Chapter 17: What He Wrote

Tobias had driven back to Minneapolis at noon, because I'd asked him to.

He'd gone without a single argument, which I hadn't known how to feel about.

I sat on a bench at the end of the pier in the wind and opened Ivy's gray thread.

It was not what I expected.

Most of it was drafts.

They had been saved and never sent, each with a date, each only a line or two.

The first was from the winter after my father died.

Lena, the coat is from me. I wanted you to be warm. Don't thank anyone.

I read it twice.

The next was from a March, a few weeks later.

Peonies were your dad's idea. He told me they were your mother's favorite and yours. I just ordered them.

Under that, a draft from the night of Connor's birthday party in September.

I should have said it at the coat rack. I said the seat instead, because it was easier to say than the truth.

I scrolled slower.

There was one from the night of the Denver wedding.

Connor just bought four blankets. Why did he not look at you once?

And one from the motel in Nebraska, written at four in the morning while I slept beside him.

You fell asleep. I'll tell you everything in the morning. I'm going to tell you everything.

I put my hand over my mouth.

He had meant it.

He hadn't been able to do it, and he'd meant it.

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