“That sucks, BeeBee. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” I stare down at my hands. And that’s when I realize I’ve been clutching this envelope ever since Kate shoved it at me and blasted her way in. My heart takes off at a gallop as I read the single word scrawled across it:

Beatrice.

“What is it?” Kate asks.

“This envelope . . . That’s Jamie’s handwriting.”

She leans my way. “Well, don’t just stare at it. Read it.”

“Can you give me a smidge of space?”

“Sure.” She steps back. “My bad. My suitcase and I will just wander over to the couch and mind our own business.”

“Thanks.”

I stare at his handwriting. Then I tear open the envelope and stare some more. Letters neat as always, a bit jagged at the edges. A tear slips down my cheek as I read.

Bea,

It’s taken me too many days to realize what you were asking wasn’t easy for you to ask, but it was necessary to care for someone you love. What you asked for hurt, but just because something hurts doesn’t mean it’s wrong—it just means it’s hard. What I should have said was that while it was going to hurt to wait, I understood.

That’s a lot of words for what I’ve meant to say since I started writing this, so I’ll say it now: I love you and I’ll wait for you. However long it takes.

Always yours,

Jamie

“Okay over there?” Kate calls.

I clutch the note to my chest and ugly cry. “No.”

Groaning, Kate pushes off the couch, then sidles up next to me, giving me stiff pats on my back that I think are supposed to be comforting before she pries the note from my hands.

“Be careful with it!”

“Cool your tits. Just let me see what he has to say for himself.” Her eyes scan it quickly. “Damn. The dude can pen a letter. Short, sweet, and swoony.”

I take back the note and wipe away the tears streaking my cheeks. “Yeah. And I have no idea what to do.”

Kate gently squeezes my shoulder. “BeeBee. It’ll work out.”

“How?”

“Hey,” Jules says. She shuts her bedroom door behind her and rolls a suitcase down the hallway in her wake.

I stare at my sister, who is looking much more like her old self than she has in weeks—dark hair lying in soft waves, the shadows under her eyes hidden with concealer. She wears a royal-blue dress that makes her eyes pop and her favorite black high heels. She looks ready to take on the world. Which makes no sense, seeing as she was in the fetal position, sobbing in my arms last night.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

Her expression is as close as she’s come to a smile in weeks. “On a trip.”

Kate seems surprisingly unsurprised.