Page 82 of The Lucky One

I laughed out loud. We hadn’t even kissed, and I was pretending like we’d been dating.

I switched on the lamp and reached into the drawer for Jon’s letter. Whatever he had to say, I was ready to hear it.

Dear Kiki,

So, I guess if you’re reading this, it means you’re ready to move on, and honestly, I’m happy about that. Looking back, it’s clear I could’ve been a better boyfriend to you. I still vividly remember the challenge of sneaking into your room up the tree because I couldn’t walk through the main door. Not your fault, but being around you sometimes made me feel like I wasn’t measuring up. You deserve someone who seamlessly fits into your life, someone who gets along with your parents and helps you study because he’s just as smart and determined as you. I should’ve stayed away the moment I realized we wouldn’t have a future. But there was still... you. I did fall for you, Kiki. I really did. You and your kindness, your beauty, your incredible brain. So, against my better judgment, I tried to be what you wanted me to be.

The cliché “it’s not you, it’s me” is fucking lame, but in my case it holds true. I didn’t change for Emily because she was “better” than you; it’s that she’s different, you know? She doesn’t have all those obligations to fulfill. I’m a bad influence on her, but I’m not standing between her and a bright future. Whenever I push her away she challenges me, sees the truth behind my pushing because she’s hurting too. So no, she isn’t better than you, I think she’s just better suited for who I need to become. I feel less broken with her because she doesn’t have all her shit together either.

Reflecting on it now, I realize I couldn’t fully be myself around you. I couldn’t share my struggles, laugh freely, cry. I know how I came at you in the school hallway was wrong. I did intend to play it safe, I admit it. I mean, how much could go wrong in a few minutes, right? I fucked up again. Believe me when I say that I will regret not treating you the way you deserve for the rest of my life.

When I started writing this letter I didn’t want to tell you this, but fuck it. The reason why I sometimes vanished out of your life is your parents. They bribed me, Kiki. And as disgusting as it was, I let them... I would’ve done anything to replenish my stash. You definitely don’t deserve that. Not from them and not from me either.

I understand if you feel resentment, and I accept that. My sincere hope is that one day, you can open your heart to someone who uplifts you and celebrates your successes, someone who’s secure in themselves.

But what am I saying? You’re Kiki Moore. You will find your happiness again.

Thanks for the ride,

Jon

I reread the letter a few times before putting it back in its envelope and into the drawer.

And then I cried.

Not because I was sad—but because I was angry for believing all those years that I was the problem. It wasn’t me at all: it was my parents.

For once in my life, I gave myself the time to weep for as long as I actually needed it.

Running Late

Emily

Three years ago...

“Where’s Richard?” I asked, looking left and right.

“Working late, lovely.” Mama passed me a pan of roasted potatoes and a plate of over-easy eggs. I walked them over to the table, which Lucas had just finished setting.

“It smells amazing,” he said, nabbing an extra-crispy potato from the pan.

“Stop it!” I protested. He always stole the crunchiest pieces before we started eating.

He smirked and dived into the pan again, licking his fingers after. I scrunched my nose at him, and he ruffled his nasty fingers in my hair.

“Lucas! I just curled my hair and now you’re making it all greasy!”

“Take a shower then.” He laughed.

“Lucas, stop bothering your sister,” Mama said, and we all sat down to eat. Mama only filled half her plate. She always ate less than we did, saying that cooking made her less hungry. But I thought it had something to do with the time when we were poor: she got used to eating less so there was more for us.

Lucas started talking about this girl he really likes. “Does she go to the same school?” Mama asked, and he said, “Something like that.”

Uh-huh. He came home late last night, waking me up with a greasy sandwich and wanting to watch How I Met Your Mother at four in the morning. He had met the girl at a bar.

“Right, we’ll talk about that later.” Mama wagged a warning finger at him. “What about you, lovely? How was your day?”

She always did that: encourage me to talk. I used to like it, but now it was getting on my nerves—like, if I wanted to discuss how much it sucked with the people at school, I would.