Page 99 of Emmett
As I follow him into his bedroom, my eyes fall on the small stack of envelopes sitting on his desk. A couple of them have fallen out of place, but paired with the eerie neatness of the rest of the space, the disorganization of them looks almost purposeful.
“What are these?” I ask as I pick up the stack.
“Don’t.”
Dad. Rowan. Anna. Logan. Mariah. Nash. Macie. Sarah.
Each envelope is addressed to people whom he has either loved or been hurt by in his life; in my case, I suppose that it’s a little bit of both.
“Are these suicide notes?”
“They’re letters that no one needs to read,” he says as he reaches to take them from my hands.
“Where’s the Texan’s?”
“He took it when he came to do the shower,” he answers, “and he already called to chew me out for it.”
I move quickly to snatch the envelopes from his hand again, turning my body away from his to block him from taking them back. I leave the rest of them alone, but I pull the one addressed to me from the pile before turning around, smacking the others against his chest and tearing open the envelope.
“Nash,” he warns, “do you really wanna fight while we’re still making up?”
As I pull out the carefully-folded four page letter, I answer him honestly. “No. I want to know what you needed to tell me when your world was ending.”
“Fine,” he sighs, no longer holding eye contact with me. “But I can’t be in here while you read it.”
As he exits the room, he pulls the door nearly closed behind him, resting the latch against the door jamb. Inhaling aheavy breath, I take a seat on the foot of his bed and unfold the pages of the letter, carefully reading every word that he has to say.
My chest feels as if it might cave in. I pull in a shaky breath and stand, making my way to the bedroom door with the letter clutched tightly in my hand, and I pull it open.
“My middle name is Christopher. I am the oldest of five, only because I beat Edie out by four minutes, and I never let her forget that,” I tell Emmett as I reach the living room. “After the two of us came Brody, then Tripp, and Graham wasn’t born until after I was gone. My parents are Molly and Jefferson.” I step closer to him, forcing myself to hold eye contact as I speak. “You never asked what my favorite opera is because you already knew the answer and you didn’tneedto ask.” I hold the letter up in front of me. “And if this had been how you told me all of these things, I never would have forgiven you.”
“For saying it in a letter? I tried to—”
“Fordying,Emmett.” I scrub a hand down my face. “If you thought that I was a bad person before…it would have broken me. I don’t think you can possibly understand what it felt like to see you lying in the street; or to hold the limp body of a man who was so full of life and know that he was dying and that I could donothingabout it but hope that help got to him in time,” I choke. “All that you would have left me with is ‘all my love’?”
“Nash…” He stands, dropping the TV remote onto the couch behind him as he moves toward me. My hands rest on either side of his neck, my forehead pressing against his. “I’m sorry.”
“You made me want to be a better man than I was,” I tell him with my voice trembling. “You are theonlyperson who matters to me at all. Don’t ever do this again, because I’m not sure that I won’t go with you the next time.”
“I’m sorry,” he echoes as his arms envelop me.
Mine wrap around him in return, clutching to the warmth of his body as if it’s a lifeline, and I hold tight to him for several long moments, resting my lips against his head, before finally speaking again.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t answer the phone.”
When we finally move to his bedroom, what feels like hours later, I don’t sleep. Not right away, at least. I watch Emmett as he drifts off; I listen to the sound of him breathing and I rest my hand on his burned and bruised chest to feel the rise and fall of it as his lungs fill, the steady beat of his heart thumping away beneath my palm. I feel the warmth of his skin and I tell myself over and over again thathe is alive.I remind myself that we’re in his bed, not on the vomit-soaked asphalt of a freezing street.
THIRTY-NINE
Nash
My name is called in all directions as I stand near the doors of Envy. I sign a few things and pose for a handful of photos with people, some of whom are already drunk and probably shouldn’t be let inside, but I’ll leave that decision to the discretion of my security team.
It’s ten fifteen before Colt Fowler finally approaches, adjusting the cuff on the sleeve of his suit jacket. His lateness is a power play. I’ve been in enough meetings with the man and have observed him for enough years to know that he is on time to thesecondunless he doesn’t want to be. He was most likely hoping that I would sweat it out waiting for him, but he’ll be disappointed to know that I’ve been just fine. Regardless of his opinion, I’m going home to his son.
“Fowler,” I greet him with a nod.
“Nash.”