Page 4 of Soul to Possess (The Artmaker Trilogy #1)

At first, I tried to be practical about it—wondered if you'd hate the smell of manure in the mornings or if you'd mind how the wind never seems to stop blowing out here, like the sky’s always exhaling something it doesn’t want.

But then I gave up trying to be reasonable.

That’s not where you live for me. You live in the unreasonable places. The heart-deep places.

I imagine you walking down the path behind the barn, bare feet in the dew-damp grass, coffee in your hand, your hair still sleep-warm.

I imagine your laugh echoing off the fence rails, your shadow tangled up with mine at sunset.

I imagine finding you in the kitchen—not doing anything in particular, just being—and realizing how easily the house could start to feel like a home again.

I imagine you in my truck, legs on the dash, some dusty old song on the radio that we both pretend not to love.

And if you showed up tomorrow? I’d meet you at the edge of the drive, heart in my throat.

I wouldn’t try to impress you. Wouldn’t tidy up the mess or hide the worn parts.

I’d just stand there, sunburned and stupidly hopeful, and say, “You’re here,” like it was the most important sentence I’ve ever spoken.

You said the letters are starting to hold you. Gennie... maybe they’re meant to carry you somewhere. Not yet. I’m not asking. But I’m starting to wonder what it would feel like to stop wondering. Tell me what scares you about coming here. Tell me what part of yourself you’re most afraid I’ll see.

—M

Marvin,

I sat with your letter in my lap for a long time before I opened it.

Not because I didn’t want to read it. I did, but because something about the way your name is written in that sharp, steady way makes my hands shake a little.

Like my body already knows your words are going to wreck me before my brain catches up.

You asked what scares me about coming there.

It’s not the horses. Or the wind. Or even the silence, though I imagine it settles over the house like a second skin.

I think what scares me is what happens if I like it.

If I start to belong there, in ways I’ve never quite belonged anywhere.

And then what? What if it’s not just a place I visit, but one I miss when I leave? What if I don’t want to leave at all?

What if I see you and you’re everything I’ve built up in my head—and worse, what if you’re not?

What if I’m not? I’ve spent years learning how to live in the in-between places.

Half-loved. Half-healed. Half-hoping. And writing to you has started to unteach all of that.

You don’t feel like a halfway thing. You feel like a leap.

You asked what I’m afraid you’ll see in me.

The need. The parts I’ve kept hidden under charm and competence and too-loud laughter.

The girl who still hasn’t forgiven herself for the ways she fell apart.

The one who sometimes stares at her own reflection like she’s looking at a ghost she’s still trying to make peace with.

You might see that and turn away. Or worse—you might stay.

And I don’t know which terrifies me more.

But I keep writing you back. That must mean something. Tell me the first thing you’d say to me if I was standing in your kitchen tomorrow morning. Tell me what you think I’d leave behind if I came and didn’t go.

—G

Gennie,

There’s a knot in my chest I can’t quite get loose after reading your letter. It’s the kind that doesn’t come from pain exactly—but from recognition. Like finding a forgotten photograph of someone you used to be, and realizing you’re still trying to make eye contact with them.

You said you’re afraid of coming here and not wanting to leave.

I think about that more than I should. What it would mean if you came and the world didn’t fall apart—but instead, fell into place.

What it would feel like to watch you turn the porch light on at dusk, to hear your voice in the next room, casual, ordinary, permanent.

Not just passing through. Not just borrowed time.

You asked what I’d say if you showed up in my kitchen tomorrow.

I think I’d say, “You made it.” Simple, maybe.

But not small. Because that’s what this is starting to feel like—like survival.

Like choosing to keep going long enough to arrive somewhere you weren’t sure existed. And if you came and didn’t stay?

You’d leave behind a hollow in the silence that was never there before. Your mug on the counter, still half-full. Your scent in the sheets. The mark of someone who didn’t just visit—but changed the shape of things. You’d leave me different. And I don’t think I’d want to go back.

Gennie, I’ve been writing you for two months and some change.

It still feels like the most honest thing I do all week.

But maybe it’s time we found out if the thing we’re building here has legs outside the page.

Would you come? Not just in theory. Not just someday.

I’ll send the ticket. I’ll wait at the edge of the drive, just like I said.

You don’t have to decide now. But you could.

Tell me what color the sky was the last time you felt sure.

Tell me what it would take to get you here.

—M

Marvin,

The sky was lavender.

The kind of soft, aching purple that happens just after the sun dips low but before the stars show up to prove the dark won’t last. I was sitting in my car outside my home, engine off, radio low.

I’d just signed the contract for a new job across town—nothing fancy, just something that didn’t smell like someone else’s sadness.

I felt scared and brave and weightless all at once.

That’s the last time I felt sure. Until now.

You said, you’d say: “You made it.” And I felt something in me break open in the gentlest possible way.

Because for so long, I’ve been the girl who almost makes it.

The one who stands on thresholds but never walks through.

The one who writes letters but never gets in the car.

I’ve lived too long in the what-ifs. The almosts.

The nearlys. But you—us—this doesn’t feel like almost. It feels like arrival.

Like something I’ve been moving toward without realizing I was heading somewhere at all.

You said you’d send the ticket. I want it.

I want the drive up your long gravel road and the way my heart will beat when I see you leaning against your truck, hands shoved in your pockets like you’re trying to look casual but failing miserably.

I want your mismatched mugs and the smell of hay and whatever silence exists between two people who finally have nothing left to say on paper.

I’m scared, Marvin. God, I’m scared. But I’m also ready. Send the ticket. I’ll start packing.

—G

Gennie,

I read your letter in the truck with the windows down, your words catching on the wind like something too fragile to hold and too true to ignore. You’re scared but ready. That’s enough for me. I made good on what I said.

There’s a ticket tucked into this envelope—one way.

The flight lands in Sioux Falls the second week of September.

It’s the closest window that gives you enough daylight to catch the regional bus out here before the last one leaves town.

We only have one bus come out here, twice a year, and the first ride has already happened.

After that, we’re back to hitched rides and snow tires and hoping the sky doesn’t trap you on the wrong side of the mountain.

So if you come, come knowing there’s a chance the weather will try to stop you. But also know I won’t.

The fare’s paid. Bus included. I added four hundred in cash for food and whatever else you need on the way. Snacks. A motel if you get tired. Something pretty to wear if it makes the whole thing feel more real. Spend it how you want. Or don’t. Just know it’s yours.

Gennie, I don’t know what kind of grace it is to be chosen by someone like you. But I’ll try to be the kind of place you can land. Rough edges and all. I’ll be there at the edge of the drive. And yeah, I’ll be trying to look casual. But I won’t pull it off. Not even close.

Get here safe.

—M

Marvin,

I bought a new suitcase.

It still smells like plastic and possibility. I laid it open on my bed and just stared at it for a while, like it might whisper instructions. Like it might know how to hold the version of me who’s brave enough to board a plane for someone she’s never touched but already trusts.

I keep thinking about your driveway. The long stretch of gravel. The way you said you’d be waiting there. I can already see you—boots dusted, sun behind your shoulders, trying to look calm but probably wringing your hands in your pockets.

I’ll be on the flight. September 13th. I wrote it down in three places, just in case my nerves try to pretend I imagined it.

I packed the red sweater I told you about—the one that makes me feel like someone worth looking at.

I packed a book I probably won’t read, my kindle, and your letters, every last one of them.

They feel like a roadmap. Like proof. I don’t know what it’ll feel like to be near you.

To hear your voice without paper between us.

But I know I want to find out. Save me a mug. I’m coming.

— G