Chapter 24: Thirty-Six Letters

Daniel found me on the porch step with the box in my lap, and he went white.

"You don't have to," he said. "Not today. Not with Claire's note."

"I'm reading two."

"Two?"

"The first and the last. She says to ask you what you really wrote. I'd rather read it than ask."

He sat on the step beside me, close enough to touch.

I peeled up the tape.

Thirty-six envelopes stood in the box on their edges, each with my name on the front in his cramped teacher's hand.

The first one was soft with handling.

I opened it, and the paper shook.

Dear Laura,

I'm sorry I can't tell you this out loud yet.

You came home from Lakeshore on a Tuesday.

You walked into the kitchen and said, "It smells like home."

Then you asked me why your head hurt.

I said a fever. I watched your face believe me.

I have never hated myself more.

Dr. Ames says wait a year.

I don't know how to wait a year.

I don't know how to look at you in the morning.

Tonight you fell asleep on the couch with Bea on your chest. You didn't wake when I covered you.

I stood in the doorway for an hour.

I thought, if this is all I get, let me at least be worth it.

Daniel

I read it to the end and put it face down on my knee.

He didn't speak.

I took out the last envelope, the thirty-sixth, and it was cleaner than the others.

I knew the date on the corner.

It was last month.

Dear Laura,

Soon we tell you, the day after Bea's party, at the lake.

I have said that line over in my head six times and I don't know how it sounds out loud.

Here is what I want you to have, in case I lose my nerve in front of you.

I was never with anyone else.

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