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Twenty Five

Present

I wrote to him a month ago. It had taken me a while to get the words right. I must have balled up and thrown away four different versions of the letter I ended up mailing.

Cooper,

I got your letter. I read it once, slowly. Day by day, page by page. Then I read it again, and then I let it sit on my nightstand like it might dissolve into something less dangerous if I gave it time.

But your words don’t fade, don’t soften. They settle deep, winding through my ribs, curling around the parts of me I thought had turned to ash.

I needed to hear it. Your voice in my head, your confessions laid bare. The weight of your love pressing against me, filling the spaces you left hollow.

You loved me. You love me.

And God, Cooper, I love you too. I never stopped.

I tried—I told myself that love should be easy, that it should be safe.

That the kind of love we shared was meant to be left in the dark.

But I was wrong. Because love isn’t safe, and it isn’t easy.

It’s raw and ugly and breathtakingly beautiful all at once.

It’s knowing someone’s darkest parts and still reaching for them in the light just as they are.

And I’m reaching for you now.

But I need you to reach back.

I will wait for you, Cooper. I will count the days, the hours, the moments until you are released. But if I do, there can be no ghosts between us.

No stolen glimpses through windows that were never meant to be open to you. No strangers under your gaze, unaware they are being seen.

Watching me—only me—has to be enough.

I need to be enough.

If you can give me that, then I will be here when you walk out of your cage. I will be waiting. I will be yours.

If you can’t… then this is the last letter I’ll ever send.

—Robin

I’m at the empty inn, missing him. Here to feel something…to feel closer to him. The waves assault the jagged cliffs, hammering the rocks like a battering ram. Wearing them down, smoothing them out. The same thing Cooper did to me.

Blurred lines.

Who am I supposed to be loyal to?

Do I stick to the role life’s assigned me?

Can this survive? Will the best parts of who we were, who we are, retain this life?

We each gave the other a gift: acceptance and love.

Life is a maze, love a conundrum.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

Unknown number.

“What?!” I holler into the phone. “God damn, please stop calling me.”

My finger hovers above the End button when I hear, “Ms. Richardson, I’m Cooper Burick’s lawyer.”

I press my forehead against the window on the grand wrap-around porch, feeling the edge press into my skin, focusing on the uncomfortableness of it. “I’m sorry, who?”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “You’re not in any trouble. I need to meet with you to go over Cooper’s estate.”

“Estate?”

“Are you available this week?”

I suck in a ragged breath. Exhale.

“I… sure.”

***

I’m seated in a leather chair across from Cooper’s lawyer a week later.

The sound of the city seeps through the office windows, a distant cacophony that makes everything feel surreal.

I’m sure the lawyer’s used to this—used to people being dumbstruck into silence—but he surprises me by flicking his gaze up from his paperwork with an empathetic smile.

“He left you in charge of his bank accounts, apartment in the city, and the inn. This is all via power of attorney of course. With a clause that upon release…”

The words spoken into my ear pull out a lynchpin. A towering pile of confusion, shock, and awe that crashes around my legs.

“Apartment in the city?” I ask, confused.

His brows pinch together as if he’s the confused party. “It’s a lot to take in.” He nods slightly, his pen poised. “You have questions?”

Do I? Not about what I need to do next—I have a feeling Cooper’s left instructions as detailed as they are overwhelming—but why?

Why leave me in charge of anything?

Why now?

“He said if you have questions, I can…” The lawyer sifts through the pages, distracted.

“Did he say why?”

He searches my face, maybe gauging how much information to disclose. Whatever he sees gives him the go-ahead. “Cooper wanted no loose ends. Said you’d understand that.”

The room seems to breathe around me, expanding and contracting in slow waves, and the inn resurfaces in my mind—Cooper’s dark form stretched across the cliffs like a shadow.

The lawyer slides a stack of papers toward me. “If you need time…”

And there’s that word again: time.

“I’ll take these with me,” I say.

He nods, gathers the rest of Cooper’s plans into neat piles. “It is important to him,” he adds softly, “that it is you, who manages everything.”

The air wrestles free from my lungs like it’s been commanded to exit under duress.