Page 54 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Forty-Nine

Simone,

It’s been a month since I received your letter.

Thirty days of sitting in front of blank pages, trying to write something that makes sense—something that matters—and coming up short.

Every time I tried, the words felt hollow or dishonest. As if I were trying to speak in a language I couldn’t even understand myself.

Weirdly, an almost forty-year-old doesn’t understand social cues, isn’t it?

Writing this now doesn’t mean I’ve figured it all out. Not even close. But my thoughts are a little less convoluted.

Honestly, a week ago, I considered not writing at all. Not because I didn’t mean what I said the first time—but because I hated the idea of sending you another letter full of broken pieces and unanswered questions. You deserve more than that. You always have.

And yet, here I am. Writing again. Because no matter how hard it is to get the words out, they need to be said. For you. For me.

My main goal is to get better for me. So I can learn how to live, but my ultimate goal is you. Living with you, finally learning how to love you the right way. Confession time, I did love you and never stopped—never. Once you find your soulmate, it’s impossible to fall out of love.

This time, though, I want a chance to live with you, not beside you. To love you—not the way I did before, which was selfish and scared—but the way you deserve to be loved.

Wholeheartedly.

Gently.

Honestly.

One of my therapists recommended this book, which explores the three types of love and how we fall for different people in distinct ways.

But the part that stayed with me was this: long-lasting love isn’t static.

You don’t fall once and stay there. You keep falling, over and over, for every new version of the person next to you.

You grow with them. You choose them, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Which brings me to . . . I want to grow into the kind of man who deserves you.

Who doesn’t need to punch his way through anger just to feel like he’s breathing.

I want to stop chasing the past. To stop mistaking pain for a purpose.

To stop calling absence ‘peace’ and telling myself it’s safer to be alone.

I’m trying to rewire my brain, but it’s going to take time. Once I’m better, I hope you let me show you the man I can be.

Will you give me a chance?

I fucking hope you do.

Now . . .

You asked what happened to him.

To my father.

I imagine you meant something like, did he die?

I don’t know if you meant that literally—like, did he die? Or, if you were asking something deeper. What happened to him? What made him that way? What he did to us.

The truth is, I don’t know either way.

After Atlas left for college, he disappeared. That’s what Mom always said. We never knew if he left us or she made him leave. All I know is that the night I almost . . . well, that night . . . was the last time I ever saw him.

Did he die?

I used to say I didn’t give a shit. That he could rot in whatever ditch he crawled into, but I actually messaged Atlas to see if he could figure it out. It might give us some closure. Maybe that’s na?ve. But I think we all deserve an ending. Even if it’s fucked up.

This place—the center—they’re making me face it. Every part. Not just the trauma, but the patterns. The parts of me that still seek punishment instead of peace. The way I equated absence with safety.

There’s more I want to tell you. So much more. But I don’t want to drown you in my process. Or make this letter some kind of therapy dump.

So, instead, I’ll end with a question:

Do you think I might be able to meet Lyndon someday?

I know I’m twenty years too late. I missed his first steps, his first word. I missed it all. And I know that might be unforgivable. But if there’s a space—even a small one—for me in his life, I’d like to stand in it.

If not, I understand. I swear I do.

Still, I’ll keep writing. Even if you don’t write back. Even if these words go unanswered. I want you to know I’m not disappearing again.

Not unless you ask me to.

Yours—truly, finally, willingly,

Keir

P.S. I’m not sure if you’ll read it. Maybe this ends up folded in a drawer, torn in half, or burned in the fire pit behind your house. But even if you never open it, I needed to say this out loud.