She glanced upward, her mouth pursed but slightly open as she gasped.
Nobody could read these, especially not the person I wrote them out to. Anxiety raced through my body, screeching at me to run. “I’ll be back,” I muttered before turning and bolting out of the room.
When I was a kid and my father would lash out, I found safety up in the hayloft of the barn. The old bastard was dead, and yet here I was again, seeking the safety of the old barn over a decade later. I hadn’t even known he was dead until a few weeks ago when I’d called Ma to tell her I was coming back. I guess it hadn’t hit me yet.
As I stepped inside, I noticed that the timbers were aged and the evening sun rays streamed in from the tattered roof, illuminating the dirt and dust. The puff of the sweet, musty odor of last summer's straw hit me first. I made my way to the hayloft and found the old bench I’d dragged up here was still in the corner. I sat down on the damn thing, and the wood creaked under my weight.
The decision to leave was something I had to do, but leaving Evelyn wasn’t easy. I hid my father’s abuse from her our whole relationship. How could I explain to her that I left because of that? She never left my mind, and my one regret was not being honest with her. I mean fuck, as if she wasn’t the most understanding person I’d known.
After I left town, I drove to a recruiter in the Army and enlisted active duty as an Infantryman. Writing letters was the hardest thing to do. When I put a pen to paper it opened up emotions inside of me that I had locked down to be able to do my job.
I only had one person who I longed to talk to, and that was Evelyn. Writing to her made me softer, more vulnerable. But at the same time, it was all that kept me going, to re-read the crumpled mud-stained letters, to remind me of what I was fighting for out there. I tore up the first few, but eventually, I kept writing them, even if I never had the guts to send them. Spelling had always been a problem for me, so I never used big words. The letters were brief, to the point, and I would end each one with a description of the environment at the time I was writing it.
I wrote about my feelings for her in each one, about how my love grew for her even though I left. When I started keeping them, my buddies fucked with me. I could see why though, I was pathetic. But, every time I lost a comrade, I’d write about it. When we killed someone, I wrote about it. I wrote about everything. Going back through the letters was therapeutic for me, and I sure as hell didn’t need Ma to find them.
I was fucked up, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
As the car engine hummed on the lone country road, I relished in the roaring of the cool wind that blasted through the windows and twirled my hair. Autumn in Violet Ridge was breathtaking. The leaves danced from their branches to the ground. There was a calmness, as if all the gold, berry-colored reds, and shades of browns that fluttered about were a cozy blanket draped over the town, bringing us the same sense of peace. I inhaled the aroma of the earth as country music blared through my speakers. I needed more Saturdays like that.
I switched my route so that I passed by Rockwell Farms. I knew Flynn was there, somewhere. I couldn’t help but drive-by. We had a magnetic pull towards each other. A pull I wasn’t sure I could shake, or if I wanted to.
My brows knitted together as I slowed my speed and pulled behind a rusty mammoth of a tractor that seemed to be broken down on the side of the road. A hunk of a man was cursing the tractor. I blinked as I took him in. Muscles rippled across every part of his body as he threw a fit, kicking the tractor. One last kick sent him falling to the ground, landing on his stomach. He beat the ground with a clenched fist as he laid there.
I gasped, unbuckling my seatbelt and getting out of the car before rushing to his aid. “Oh, heavens, are you alright?” My twang came through thick as I placed a hand on his bulging bicep that was stained with permanent ink.
His head lifted and a shade of platinum-colored eyes I’d dreamed about for years met mine. Thick, tousled honey brown hair reached just above his shoulders. I gaped. A prominent jaw with the perfect amount of stubble blessed his features and the strength of his neck showed in the twining cords of muscle that shaped his entire body. I noticed the glint of light that bounced off the dog tags he wore around his neck. His dark brows sloped downwards in a serious expression.
My eyes settled on a faint scar that started above and went through his lips. How did he get that?
Seconds passed before I processed him. I struggled to comprehend that he wasn’t the photograph I kept beside my bed or the one inside the locket that I wore around my neck, he was real. I couldn’t formulate a single thought. My hold on his arm tightened.
“Flynn?” His name left my lips packed with the heaviness I felt.
The static was present between us like it always had been. A crackling of electricity that pulled us together whenever we were within a certain distance of each other.
“Evelyn?” The longing in his eyes was replaced by a blank stare
