Swallowing hard, I pick up the envelope, which has clearly been torn open, and I can’t help but shake my head and smirk at Cass’s confession. The need to know is so strong that I don’t hesitate long, and I pull the folded sheets of notebook paper out. It’s written in pencil, and some of the lines have smudged, probably from my nosey roommate, but his handwriting is familiar, and just seeing it has me smiling.
I miss him. I miss him. I miss him. I unfold the pages and smooth them out in my lap, pulling my legs up crossed in front of me, and begin to read.
33,
And begin. I’ve written the first line of this letter about a dozen times. Ty says I’m wasting paper. Every opening line sounds desperate and cheesy, so I’m opting for that one. Now that I’m this far in, I think I can keep going.
I love you. I also wanted to make sure that was said up high, should you stop reading. I hope you’ve read this far. Have you read this far?
I pause and run my arm under my eyes while I laugh. I can actually hear his voice while I’m reading, smooth and deep, and I miss him more.
I’m sorry. That’s the other thing I needed to make sure was said. I wasn’t sure what should come first—the ‘I love you’ or the ‘I’m sorry.’ I took a gamble and went with love, mostly because it’s happier.
Now, I also want to make sure you’re not angry with Cass for not giving this to you right away. I wanted to make sure you finished your exams first, and she had very specific instructions. Did she cheat and give this to you early? I hadn’t really thought about that until now. I guess there’s nothing I can really do if that happened.
Right, so what’s the point of this letter? Rowe, I’m so sorry I lied to you. Your dad was so concerned, and when he told me what life was like for you, right after the shooting, I didn’t want you to go back. But looking back on it, I think I was maybe being selfish. I didn’t want you to drift back into depression, because I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want you to become so distraught that you couldn’t be here any more, and the fear of that was strong enough to convince me that not telling you was the right thing to do. But I lost you anyway, didn’t I?
When you almost threw those pictures in the fire, it’s like my trance was snapped. I realized how selfish I was being. And I couldn’t let you get rid of those memories; not knowing they were all you had left. So I told you. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I love you so much it makes me selfish—greedy for you. I want you all to myself.
Since you walked out of my parents’ house, though, all I’ve been doing is thinking about Josh. And I’ve come to a realization. I think Josh loved you just as much as I do. And if he’s the kind of man who can love you this way—see you for all the things I do—then he sounds like he’s probably a pretty great guy. And maybe I’m all right with sharing your heart with a guy like that.
I have another confession. I know you wrote to him sometimes, on Facebook. I know because you accidentally sent a message meant for him to me.
I stop when I read this, my heart rate speeding up and my stomach feeling as if it’s full of rocks. I pull my phone from my purse and open my Facebook message to see, and when I go to my string to Nate, it’s there…the last letter I ever wrote to Josh. Nate read every word. Re-reading it makes me cry, remembering how hard it was to want to let Josh go, and how painful it was admitting to him—even in this way—that there was someone else. It takes me several minutes before I can put my phone away and open Nate’s letter again, but I finally do.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that sooner. I probably should have. But you were opening yourself up, and you were falling for me. And Rowe, I just didn’t want to stop that. I told you I’m selfish. I wanted you to fall. And I wanted to catch you.
But since you left, I’ve been thinking about that message you wrote. I bet there are more. You don’t have to tell me; those words are private, for you and Josh. But Josh hasn’t been able to write back. And the more I thought about you sending him messages, and not getting anything in return, the sadder it made me—for you.
So while this isn’t Josh writing now, and while I don’t have the memories of you at sixteen that he did, I do feel slightly qualified—as someone who loves you just as much—to speak on his behalf. You didn’t get to say goodbye, Rowe. But neither did he. If he did, I’m pretty sure these are the things he would want to say:
Dear Rowe (he would be more formal than me),