Page 117 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

f running water came from the kitchen.

Fuck.

This was harder than it should be. I had a home, a life to get back to. A single life. A life I’d been living for six years. A life I’d told my sister I wanted to ruin, but here I was, rushing back into it.

The past two weeks had been strange. With school in full swing, we’d spent most of our nights helping kids with homework. We’d had dinner together, watched TV if there was time or played a game. And through it all, Molly and I had existed in peace.

Something unexpected had happened since that last fight. It had been calm. Quiet. Like the angry ghost had curled up in its grave to finally rest.

We’d gotten along after the divorce, but this was different. This wasn’t simply a sense of civility or friendship. This week had been . . . easy. It was all out there. The wounds were exposed to the air and they were closing up.

Years too late.

“Finn?” Molly called.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to grab the mail.”

I hung my head. “All right.”

There was one more letter. One I’d written at the time of the divorce. I’d been walking on eggshells, expecting it to come.

I hoped it would be today. That when I left, we’d be done with them for good.

I quickly finished packing my stuff then went into the guest bedroom and zipped it all into my suitcase. With it loaded and a bulging backpack slung over my shoulder, I made my way to the living room and put them both next to the couch.

Then I waited for Molly to come back inside, holding a stack of envelopes in one hand, a single envelope in the other.

“It came?”

“It did.” She crossed the room and extended the letter. “Here.”

“Go ahead.”

“No, it’s okay.”

I took the envelope from her hand. “I thought you wanted to read them.”

“I did. I don’t need to anymore.”

“Why?”

She gave me a sad smile. “Because you finally told me how you felt.”

If nothing else, that had made writing these letters worth it.

I tore into the envelope, pulling out the single sheet of paper. A sharp sting hit my chest as I remembered how I’d felt that day. Six years later and it was still hard to believe we’d quit each other.

“Here.” I held out the letter, but Molly shied away. “It’s raw. But . . . it’s real.”

“Okay.” She took it and read it over. “Wow.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I feel the same way. We gave up on each other.”

“How?” I asked. “How did that happen?”