Maybe I’ll get lucky and I’ll come back as someone else.
If that happens, I hope you’ll be my sister in every life.
I can’t say it enough, but I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. Please.
And whatever you do, don’t let mom and dad dictate your life like they did mine. Live your dreams, not theirs.
—Graham
Tears swam in my eyes when Rowan put the note aside.
“Tate,” she said my name slowly, like it was a grenade she was afraid might detonate the moment the vibrations registered as sounds in my ear. She set the letter down and scooted closer to me, reaching for my hand, which I did not give her. “This doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with Jude.”
“It has everything to do with him!” My voice rose and my body with it—one second I was sitting and the next I was standing, glowering down at Rowan like she was the source of all my problems. “Read it again! You’ll see!” I pointed at the letter like it held the answers to everything, which to me it did.
“Tatum.”
I couldn’t stand to hear the sadness in her voice. I wanted to cover my ears like a child and start humming so I didn’t have to hear whatever she was going to say next.
“It sounds to me like,” she picked up the letter, scanning it once more, “Graham had more of a problem with your parents than with what happened with his girlfriend.”
“That’s not true,” my bottom lip quivered. “It’s there, read it again. You have to see it. I’m not crazy. This is Jude’s fault! It’s his fault! If he hadn’t fucked Kaitlin, Graham would be here right now! He wouldn’t have killed himself! Please, read it again!”
“Sweetie,” I flinched at the name. I didn’t want Rowan or anyone else calling me sweetie. It had such a condescending tone to it. “It sounds like that was a part of it, but in this letter he seems more pissed about your parents. Like they’re the source of his problems.”
“My parent’s are good people.” My voice was quiet, no more than a whisper.
“Good people do horrible things.” She bowed her head, her lips turning down in a frown. I knew she was thinking about how she kept her son a secret from Trenton.
I picked up the letter from where it had been left on the counter and flattened it against my chest.
“I think you should go now,” I whispered, unable to meet her gaze.
“I know you don’t care what I have to say, but you need to realize that your brother’s death is no one’s fault. Not yours. Not your parent’s. And certainly not Jude’s. He made his choice, Tate. Stop living in the past, it’s holding you back. You deserve to be happy and not…this,” she waved a hand at my morose expression.
She didn’t say anything more, just walked out of the kitchen and then out of the house. The sound of the front door closing felt like a slap to my face.
With a sigh, I looked towards the bowl of ice cream.
It was completely melted now.
Apparently today was not my day for sweets—or anything for that matter.
???
I felt his eyes on me before I saw him. It was like my body was always acutely aware anytime Jude was near. I didn’t like it one bit.
I looked up from where I pushed my lunch around on the tray.
“Mind if I sit?” He asked, reaching up to adjust the beanie he wore.
“Something tells me that if I say no you’re going to sit anyway.” I mumbled, not bothering to lift my eyes to look at him.
“That’s true,” he shrugged, dropping his backpack on the ground and sitting across from me. Rowan was suspiciously absent. Something told me they’d orchestrated this. In fact, I probably didn’t want to know how much those two talked about me. “What happened yesterday? I can’t figure it out. I’ve been racking my brain and I honestly don’t know what I did that could have anything to do with your brother’s death. His death was an accident. It was a freak thing and it had nothing to do with me.” His brown eyes pleaded with me to understand him as he looked at me through a veil of thick lashes.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I mumbled, glaring at my half-eaten food.
“Yes it was,” he sighed, clearly exasperated with me. He removed the beanie he wore, ran his fingers through his unruly brown hair, and replaced it. I think he just wanted to do something to busy himself. I’d been around Jude enough to know that he didn’t like to sit still. He was a doer.