Come to Me Softly (Closer to You #2)(92)
Author: A.L. Jackson

In the middle of it rested a folded-up piece of paper, washed out and worn, the edges frayed from where it had been torn from a journal.

I bit my lip as I reached out and snagged it. Slowly I pushed up to sitting and held the small treasure Jared had left.

He hadn’t written me one once since he returned home just before Thanksgiving. Instead he’d whispered sweet words into my eager ear.

Carefully I unfolded the note. I just sat there, absorbing the statement he made.

When beauty breathes life back into the broken.

Without making a sound, I slipped from bed and tiptoed out our bedroom door.

In the early-morning light, I stood and gazed down on the man who held all my days. In the family room, he was kneeling on the floor with his back to me, facing the fireplace.

Pieces of splintered, broken wood were spread out around him, dragged out from where I’d stacked them in the corner after he’d torn all the beauty he created from its rightful place.

He sensed me, and Jared sat back on his haunches and shifted to look at me over his shoulder.

For a moment we just stared, before his mouth edged in the softest, sweetest smile.

Butterflies took flight in my stomach.

And I knew. . . . this was Jared’s new start.

TWENTY-SIX

Jared

Darkness held heavy over the moonless sky.

I slumped back against the rough stucco of our little house, the pitted wall making its mark on my bare back. I dug my toes into the cool, damp grass where I propped my feet.

On a sigh, I lifted my half-spent cigarette to my mouth, balanced it between my lips as I let my head drift to the side, turning my attention back on the choppy, scrawled words that overflowed the dingy pages of the notebook seated on my lap.

My therapist had encouraged me on nights like this, the ones when I woke up gasping and begging for air from the aftermath of the horrors of that vivid dream, to do this.

Write.

I shook my head.

I had a therapist.

Never thought in a million f**king years I’d sit in front of one without it being court ordered. And when it’d been, those sessions had been nothing but a sham. Me sitting there like a punk-ass kid because that’s exactly what I was, spewing inane bullshit at a group counselor, dodging questions and throwing back vapid words when they were required.

It’s when I started pouring all this shit across these pages, at night in juvie when I couldn’t sleep.

Felt like I’d been doing this for f**king ever.

The difference was all those pages had been inscribed with hate.

I raked a hand over my head, scratched at it as I tried to define what I wanted to say, because these pages were no longer filled with hate.

These were letters to my mom.

God, the first time I did it, I sat out here in the middle of the night and cried for hours. Because I felt her, somehow knew she was listening, somehow knew she was talking back to me through all these words that came bubbling out of me from some unknown place.

My thoughts had been disorganized, a ramble of words that didn’t make a whole lot of sense except for the intense need I felt to tell her how much I loved her.

Slowly over time I opened up, revealing to her how I felt that day. How scared I was—how all that fear was for her.

I told her I was sorry.

Even though I’d come to accept she’d already forgiven me, in almost all my letters, there was an apology.

Now . . . now I was working on forgiving myself.

Some days were harder than others because I no longer blocked the misery, didn’t close off her face or shun her smile or reject her good.

I submersed myself in it and allowed myself to mourn.

God, I’d gone through a lot of f**king pain to come to that point, but I finally accepted I had the right to miss her. That I didn’t have to feel guilty for it, didn’t need to heap it up as another burden to bear.

I missed her.

It was part of my truth and I poured that feeling into these pages. No longer did I hesitate to tell her how much.

And damn, there were some moments when it just about brought me to my f**king knees.

But every time I got back up again.

I lived and loved with everything in me. Giving it my all.

She knew all my secrets, how much I adored my girl, just like my mom knew I would. She knew how terrified I was of becoming a father, all this anxiety of the unknown wrapped up in Aly’s ever-growing belly. But she also knew how insanely anxious and proud and thrilled I was at the same time, that my heart beat a little stronger every time I felt our baby kick.

She knew it all.

I let my thoughts wander, back to when I was a boy, to the soft lilt of her laugh and the tender touch of her hand. God, she’d been beautiful. So good and pure. A mild breeze rustled through the deep, slumbering night, and if I held still enough, I could almost feel it, her fingers brushing through my hair.

My chest swelled.

I felt so close to her.

Like she was right here, still guiding me through all the moments of my life.

And I thought maybe . . . maybe she is.

I looked back to the page, and set my hand free.

Tomorrow I’m going to marry her. Can you believe it? I get to call Aly my wife.

God, Mom, I’m happy.

So happy I think I might be a little crazy, and all of this sometimes seems impossible. That girl steals my breath.

I lifted my face to the starry sky, my leg bouncing when I turned back to my journal.

I’d do anything for you to be there.

I hesitated with my pen poised over the paper; then I set it back down.

But I know in some way you will be.

I rocked my head back on the wall.

Yeah.

She wouldn’t miss it.

EPILOGUE

Aleena

Loving someone is one of the biggest chances we ever take. I once considered it unfair because it’s rarely a conscious decision we make. It’s something that blossoms slow or hits us hard, something that stirs and builds gradually, or something that shocks us with its sudden intensity. And sometimes it’s something that’s been a part of us our entire lives.

But almost always, it’s inevitable.

This . . . this was inevitable.

I slipped outside into the heavy night air. Dark, angry cumulus clouds gathered where they built high in the heated summer sky. Strikes of lighting illuminated the blackened heavens in quick flashes, and thunder rolled in the distance.

I hugged myself and lifted my face to the burst of stormy wind that blew in.

The monsoon was almost here.

It would always be my favorite time of year.

It would always remind me of where Jared and I began. As children out in our empty field. And again as adults when we embarked on a tenuous relationship filled with insecurities and questions.