She finally felt up to unpacking her bag from the hospital. Even with Amanda and Jax bringing home her extra clothes and flowers ahead of time, she still had a bunch of odds and ends to deal with. She dumped the bag on her bed and sat beside the small pile. She had to shift around to find a comfortable position, reminding herself she was healing and her body would ache less eventually. She tossed the nonslip socks and piled the many get-well cards off to the side. She’d have to go through them again later once she was more comfortable. Her phone buzzed. Gretchen sighed at the message from Amanda.

Checking in.

For a split second, she considered not answering. But that wouldn’t be nice. Funny? Yes. She typed out a quick message, assuring Amanda she was fine, and she put the phone back on the bed. The corner of the letter from Jax she had found in the hospital caught her eye. She shouldn’t read it again—she already knew every word. She didn’t even know if Jax was aware the letter was lost. If she didn’t know, then maybe Jax really had stopped caring.

Gretchen went to her closet in search of the tattered craft box she kept her own letters in. The top shelf was stuffed with pillows and extra comforters, and the bottom was lined with shoeboxes and boots. The box was gone, but where? She couldn’t have thrown away over fifteen years of love notes from Jax. Or could she? She couldn’t have four years ago, but with everything that had happened since, anything was possible.

The thought of discarding such beautiful words was overwhelming in the worst way. Jax had declared so much, shared many confessions, and written endless sweet nothings. Gretchen refused to accept such a possibility. She went to her other closet and searched high and low. She didn’t care about the pain in her ribs or the way her neck ached when she held her head a certain way. Not even the throbbing in her skull mattered. She was on a mission that took precedence over the rest of her meaningless daily tasks.

She spent ten minutes feeling like an alien in her own wardrobe before thinking to check upstairs. She rushed up the steps and paused at the top, winded. She held her aching side and breathed carefully. Three doors were closed. She knew one was the guest bedroom Jax was staying in, and the other her studio. The first door on the right was the bedroom. Gretchen almost let herself in. The desire to snoop through Jax’s stuff was powerful, but she wouldn’t be that person. She closed that door quietly and moved on to the next across the hall.

The room was nearly empty save for a drafting table and a bunch of boxes piled in the corner. She noticed a few easels sticking out from one box. She always poked fun at how Jax had collected a family of easels. The memory made her sad, so she kept searching. She checked the small closet, which was completely empty. Relief washed over her once she stepped out of that room and shut the door. Seeing such a stark, physical representation of Jax leaving her life made Gretchen’s chest tighten. She needed to remain calm and find the craft box. If she still had those letters, that meant she hadn’t given up on Jax completely.