Page 8 of The Best Wild Idea (Off-Limits #3)

Grant

One year ago

My dearest Jules,

Don’t hate me for doing this.

But here it goes.

My love. My heart. My everything. You have no idea how much I wish you were holding me right now instead of this stupid piece of paper.

First off, I’m going to start by saying it again, and then once more at the end, and possibly in every letter forthcoming from now on until it sinks in and I am sure that you can’t possibly: Please don’t hate me.

Don’t hate me because what I’m about to suggest demand suggest sounds utterly ridiculous.

So just hear me out.

Because right now, I’m watching you quietly snore in that horrid blue fold-out chair thing that the hospital has given you to sleep on in this stupid white room, void of anything remotely cheerful.

And while everything in here screams medical!

Sterile! — you are the most pure form of oxygen there is.

My breath, my life. Like a daisy springing up in the dark.

The way your sunny blonde hair spills out across that craggy, old plastic bed, your always-red lips parted, just so.

Your lashes curled up at the ends, even when you haven’t showered in three days since you’ve basically refused to leave my side for weeks at this point.

Sweetheart, you are the sun in a room that lacks windows.

The best of everything I’ve ever loved — and everything I’ll never get the chance to love again.

You passing out in that chair is the only thing that’s given me the chance to write you this letter in secret without you catching me. And what I’m about to say is something I’ve thought a lot about ever since Dr. Solano, well, you know. Ever since my future was cut short from yours.

So, let me get to the point of all this before you wake up.

I’ve planned a trip for you.

Not just any trip.

That trip.

Yes, that one. The one we’ve always talked about taking, to do things we’ve both always talked about doing, ever since you told me that you’d never actually been out of the country.

That day our World Civ professor put up a slide of the Colosseum, and you leaned over and whispered, “Do you have a pen?” Then, while you waited for either Silas or I to hand you one, you added, “You know, I’ve never been there.

To Italy.” And I frantically shoved everything around in my backpack to find you a pen before Silas could, when all I could think was — how has the most beautiful girl in the world never been to Italy?

That was the moment I fell in love with you, by the way. I know I’ve always played it cool by insisting that I didn’t actually fall head over heels for you until two solid months later because thirty seconds of knowing someone isn’t a socially acceptable time frame in which to fall in love.

But for me it was. It was because you were always breaking the mold of what I thought I knew to be true.

Now, a decade-ish later, here you are. Still clinging to me, to our future, and looking all tiny and beautiful curled up on a blue plastic chair thing, knowing damn well that we won’t be able to watch each other’s hair turn gray together anymore.

Which — if I can stop blabbing on about how beautiful you are for just one minute — is the reason why I’m writing: The trip.

Our trip. The one I’d like you to take without me now.

I’ve set the entire thing in motion, starting with a travel agent named Monica Braverman, who you’ll need to contact after you’re done reading this.

Brace yourself for this next bit because it’s a doozy: I’ve also selected a travel partner for you.

(This is the part where I’m going to remind you, again, to not hate me.)

Your travel partner is going to be Silas.

Silas Davenport. As if there was any other Silas in our world, but, given the history between you and him, I feel like I have to specify his full name due to the intensity of your hatred and how that might prevent you from believing or accepting that Silas is, in fact, your travel buddy.

Surprise! (I’m sorry) Effective immediately, starting first thing tomorrow morning.

His jet will be waiting. His crew will be ready.

Before you argue, you need to know that he’s already agreed. In fact, taking you on this trip was my final request of him, and now I’m asking the same from you.

(In an effort to refrain from repeating myself, please refer back to Line Two.)

By this point, and if all the pieces of the puzzle have come together correctly to get you this letter on the right day, it has been one whole year.

Enough time for you to grieve. Enough minutes for you to spend angry.

For you to hate me for leaving you. And hopefully, for you to forgive me for leaving you too soon, because forgiveness will only help you heal.

My hope is that, if luck would have it, you’re now at the point of grief where you’re able to look ahead again, ready to craft a beautiful life and live to be one hundred and two with every sort of laugh line etched deeply into that gorgeous face of yours.

I hope that this letter finds you just as you’re remembering what it feels like to wake up without a knife stuck in the middle of your chest every day because it’s time to look forward, sweetheart. Look only ahead.

As much as it pains me to say, I want the best days of your life to happen now, like that old Frank Sinatra song we were going to dance to at our wedding: “The Best Is Yet to Come.” Like a field of a thousand wildflowers, and you can’t possibly pick just one perfect moment or memory-yet-to-be-had, stretched out before you.

That said, why am I sending you on a trip with the one person in the world that you despise?

It’s because I know Silas better than anyone, and, although we were three peas in a pod once, I still know him better than you ever did. Which means that I know he’ll be good for you — for this particular journey — as long as you’re open and as long as you suspend your feelings about the past.

Just go and pack your bag. Don’t argue in your head about why you can’t possibly do this because you leave in the morning. If you had time to brood and spend your energy picking this trip apart, I know that you would.

Make it simple for yourself.

Go.

Go and don’t look back.

Go, and do everything I’ve set out for you to do without reserve or regret.

Just live, sweetheart. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, and me dying isn’t going to change that.

Please don’t hate me for planning this.

And thank you, always, for letting me love you,

Grant

PS If you’re still not convinced to board a plane with Silas in the morning, then know that I’ve dangled four carrots for you to chase at each location around the world. Every time you reach a new place, another letter will be there waiting for you.

PPS You and Silas are the only people allowed to pick up the letters. Short of Silas’ death certificate in hand ( don’t even think about it ), both of you will need to be present to retrieve the letters from me along the way.

PPPS Monica’s business card is in the envelope. She’s waiting for your call. I love you.