Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“I’m happy for you, man.”
“Thanks . . . I’m happy for myself.” With that, I hang up and go back to my wife.
57
Lorenzo
After a lazy morning in bed, I know there is one place I need to take Victoria.
I don’t tell her where we are going, but in all fairness, it’s obvious.
Normally, when I step foot on her parents’ property, I’m brimming with anger, but today, I’m not.
Hand in hand we walk together in silence, but the silence isn’t an uncomfortable kind. It doesn’t beg to be filled.
She doesn’t ask where we’re going as I lead her down the path. She just follows me with no questions, a soft look on her face.
The boathouse comes into view, and I tighten my grip on her fingers.
“This is where it ends,” I say quietly.
She looks at me then, searching my face. “Ends?”
I nod. “The versions of us that didn’t survive. The children who didn’t know how to fight for each other yet.”
We step inside together.
She turns slowly, taking it in. The walls. The floor. The place where everything began before it shattered. I know we have both been back since that summer. Her numerous times, I’m sure, but right now it feels different. Like we are both finally ready to put the past to bed.
“You brought me here to say goodbye to the past,” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “Then we can start clean.”
I release her hand only long enough to reach into my coat and pull out the paper I’ve brought with me.
The paper is folded and thin. It’s been open and closed many times over the years. I don’t look at it. I’ve looked at it enough.
I hand it to her.
Her brow furrows as she unfolds it.
She reads it.
The color drains from her face as realization crashes through her. “No,” she whispers, and her hands start to shake. “I didn’t write this,” she says. “I never wrote this.”
Her chest rises sharply as she continues to stare at the tiny piece of paper that cost me everything.
“That isn’t my handwriting.” She looks up at me, eyes glossy, furious, devastated all at once. “This isn’t the letter I gave your mom.”
“You gave my mom a letter?”
“I did. Right after my parents told me I had to leave . . .” A tear falls down Victoria’s cheek. “Why—didn’t she give it to you?”
“I don’t know.”
And I don’t. I don’t understand why my mother would let me believe this lie . . . but then again, knowing her, she probably thought she was protecting me.
“I’m so sorry. Lorenzo, I would never say those things to you. You know that, right?”
Something inside me finally loosens. It’s not rage; it’s grief. Then relief, so sharp it almost drops me to my knees.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I know that . . . now.”
Tears spill down her face, and she presses a hand to her mouth.
“They told me I had to leave,” she chokes. “They told me I had no choice . . . They said—”
“What did they say?”
“They told me if I didn’t leave they would call the people your mother was running from, I left because I thought by leaving I was keeping you safe. They lied…” she whispers.
“Yes.”
The word feels heavy. Final.
She breaks then . . . really breaks.
Her sobs shake her whole body. Grief and fury pour out from her.
I step into her space and pull her against me without hesitation, her forehead pressing into my chest, her tears soaking my shirt.
“I waited,” she sobs. “I waited so long.”
“So did I,” I whisper into her hair. “I just didn’t know what I was waiting for.”
Her hands fist my shirt like she’s afraid letting go will undo us.
“I don’t want to be that naive girl anymore,” she whispers.
“You aren’t.”
My gaze drifts to the shelf along the wall, to the old, battered copy of Wuthering Heights that I left here all those years ago. I place a kiss on her forehead and reach out to grab it.
I pick it up.
“For years, I thought I was Heathcliff,” I say quietly. “That loving you meant suffering. Becoming something bitter. Dying alone just to prove how deeply I felt.”
She looks up at me through tears. “And now?”
I meet her eyes.
“I don’t care about the tragedy anymore. I don’t want to punish the world for loving you. I just want to love you. Fully. Completely.”
I take a step back and reach into my pocket.
“What are you doing?” she asks, but it only takes her a second to realize, her eyes going wide, when I pull the matchbook out. Then I ignite it.
The pages curl. Blacken. Burn.
I drop the burning book into the small metal bin that once held tools.
Together, we watch as the book burns.
“What now?” she asks softly.
“I won’t live without you. I choose you—here, now, as my wife.”
She takes a step closer, then her hand reaches out until it rests on my chest, right over my heart.