for answers. I assumed that meant honesty. There were no letters, Copeland.”
“Ellison, I promise you, I wrote you so many letters. You never replied to a single one,” he rasps.
“That’s because I never got them!” I yell, jumping from the couch. I slam my beer bottle down onto the coffee table and start to pace. My mind races, thinking back to all those years ago. I would have remembered a letter, multiple letters. I would have clung to every damn word he wrote me.