Page 55 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Fifty

Keir,

I read your letter twice. Then once more. Then I folded it and put it under my pillow, just as I used to do with the things I couldn’t say out loud. Maybe that’s what this is—saying everything we should’ve said back then, now that we’re finally brave enough to stop pretending it didn’t happen.

You were right about one thing.

I almost didn’t read it.

Because part of me still wants to stay angry. Anger is easier than grief. Easier than wondering how things might’ve been if you had asked for help instead of disappearing. Suppose you had just told me that you loved me before I was left to figure out how to carry all of it on my own.

Of course, I read it. Because it’s you.

I don’t know what it is about you that I can’t ignore.

Maybe it’s the way you always looked out for everyone else—protected everyone else—but never took care of yourself.

That’s something I always admired about you.

The way you gave love without realizing it.

The way you paid for caring as if it was some sort of punishment you deserved.

It always felt like you needed love.

Some days, I believed you needed it the way most people need air. Or sunlight. Or sleep. You were starving for it, and still, you gave it away without knowing how much of yourself you were losing in the process.

Are you aware of any of that?

I’m sorry for what happened to you growing up. I can’t rewrite it. But I’m sorry you had to carry it alone. That no one stepped in. That no one stopped it sooner. That we lived in a town that expected you—and your brothers—to endure instead of escape.

But, Keir—you did escape.

That’s something.

It might’ve come at the cost of everything, but you got out. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you lived. Even if I hated you for it at the time.

Now you’re writing me from a place that sounds like healing, and all I can think is . . . I’m still here.

Still sitting with the girl I used to be. Trying to help her heal. Because even when I thought I was fine, I wasn’t. There’s still a lot I have to work through.

Can you meet Lyndon?

That’s something you’ll have to ask him. He’s an adult now. He can make his own decisions. Though, knowing him, he’ll probably say yes.

I don’t know what this is between us anymore. What shape it could take. What parts of it are still worth holding.

But I do know this:

You weren’t the only one who survived. I did, too.

Even when it felt like I wouldn’t.

Even when I was loving a ghost and pretending I didn’t miss him.

So whatever comes next . . . we’ll start there.

Best,

Simone