Page 50 of Nineteen Letters

“What the hell just happened?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” I turn to face Jemma and see the same stunned look on her face.

“You saw that, right?” If she wasn’t here to witness it, I could have sworn I was hallucinating. “Did they fake their own deaths?”

“I think they fainted,” she says. A grin tugs at her lips moments before she covers her mouth with her hand and laughs.

It begins as a giggle, but soon turns into a full-on belly laugh. It’s infectious. When she snorts, I lose it to where tears fill my eyes and my sides hurt. It feels so good to truly laugh again, but more importantly, to hear Jem laugh.

We’re both still chuckling as we continue down to the river and hear the trickling of the water as we approach.

“Wow,” she says when the river comes into view. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

“It’s pretty special,” I agree as I lay out the blanket and picnic basket and follow her towards the water’s edge.

“I love that about your letters,” she says as I stop beside her. “The way you describe things … I swear if I close my eyes, I can almost picture everything.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them. Do you want to hear something interesting?”

“Sure.”

“I did some research on the human brain after the accident and found out that we only remember twenty per cent of our lives. And out of that, it’s usually the poignant moments from our past that stick with us … things that stood out at the time. You’ve been such an important part of my life, Jem, so it’s only natural that my poignant moments involved you.”

“Only twenty per cent? I thought it would’ve been more.”

“Me too.”

I bend down and pick up a pebble from near my feet, then skim it across the water. As kids, Jem and I had competitions to see who could get the most bounces. I usually won, but there were times I purposely threw a bad one so she could beat me. I would never admit that to her, though. She used to have a fierce competitive streak, and she would have hated it if she knew she hadn’t won legitimately.

She bends down and picks up a pebble as well. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

“Sure. Hold it in between your forefinger and thumb.” I try to ignore the feelings that well up when I wrap my fingers around her hand to reposition the pebble. My eyes flick to hers and I find her staring at me, but I look away. It’s so easy for me to get lost inthose big brown eyes of hers, and I’m worried I’ll do something stupid, like try to kiss her. “Keep it at that angle when you throw it, so it skims across the surface of the water, instead of sinking.”

Her first throw is a flop, and the pebble sinks straight to the bottom, but the steely determination of my old Jem shines through as she picks up pebble after pebble until she masters it. I love that although she’s a different person from the one she once was, there are still some characteristics of the old her present.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, leading me back to the picnic blanket.

“Starved.”

“Good. I’ve packed plenty.” She reaches into the basket and pulls out a container that’s filled to the brim with sandwiches cut into triangles. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I went with ham, cheese and lettuce.” I see a grin form on her face.

“I love that my letters have given you back a piece of your past.”

“I’ve read them so many times I’ve lost count.” She sighs as her gaze moves down to the container on her lap. “I don’t want them to be just words on a piece of paper … I want them to be memories so familiar they almost seem real.”

“Theyarereal,” I say, reaching for her hand. When she lifts her face to meet mine again, the sadness I see in her eyes tugs at my heart. “Everything we shared was real, Jem.” I blow out a long breath and force my voice to remain steady. “It was real,” I repeat, squeezing her hand.

We eat our lunch in silence, just enjoying the scenery, the sunshine, and each other’s company.

“I made you something special,” she says when we’ve finished eating the sandwiches. She reaches into the basket again and pulls out a dish wrapped in a red-and-white cloth.

“I asked Christine for Ma’s recipe …” She removes the cloth and reveals a delicious-looking apple pie.

“It’s Ma’s recipe?” I ask, sitting forward and rubbing my hands together.

“The apples might not be as good as the ones here on the farm, but I followed the recipe to a tee. Christine helped me with the pastry, though. I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure it’s delicious.” I smile from the pie to her. “Thank you for going to all this trouble.”