Scars of Yesterday (Sons of Templar MC #8) - Anne Malcom Page 0,136
alone. In our bed. At midnight. When you make coffee in the morning. When you watch the kids at the recitals and sports games you hate. You have to do all of that shit alone. It hurts my very soul. So I’m asking you to make sure that’s not forever. That you don’t sentence yourself to a life alone. Now this is hard as fuck for me think about let alone put on paper. I hate the thought of any other man near you. But what I hate more is you waking up alone every morning for the rest of your life.
I won’t let you do that.
If you’re reading this, then it’s time. Get your shit together, baby. Give someone the gift of your love. And know I died fighting, because I didn’t want to let go of it. Kiss our kids for me. Never let them forget how much I loved them.
The letter was in shreds at my feet before I realized exactly what was going on. My hands had worked of their own accord, ruining the words before I could try to preserve them. Wasting hours, poring over them. Losing myself in it.
I’d read the letter once. That’s all I needed. It wasn’t like I was about to forget a single fucking letter.
Slowly, purposefully, I walked to the sink. got a lighter out of our kitchen junk drawer and set the pieces on fire. Then I washed the ashes away.
Then I called Gwen to request an emergency girlfriend meeting.
Chapter 23
“Wait,” Gwen interrupted, holding up her hand. “They’ve all got letters?”
As I expected, every single woman in our circle had joined us.
I nodded. “Apparently they’ve all made some kind of deal.”
“A deal?” Amy repeated, rifling through her purse. My heart hurt for her. She’d had a letter from a dead love before. I was pretty sure she wasn’t too hot on the idea that there was a chance of reading another one in the future.
“So they’ve all been writing death letters like Nicholas mother effing Sparks?” Mia asked, though it was clear she didn’t need an answer. “Do they not realize this is not a romantic comedy and such letters are not at all cute?”
“That’s insane,” Bex snapped, her eyes narrowed, likely thinking of all the ways she was going to tell off her husband later.
“It’s kind of sweet,” Lily added quietly. Of course, the softest of all of us, found the romance in this, though she got more than a few eye rolls.
“Sweet my tight ass,” Amy muttered, snatching her phone from the table and pressing angrily at the buttons. She put it to her ear. “Hi, honey,” she said in a tone that Brock likely picked up as a warning. “Oh, no, I’m fine,” she said after a beat. “I’m just sitting here with all the gals, having cocktails, talking about the death letters you’ve written all of us.”
She paused, presumably while Brock tried to say something to make up for it. Making an excuse. “Oh, I don’t need you to try to bullshit your way out of this,” she stated, most likely interrupting what Brock had to say, if he’d even had time to say anything. “I just need you to know that I know about the letters. And I swear to fucking God, if I ever read one, I’ll take up necromancy in order to bring you back from the goddamn grave in order to accurately punish you for not only writing the letter but for dying in the first place.” She sipped her drink. “And if you haven’t figured it out already, you’re sleeping in the guest room tonight.” She hung up the phone.
“Was it a mistake telling you?” I asked, feeling very responsible for the tongue lashings that most of the Sons of Templar would be getting at various points throughout the day.
“No fucking way,” Amy huffed.
“What she said,” Gwen put in.
Mia nodded.
As did Bex.
Lily bit her lip with what I could only guess was unease.
Lauren had a relatively even look on her face compared to the rest of the women. Gage had given her a lot of darkness, all of his scars, so she probably wasn’t surprised by this. Wasn’t hurt by it.
“Are you okay, sweetie?” Ashley inquired, leaning forward to squeeze my hand.
“Yes,” I answered automatically and honestly.
Amy raised a brow. “I’ve gotten one of those mother fucking letters, so I call bullshit.”
I smiled sadly at her. At the morbid connection we’d share forever. Receiving letters from dead men.