Page 91 of Familiar Things New

William squeezed his leg. “I hope you do, too.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Andrew

Andrew had finished his tea and was staring off into nothingness, his heart still leaden from the morning he’d had with Edwin, though the time he’d spent with Prudence was making the weight a bit easier to bear. At least he knew he had one person in his life who cared about him for certain now. And she still cared even after finding out the truth about his inclinations. Vaguely, Andrew wondered whether William might still want to be friends if he ever found out the truth someday as well. Although, perhaps William’s friendship was contingent upon Edwin instead. After all, William had been friends with Edwin for much longer. And so, if Edwin ever left, if he ever completely and totally walked out of Andrew’s life forever, then probably William would, too.

Andrew let out a heavy sigh. Why was it so hard to keep people?

After a moment, Andrew shifted his gaze to Edwin’s jacket, which was still lying in a heap on the floor. He hesitated for a moment but then walked over to pick it back up. Because a part of him still wanted to hold it.

After scooping up the jacket, Andrew returned to the bed and sat. Sniffling, he began to stroke the olive-green fabric with his thumb. His eyes became misty as Edwin’s scent filled his nostrils, and when Edwin’s melodic laughter rang in his ears, he found himself smiling a little, even through the lingering pain of heartache.

I can see how much he adores you.

Prudence’s comforting words came back to him. Perhaps there still was a chance of reconciliation. Andrew had to hope so, at least.

Andrew blinked back his tears and began to inspect the lining—fine silk, a light brown color. Beautiful craftsmanship. Just as Andrew knew it would be. Edwin took pride in his appearance. It was one of the things Andrew loved about him. And, of course, Edwin took pride in his work as well. That much had been clear even in the photographs the man had taken and in how much he cared about all the plants at the conservatory.

While running his hands over the lining, Andrew discovered something in one of the pockets—a piece of paper. His stomach swirled nervously. He should ignore it. But . . .

Curiosity tickled Andrew’s brain, prompting him to remove the paper. His hands shook as he unfolded it, and then he began to read.

Dear Andrew,

Andrew’s heart crashed into his rib cage, and he sucked in a fast breath.

Dear Andrew,

Spots began to form in front of his eyes as blood left his face. It was a letter. More precisely, it was a letter to him. Or, well, it was a letter for him, but presumably not to him since Edwin had clearly never sent it. Had Edwin planned on ever sending it? If not, then why had he kept it?

Andrew needed to take several breaths before he could read on.

Every hour of every day, I find myself thinking of you.

Andrew’s chest swelled, excitement bubbling inside him and bringing a smile to his face as his eyes moved across the paper and he realized what sort of letter this was.

I think of the secret looks we shared, each one sending my heart aflutter, not only because I found you captivating, but because with each clandestine smile, you were showing me that I was not alone.

I like you, Andrew.

It was a love letter. Edwin had written him a love letter!

But even so, we cannot be together . . .

Dread settled in Andrew’s stomach, pushing bile up his throat.

No, not a love letter.

. . . for if you were to ever learn the type of man I am, I fear you wouldn’t want me anymore. I can scarcely stand the fact that I have finally become the man I’ve always wanted to be, the man I always knew myself to be, and yet, it might not be enough. I cannot seem to force myself to take a chance to start something with you, something I know we both want, because I cannot shake the worry that it would be too great of a risk.

Andrew furrowed his brow. He couldn’t make sense of it. “. . . for if you were to ever learn the type of man I am . . .” What did Edwin mean by that? What type of man was he? Generous? Sweet? Reserved? Overly serious sometimes? Andrew began to reread the letter. His stomach flipflopped from the confusing mix of emotions that were continuing to pulse and swirl inside him as his eyes moved over the text.

He had to talk to Edwin. Because if Edwin somehow thought that there was something—anything—that Andrew could learn about him that could make him like him less, then he was completely and utterly wrong.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Andrew refolded the letter and stood.

He needed to go over to Edwin’s straightaway. And to promise him that what they had, right then, was exactly enough. Physical intimacy or not. He’d reassure Edwin of how much he liked him. And let him know that nothing he could ever learn about what sort of man he was could change that.