raw and open. He’d watched me heal too. So he knew this wasn’t going to break me.
He opened his cut to retrieve something from an inner pocket. “You know the club better than anyone. Know that we’re all at peace with the fact we might die by the club. Sure as shit fight against it, considering all the things we’ve got to live for. But it’s not somethin’ we ignore. Not a responsibility we take lightly. We’ve got things in place. In case of the worst.”
I stared at the thing he was holding in his hands.
“He made me promise not to give this to you until you were living,” Gage continued, handing me an envelope. “Really living, not going through the motions like you have been for the past year.”
I stared at the envelope now laying in my palm. It didn’t weigh anything, but my palm ached from the mere act of holding it.
“I’m sure many of the women have already said something along the same lines as this, but moving on isn’t betrayal,” he explained, voice soft. “Living is the greatest gift you can give his memory.” He leaned in to gently kiss my head and then left.
I didn’t read the letter right away.
Maybe months ago I would’ve. I probably would’ve torn at the paper with a desperation to devour any words my husband had for me. Ranger had really thought this through. Giving it to me when the grief and death were so close to the surface, it wouldn’t have done anything.
So now that they were deeper, I was managing to breathe around it all. I set the letter on the counter while I opened a bottle of wine and poured it into a glass. I stared at it as I drank the first glass.
Then, with a steady hand, I opened it.
Lizzie.
Baby. You’re probably mad as fuck to be reading this right now. Maybe at me. Maybe at the club. Or maybe not at all. I can honestly say, even after us being married all these years, I can’t say what you’ll do. How you’ll react to my dying. I just know one thing that never changes. The way you love.
I’ve written many versions of this letter over the years. And every time I get to tear up the one that came before, I’m happy. Reminding myself what a lucky bastard I am to continue life with you.
Fuck. I’ve put you through a lot. The fact that I’m writing this knowing everything I’ve done to you and the fact you’re still sleeping in our bed, yeah, I’m lucky.
Not many women are strong enough to go through what we’ve gone through. I wasn’t strong enough half the time. But you carried us through.
You carried me through loss I didn’t know how to handle. You carried our children, your own pain. You made me feel like I was something. That my past didn’t define me. You saved me, baby.
I fucking hate to think there is any kind of possibility that you’re reading this. When we’re finally at a good place. The club is straight. The kids are growing. We’re stronger than ever.
I’ve broken my promise to you. If you’re reading this. I’ve broken the promise I made to grow old with you. I hate myself for it. Maybe if I was a fucking contractor, I wouldn’t have to write these letters every few years. You’d get what you wanted. What you deserved. But I’m not that. There’s no changing who or what I am.
I hate that I’ve left the kids. That I don’t get to do all the things a father should do.
There was a harsh mark in the paper. A smudge. Something to show that the mere thought of leaving his children had pained him. I took a painful breath and a large sip before I continued.
Fuck I hope I get to rip this letter up. As soon as I do, I’m coming home, gonna tuck in the kids, tell them how much I love them, then I’m going to spend the whole night worshipping you. Tasting you. Imprinting my utter fucking devotion to you on all of your skin.
But it’s because of that devotion that I’m writing this. I’d be a coward not to. To stick my head in the sand and try to forget the fact there is a chance you’ll have to go through this alone. And I know the club has your back. Those crazy fucking women have your back. I also know you’ll be