The Choices I've Made (By the Bay #1)

Chapter Seventeen

Jake,

I hate you.

I hate you and this stupid letter.

I hate the moon and the stars and every single thing that goes on without you. I hate how much I hurt right now, how many tears I've cried, and how weak it all makes me feel.

But, most of all, I hate that you left and that I didn't have the courage to follow you.

Because, if I did, I'd be in your arms right now. Maybe in that apartment you spoke about in Chicago. Maybe somewhere in between.

Maybe you would have changed your mind and come back.

Will you ever come back?

I followed you to the ferry today. I drove so fast down the road, I thought for sure I'd end up with a speeding ticket from Macon himself. When I pulled into the parking lot, I realized I was too late.

You'd already left.

When? I don't know. It could have been minutes or hours, but you were gone all the same. I yelled, and I screamed. I cried and begged myself to get on that damn ferry and find you.

But I couldn't.

Because, as much as I hate you in this moment, I love you more.

And I know you're right. We need time apart. Maybe a month. Maybe a year.

Maybe a lifetime.

So, I'll write the letters, shed the tears, and hate the world for a while, knowing it's all part of the process—a process of getting over the hurt.

And finding myself...wherever she might be.

Love,

Molly

Molly,

I can't do this. I can't write to you and act like my fucking heart isn't smeared all over Highway 12. I've barely made it to Hatteras, and I've already talked myself out of doubling back twenty times.

What are we doing?

Why am I sitting in a car on the side of the road, writing a goddamn letter I'll never send, when I could turn around and be with you instead?

How can love be rational?

Maybe we're doing this wrong?

I can't write any more today. It hurts too much.

—Jake

Jake,

I drove to the ferry dock today.

I've driven to the ferry dock every day this month.

Some people take afternoon walks to clear their minds. I drive fifteen minutes out of town, get in line for the ferry, wait, and then swiftly turn around when it begins to load.

Yesterday, I was recognized.

A returning couple from Kentucky is visiting the inn, and they were unloading as I was making my mad dash. They waved. I waved back.

It was then I realized what I was doing was insane.

This isn't moving on. Hell, I don't know what this is, but it's certainly not healthy.

My mom asked me why supplies in the inn were so low when she came to do her daily check-in. I made up an excuse about being busy, but she saw right through me.

She sat me down and asked how I was doing. I didn't have the strength to play games anymore. Honestly, I don't know if I have the strength for anything anymore.

Was it this hard the first time, Jake? Did it hurt this much?

Maybe we were wrong. Maybe love isn't supposed to hurt like this.

Perhaps we were toxic from the very beginning.

—Molly

Molly,

I'm home.

I'm back in Chicago.

It doesn't feel like home. But I guess I never allowed it to be. I moved here right after my residency finished up. It was the highest offer I'd received of several.

That was how I based my decision. That, and how far I could rise.

I didn't look at the location or proximity to friends or social events. I merely saw a number on the offer letter that agreed with me.

And that was that.

Sitting here, at a desk, I barely remember choosing the apartment I rent for its proximity to the hospital. I realize I don't know a damn thing about this place.

Or me for that matter.

It took me twice as long as it should have to drive from Ocracoke to Chicago. I thought every mile I pushed between us would make it easier, but with each passing state line, the pain only doubled. I pulled off to the side of the road and stayed in shabby motel rooms, dreaming of you.

And our backyard wedding.

Somewhere around Pittsburgh, I gave myself one hell of a pity party and spent the next twenty-four hours hungover and miserable. But, somehow, I made it back here.

And, now, the hard part begins— starting over.

I hope you're better at this than me.

—Jake