The Waiting Game

The Third Letter

The moment I read the first words of his third letter—You’re not going to like this next part, Gia—I sighed heavily, shutting my eyes tightly.

Twenty days, and summer was crawling slower toward the end. Senior year was on the horizon but I couldn’t fully join my friends’ enthusiasm when they spoke of what they planned on doing with their lives, the schools they want to attend, the people they dream of meeting. I smiled and I nodded and I answered all of their questions, but my heart wasn’t in it. It was still on the edge of a bridge, in the middle of a field.

It was still beating in my chest, but it was still broken.

He and I used to talk about our future. Looking back, recalling the reserved look on his face when I spoke of us lately, I realized that it wasn’t a fear of commitment.

He had known for some time what his fate was going to be.

That led me to diving into his next letter with a new ferocity. I wanted to get to the bottom of why he did what he did, and I wanted to know every piece of his mind he was willing to posthumously show me.

I would take anything right about now.

Well, he started.

I’m going to need you to do me a big favor.

The moment you get this letter, I want you to start moving. If you’re not ready to start the day, I want you to get dressed. Get your car keys and tell your parents that you’ll be back—maybe give them a hug because they truly care about you, angel, and they must be worried for you. Get in your car and start to drive.

There is someone I want you to go to. Someone I want you to help.

~*~

When I first met Devon Mueller, my first thought was that he was a chauvinistic pig.

My first impressions on people tended to be astoundingly accurate.

He had taken me home to meet his family and I had been so, so nervous. I didn’t know if my dress was too short or if it was too casual, and he was no help. He told me that I always looked perfect, and although it made my heartbeat speed up and sent blood pooling into my cheeks, his opinions were unhelpful. I stumbled inside, smoothing my skirt again before my hand moved nervously to my hair, as if checking to make sure my curls were still as unruly as ever.

His mother had been smiling. I had been taken aback at first by how beautiful she was.

Her name was Brenda and she was a wonderful, caring mother. She was a single mother—he told me that his parents had been divorced for a great deal of years now—and she had the protective instinct over her children that came with a doting parent. He had her sea green eyes but she had a head of dark hair, falling down around her face in soft waves so unlike the hairs on my own head, making me wince. Her smile was as bright as staring straight into the sun and her voice was soft and musical, enchanting. She was sweet and kind and I immediately felt myself begin to relax with her. He had squeezed my hand, trying to give me some of his strength, and I smiled up at him so widely that he had smiled back on reflex, something dancing in his eyes.

The moment hadn’t necessarily been shattered as much as it had just plainly been disrupted by the entrance of his older brother. Devon walked in with confidence and a smirk that let me know he would always have something to say.

And he did.

The first words I ever heard him speak were a remark on my league, the first movement he made toward me his lingering eyes. He slumped toward me, still wearing that cocky smirk of his, and he held out his hand as if he expected me to shake it, like I would believe that was his game. My eyebrows climbing higher and more apprehensive with every passing moment, I surrendered by placing my hand in his.