Page 109 of What Remains

We should be up soon. Just grabbing coffee.

My phone pings from another notification, and I switch over to Gwen’s name.

Gwen: Now that I’m done breaking the law, there’s something I was wondering if you’d read. But I don’t want you to do it in front of me, which is the real reason I asked for another cup of coffee. I wrote it after I unsent my OK text. Stay back there, will you?

There goes my heart rate again. Way to stress me out.

Gwen: Don’t worry, it’s not an essay. It’s also not encrypted. No decoding needed.

Her next text is a screenshot from her notes app. I rest my lower back to the counter and take a second to brace myself before I step into the inner workings of Gwen’s mind.

Dear Easton,

(That was supposed to be “Dear Diary,” or whatever the adult version of that is, which I’m still not sure exists. But I ended up typing your name, and I couldn’t bring myself to delete it. So I took that as a sign.)

Here goes . . .

I used to write notes to myself all the time. Little messages I didn’t want to forget. Like how I don’t think I’ve ever been loved before. (You know, outside family & friendship.)

My pulse stutters. I reread that line, like it might change the second time.

And then there are things I wish I could forget. Like when I gave myself over to people who didn’t deserve me. I was obviously working through some issues there.

I figured if I wrote everything down I felt guilty about, it would be like confessing to a priest. Maybe I’d feel lighter afterward. Forgiven. Or at the least, less heavy. (Side note: it never did, but I kept trying anyway.)

But my point—and yes, I actually have one—is this:

I’d like you to read the rest of my “Dear Diary” notes. The ones I typed over the years. And of course backed up, because that woman stole OG Jerry.

I’m hoping they’ll help you understand me better. Why I am the way I am.

Think about it. If you’re up for it, I’ll send them to you. And if you’re not, especially if you’re uncomfortable with the glimpse I already gave you here, I’ll understand.

Love,

Gwen

(your favorite often-over-caffeinated troublemaker)

I lower my phone and rest my hands on the counter, head bowed, like I need the solid edge of it to keep my feet under me.

After a long minute of losing an argument with myself, I straighten and type. Then delete. Type again. Delete. Until only one word survives.

Why?

I look up.

She’s standing there.

Her eyes don’t waver. Don’t soften. Don’t give me an out.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she whispers.

CHAPTER 37

Gwen

Something tightens low in my chest when Easton sets down his mobile. All that quiet strength is suddenly aimed at me. I expect him to dig for gum or make a joke, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me with those intense brown eyes. Like my words have landed somewhere neither of us was ready for.