me from across the street. When he sees me looking at him, he coolly slides on his sunglasses and pulls out of the lot.
And out of my life.
I didn’t get the chance to tell him the things I wanted to say. He deserves to know about Tyler and what didn’t happen. I want him to know about my new perspective on life. I think he’d be proud of me for all of my changes. As the dust of his departing car settles, I wonder if I’ll ever have the chance to say those things to him.
After a much-needed shower, the girls pull up with some Chinese take-out and a box; yes I said a box, of wine. Jack left today, and based on the puffy redness to Cammie’s eyes, I can tell she needs some girl time. When she puts down her bags, I pull her into a big hug.
“Oh come here, Cam. It’s going to be just fine.” I try to calm her down as I hand her a mug of wine.
Taking a big gulp of it, she says, “Yeah, I know. Just a little sad, I guess.”
“Well, we’re here to distract you for the night,” Lia chimes in as she waves a DVD of
Snatching the DVD from Lia’s hands, Cammie’s eyes roam all over the case. “Yeah, this’ll do.” A seductive grin plays on her face and we all share a laugh as we make up our plates for our little dinner date with a few shirtless hotties.
“He is so freaking hot,” Peyton calls out as Matt Bomber struts his stuff across the screen.
Gulping down the last of her third, or maybe it’s her fourth glass, Lia shakes her head wildly. “Oh no! Him. He’s the one I’d do.” Pointing at Channing Tatum, Lia looks like she needs to wipe the drool from her chin.
“What about you, Cammie? Who’s your hottie tonight?” I elbow her in the ribs, literally prodding her to have some kind of reaction to the girls’ night that we planned all for her.
She takes a sip of her wine and shrugs he shoulders. No response. “Come on, Cammie. Given the chance, who would you spend one hot night with?” Cammie flushes red at Lia’s little quiz.
“None of them.” Wow, she’s in full-on pout mood. I suddenly realize what it must have been like to live with me back when Bryan and I broke up.
Determined to lighten her mood, I pause the movie as Alex Pettyfer’s abs ripple on screen. “Not even him, Cammie. Look at him! His abs have abs. That man is a God. You’re telling me you would kick him out of bed?”
With her lips up against the rim of her mug-o-wine, she mumbles, “Fine. No. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.” When we all whistle cat calls and rip with laughter, Cammie rolls her eyes but eventually gives into the laughter as well.
After my third glass of wine and some quality time with the girls, I decide to turn in and get some sleep. I walk past my desk and pick up the envelope I got in the mail today. It’s from Mom, but even through the padding, I can tell that it’s a spiral notebook.
Sitting on my bed, I tear through the paper and pull out the notebook. There’s a letter taped to the front of it across which is my name scrolled in my mom’s handwriting. I absentmindedly trace my fingertip along the curved lines of my name and instantly miss Mom. She’ll be here this weekend, but after seeing Bryan today, I could use some comfort.
I open the envelope and pull out the letter.
With shaky hands, I drop the letter and run my fingers along the faded blue cardboard cover of the notebook. This belonged to my dad. He actually touched the same spot that I’m touching right now. Gently opening the tattered cover, I see his words scribbled on the lines of the paper and tears spring to my eyes. Thumbing through the pages, I see a few dozen entries and they all seem relatively short.
Tears stream down my cheeks, and no matter how quickly I try to brush them away, they’re immediately replaced by new ones. My dad wrote this book to me. He didn’t even know me, but he wrote these letters to me because he wanted to let me know how much he loved me.
I read through more of them, but one in particular catches my attention and makes me smile through the tears. By my quick calculation, my mom would have been just about half way through her pregnancy at this point.
The next letter that I stop at has sonogram picture taped to the top. It’s a profile shot and I trace over the curve of my tiny nose.
That last entry makes me laugh through the tears. Now I know where I got that pesky need for perfection from. I flip through the journal and read about how he set up my nursery and helped Linda surprise Mom with a baby shower. It’s weird how I’ve never known him, but through his words, simple strokes on a piece of paper, I feel like he’s right here in the room with me. When I get to the last entry, the tears return. He wrote it the night before he died.
