Keeping London (The Flawed Heart Series Book 2) (24 page)

From: London Wright

Subject: I’m sorry.

Loïc,

I don’t know what you’re going through. But I know how much I’m hurting, and I can only imagine that you’re hurting more. I wish I could take away your pain. I wish I could change things. But I can’t.

I can be here for you and love you. I can promise you that we can get through this.

Please call me. I’m so worried about you.

I love you so much.

Love,

London

Loïc

London

To: Loïc Berkeley

From: London Wright

Subject: Love

Loïc,

I know I’m probably not saying the right words. I admit that I don’t know what to say to ease some of your pain, if that is even possible. But I do know that I love you. While I might not do or say the correct things, I can love you with everything I am.

Love has the power to heal. I know it does.

I know it won’t be tomorrow, next month, or maybe not even next year, but I will love you through all the pain until you’re able to feel okay. I understand that you will always mourn Cooper, but someday, you’ll be able to look back at the good times that you shared. Maybe, someday, every memory you have of him won’t be tainted with sadness. Just maybe?

Please call me.

I love you so much.

Love,

London

Loïc

London

To: Loïc Berkeley

From: London Wright

Subject: Are you okay?

Loïc,

Are you okay? I mean, I know you’re not okay, but you know what I mean.

Where are you? What’s going through your mind? Please share your thoughts with me…whatever they are.

I’m sorry if I’m being selfish, but I need to hear from you. Anything. I’m going crazy, not knowing how you are. I’m terrified of you mourning the loss of Cooper over there by yourself.

Why aren’t they sending you home? You can’t possibly think clearly on missions with everything that’s happened. Don’t they understand that?

I get that what you’re going through is way worse than what I am feeling. But I love you, and I’m worried sick about you. Maggie hasn’t heard from you, and I don’t know who else to check with.

Please don’t shut me out. Please let me help you.

Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.

I love you, Loïc Berkeley, and nothing will ever change that.

Love,

London

Loïc

London

“I have to focus on what I can control because nothing is more depressing than trying to change what I can’t.”

—London Wright

To: Loïc Berkeley

From: London Wright

Subject: Funeral

Loïc,

The funeral’s tomorrow. Are they going to let you come home for it? Hopefully, you are already on your way. God, I hope so.

I need to see you. I don’t know what else to say besides I love you.

I. Love. You.

Always. Always. Always.

Love,

London

Sitting on the padded bench in the bay window of my bedroom, I close my laptop.

I’m not good at this, this military life.
How do wives and girlfriends handle the stress of it all—the worry, the not knowing, the sadness, the anxiety…the despair?
It’s all too much. It’s suffocating. I can’t function.

The days since Cooper’s death have dragged on, each one an eternity in itself. I know I have to mourn Cooper, but I’m drowning in my worry for Loïc.

I just feel…lost.

I’ve always been successful at things in life that I’ve truly wanted. Yet, more than anything I’ve ever needed, I want to be able to navigate my days with grace instead of despair. But, no matter how much I try to find the strength, it’s out of my reach every time.

No amount of money can buy feelings. But, if I could, I would cash in my entire trust fund for an ounce of peace. The lack of it is driving me crazy.

Leaning my head against the window, I watch as the wind whips frozen flurries around. The snowflakes travel in a frigid dance through the air. It’s captivating and hauntingly sad. They’re caught in the gusts of the bitter wind, unable to fall to the earth even if they wanted to.

Maybe, on another day, I would have found the swirls of white beautiful. But, today, all I see are flakes that are forced into a frenzy of movement, being denied the peace of the padded ground.

Soft knocks sound on my door before it opens gently.

“Hey,” Paige says quietly.

Lifting my face from the window, I look to her. “Hey.”

“I’m assuming no news?” She looks to me with pity.

“No.” I shake my head. “I just wrote him again but still nothing from his end.”

“He’ll come around. Who knows what happens over there after a death? Maybe he doesn’t have access to his laptop right now.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say with little conviction.

Her face perks up, and she sings, “
The sun will come out
—”

“No.” I adamantly shake my head. I am not in the mood for a reenactment from the movie
Annie
.

“
Tomorrow
…” she belts out.

“Stop, Paige. I’m serious,” I warn.

“
Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun
.” She sashays toward me and grabs my hands, pulling me off of the bench.

Before I know it, I’m part of this freak show as we both sing out from the tops of our lungs, “
When I’m stuck with a day that’s gray and lonely…
”

I hold my hands out to my sides, as if I were a Broadway performer, “
I just stick up my chin and grin and say, oh…the sun will come out tomorrow…
”

Paige and I dance around my room in our two-woman show, shrieking like a couple of dying cats in our personal Broadway performance of one of our favorite songs.

We pose and extend our jazz hands as we belt out as loud as we can the final note in a key that hasn’t been invented yet.

I finally have to let the last note die when I need to stop to take a breath. I turn to Paige, both of us red in the face and sporting gigantic grins. My smile drops as the plump tears begin streaming down my face. Paige pulls me into her arms, and the two of us stand in my room while I cry.

I don’t know how long I cry, but Paige’s shirt is covered in tears and snot when I finally pull away and wipe my face with the arm of my shirt.

“Feel better?” she asks as she rubs the sides of my arms with her hands.

I nod my head.

“Good. You know what they say.
Sometimes, you just need to participate in a grand Broadway performance before having a good cry
.”

“No one says that.” I chuckle.

“I do.” She shrugs. “Let’s go get some dinner. I’m starving.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I agree.

Paige leaves my room, and I look longingly at my laptop. I’ve been obsessively checking it ever since I got the call from Maggie. It’s only been a half hour or so since I sent my last message, so I know there wouldn’t be an email from Loïc anyway. For whatever reason, he’s not ready to communicate yet, and I have to accept that.

Using all of my willpower, I walk away from the laptop and into my bathroom to wash my tear-streaked face. I remind myself that I’ll have my phone to check for emails.

He’ll write or call when he’s ready. I can’t dictate his behavior, but I can change mine. I need to change mine. Living in a vacuum of misery while compulsively refreshing my inbox isn’t healthy.

I might not be able to erase the worry altogether, but I can lessen it. I can join the land of the living. I can take showers, leave the house, and go to dinner with my best friend. I have to focus on what I can control because nothing is more depressing than trying to change what I can’t.

Paige is right. I guess all I needed was a cheeky performance and a good cry.