The Waiting Game

The Thirteenth Letter

I really hope you are beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel, sweetheart.

I’m only doing this because I want you to be happy. I’m hoping that reliving some events and making news ones will help you move on, and that doing so will make you free again, freer than you have ever been with me in the picture. I’m trying to help you so that you’re okay again, but I can’t do that if you don’t let me. I know you’re going to be fighting me, Gia. I know that you are a fighter.

When someone dies, the mourners hook onto someone that can be their rock, someone who can hold them up. They need the emotional support from someone who can understand their pain. They gravitate toward each other even if they don’t want to.

Have you seen what I have been doing here, Gia?

I probably haven’t been doing it very well, but I’ve been trying to push you together with someone, trying to get you to connect to them, so that there will be someone out there that understands you. You went to see Jordan, my father, my mother, my brother. I even asked you to speak with your brother. I wanted you to know that people are out there that understand what you are going through.

But that’s not the whole of the situation. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be that simple.

I have a feeling I know what’s going to be happening in your world right now.

Have you kissed him yet?

I think I’ve known throughout this entire journey I took with you from the past that this was going to happen. I saw it happening before I wanted it to even now, but you never did.

I’m sure I’m confusing you.

I hope that you pick Devon to lean on. And I hope he catches you.

If there was someone I had to pick to be happy, to deserve you, he would be the one.

I know this isn’t something you want to hear, Gia.

But I don’t have much time left to say much of anything.

~*~

For the second time in a week, I found myself sitting in Devon’s living room, wondering what impulse brought me here in the first place.

This time, though, was different. Instead of silently sitting on another piece of furniture, Devon was sitting next to me, so close that I could feel his body heat, and occasionally our arms would brush and I would get goose bumps. I kept thinking about saying something, but there weren’t any words to describe how the newest letter shook me to the core. It was hard to explain that you are crying because someone is making sense.

I just didn’t want him to.

I didn’t want him to make sense when he told me I had to move on.

I didn’t want him to be able to so easily pair me with his brother.

I didn’t want him to have known something would happen before I would have ever been able to believe it.

I sat there next to Devon and I bit my lip, because I knew if I didn’t then I would be asking him what had been in his letter.

And I didn’t want to know.

If there was a way I could be ignorant forever, I would take it.

Some things, I just don’t need to know.

“He told me to move on,” I suddenly blurted out, surprising us both. I buried my head in my hands, my elbows on my knees, and I struggled to take a steady breath. “He sent me a new letter and he told me that he wanted me to become attached to someone that is going to help me, and he wants me to get over him and I . . . I can’t . . .”