Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
The letter is folded safely in my backpack, which is tucked under the seat. I couldn’t bring myself to put it in the overhead bin. I got a window seat, and it felt too far away. If I couldn’t reach for it at all times, I thought I might go insane, and going insane on a four-hour flight from Atlanta to California just wasn’t an option I wanted to consider. If there had been turbulence, I might have turned into a hot mess anyway, but so far, the flight has been totally smooth. Just some ear popping when it took off and some snoring from the extremely old man next to me, but that’s it.
I’ve read and reread the letter enough times in the past twenty-four hours that I know every word by heart, but the letter is precious, just like the few things I have left of Jace.
He wrote those words. He touched that paper. He thought about dying and what would happen after. He thought about me and everything he wanted to do for me and wouldn’t be able to do. He wanted me to be safe, happy, loved. He wanted me to be protected, to find adventure, and to live with an open heart. He imagined all this for me—a golden kind of future—all while knowing that if I ever read the letter he was writing, it would mean he was gone and that he had no future, no love, no life, and no family of his own.
My nose starts to burn like I’m going to sneeze, which is always the first sign that I’m going to cry. And not just a regular cry but a massive ultra-ugly cry.
I make myself take shuddering and gasping breaths to try and keep it together.
It’s hard to get myself under control.
For one, I miss my brother like crazy. His letter opened up the box I’ve tried to cram and ram and jam all my grief into for the past year. And two, the letter was pure craziness, but here I am, less than twenty-four hours after getting it.
Let me start by saying I hated my job. So when I called in saying I needed a week for this one last mission and they were less than understanding, I quit on the spot. I would have given two weeks’ notice if I could have, but I just couldn’t. Jace didn’t put a timeline on it, but once I got his letter and read it, I knew I had to do this, and I had to do it now. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could just sleep on for two weeks or a month or six months and then decide to do it. I knew I’d talk myself out of it because this was just…just the most insane thing I’d ever done, but it was what my brother wanted.
The little old man next to me suddenly wakes up with a snort and a grunt that also sounds suspiciously like a simultaneous fart. He doesn’t seem to mind. He takes off his super huge round glasses and rubs at his soft, dark eyes with two fists. He’s thin. Rail thin. He looks about ninety, and he’s rocking a bright pink T-shirt, purple suspenders, and a set of jeans that look to be from the fifties. They probably are. He’s also wearing those hiking-style boots that everyone wears now because they’re so popular. The ones from Australia. No, I don’t have a pair. They might last forever, but they’re not in my budget.
He seems like the kind of guy who expresses himself through clothing. I think that’s awesome. I’ve never had the talent for it. I’m a regular button-up blouse and black skirt at work kind of a girl, and when I don’t have to adhere to semi-formal attire in the office, I can regularly be found in jeans and nondescript long-sleeved shirts or plain T-shirts. I at least choose the kind that has some shape to them, but as far as designs go, I don’t know. I’m just not very inventive. I like to be able to throw on clothes in under a minute, sweep my hair up, and be ready for the day. I hate standing in front of a mirror, trying to decide if something looks good. I’m never going to be one of those people who berate themselves for not being pretty enough, curvy enough, tall enough, or buxom enough. I went there as a teenager, and it sucked. I’m not going back.
“You’re heading to San Diego too?” This old guy is absolutely adorable when he grins and beams at me. The smile does wonders for his wrinkles. Old person wrinkly face smiles are the best. I don’t really understand people who don’t like seniors because I would way rather sit and talk to old people than talk to anyone my own age. It’s not an old soul thing. It’s more a dislike for pop culture and most things technology-related thing. Okay, maybe it’s an old soul thing.