T. Bell

  Letters of Grace

  Copyright © 2023 by T. Bell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Parts of this book were originally published on Kindle Vella.

  Cover: Ya’ll That Graphic

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  To my husband, who will always be my definition of love.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by T. Bell

  Prologue

  Brooks,

  We were six the first time you asked me to marry you. I said yes in front of the whole first-grade class, and you gave me a Strawberry Ring Pop to seal the deal. I had some stipulations, though. One, you had to ask my dad, and two, our wedding would be on a rainy day. My mom has always loved romantic movies, so I blame her for all my ideas about love and marriage.

  You didn’t mind my antics. You just smiled that smile of yours—the one that makes my heart skip a few beats—and said I could have anything I wanted.

  I wonder if it’s always been that way—me setting stipulations and you readily agreeing to them.

  I hate thinking of it like that. It makes our life together sound one-sided. I hope you know I would have given you anything you asked. I wanted your dreams to come true too. You just never asked. So maybe it is more one-sided than I think, but I never wanted it to be. At six years old, I knew I would love you—even if I didn’t exactly understand what love meant at the time. I’m scared that I still don’t know what it means.

  When you asked my dad if you could marry me, I’d never seen a boy more determined than you. Most boys at that age would have been scared of him. To a six-year-old, he loomed as high as the sky. Even now, he is intimidating to most grown men. You didn’t let any of that dissuade you.

  Since that day, I’ve thought a lot about how you walked up to him without hesitation, and I wonder where that confident boy has gone now that you are a man. You seem lost, and I don’t know where to begin to help you find yourself again.

  I can picture the confidence you had walking as you strolled up to him, shoulders squared. I think every Southern boy learns to ask for a girl’s hand from birth, or maybe you saw it on television, like me, because you stood toe to toe with him and said, “Hey, Mister, I would like to marry Emryn on the playground. I even traded for a Ring Pop at lunch today so she can have a ring. It cost me my favorite rock, but she was worth it. Do you think that would be okay with you?”

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He looked down at this six-year-old boy standing before him, with shoulders squared, chin lifted in confidence, and a dimple on his cheek. Dad pursed his lips, letting the silence sit for a moment, and gave you his best answer. He told you that if you promised to protect my heart, he didn’t see any reason you couldn’t marry me since you were out your favorite rock and all. That memory makes me smile, but it also makes me sad. We haven’t done a good job of protecting each other’s hearts.

  A week later, the news station finally called for rain. I planned everything. I laid out my prettiest dress and handed out my hand-drawn invitations to my classmates. But—the next morning, there was not a cloud in sight. Tears made my eyes burn. That was my first real experience with disappointment. Despite my dismay, I put on my dress and said a quick prayer.

  Growing up, Dad read the bible to me every night, and I remember him saying something about asking and you shall receive. At the time, he said I didn’t quite understand when I asked if that meant I would get the dollhouse I wanted, but I figured it didn’t hurt to try with the rain. I got down on my knees and prayed with all my might. All I knew was I wanted rain, and God was the only one who could control the weather.

  Mom always said that rain on your wedding day is good luck. It rained on her wedding, and she and Dad have the perfect marriage. Maybe that’s where everything went wrong for us. Perhaps we should have waited for the rain that day.

  By the time recess rolled around, it still hadn’t rained. It was too late to cancel. The whole first-grade class had invitations. We were all meeting under the slide.

  You were already waiting for me there, a big grin on your face. It lifted my spirits a little, but you noticed my sadness. You used to always notice my sadness. When did that change? When did you stop seeing me?

  That day, as we stood on the playground, your brow scrunched in concentration as you studied my face and asked me what was wrong. I felt silly for being sad. I was probably the only girl in the world who wanted it to rain on their wedding day.

  When I told you I was sad about the rain, that grin spread further across your face as if my plight wasn’t a concern. You grabbed my hand and pulled me across the playground, yelling across your shoulder for the others to follow. We stopped on the other side by the fence.

  I didn’t understand what we were doing, but even at six years old, I knew I could trust you. I felt silly waiting for rain when there was not a cloud in sight, but the way you held my hand gently in yours, I would have stayed there forever.

  Then, suddenly, the sprinklers turned on across the fence, spraying water droplets over us.

  I shrieked as the first blast of water sprayed over me. My cheeks ached from the breadth of my smile as I watched the water arc across the fence and shower down on us. I turned back to you, and you were already staring at me. I knew that day that you would be something special to me for the rest of my life.

  People say that life occurs in different stages. I believe this is true for love as well. At any given second, we all have a different definition of love.

  My first definition of love was a strong-willed, confident little boy, a strawberry Ring Pop, and a sprinkler. It was simple, but all the best definitions of love are. As I’ve grown, my definition changed, growing more mature and complicated, but one part has always stayed the same: Brooks Montgomery, you have always been a part of every single one.

  Love,

  Emryn

  Chapter 1

  Emryn

  I’m a window. That sums up my current life experience.

  I. AM. A. WINDOW.

  You know that saying, “You make a better door than a window?” Well, I am the window.

  Unheard. Unseen. Looked through.

  That’s my current definition of love. I have been standing in my kitchen for the last ten minutes talking to my husband, only for him to look through me, failing to acknowledge my existence. He will deny having this conversation with me one week from today.

  “Brooks.” I twirl the edge of my hair, hoping he notices. I cut it a week ago, and he has yet to notice. I won’t point this out to him. It’s a drastic change. I cut off over eight inches. I need him to notice because if he doesn’t, I’m not sure what that means for our marriage.

  That seems silly, even to me, to think that eight inches could mean the end of a marriage, but it’s not just the hair. It’s everything about our relationship anymore. Our communication is minimal. We have it down to a science: I start a conversation, he ignores the conversation, and then one week later, he denies ever having it. I get angry for feeling unheard, and we start fighting.

  Lather, rinse, repeat.

  It’s a cycle of our marriage. One I never saw coming based upon all my other definitions of love I’ve had with this man.

  He’s morphed into someone I don’t recognize in the past six months—short-tempered, rarely home, and even when he is, he’s always on the phone. It’s like someone flipped a switch, and the man I knew is gone. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but that would mean he deems it fit to be active in our conversation—or at least acknowledge that I am in the same room.

  I want to scream and yell and throw things until he see

s me—really sees me. But what kind of example would that set for our three-year-old daughter? What kind of example are we setting anyway? I worry that she will look at our lifeless marriage one day and think this is normal. I’m afraid that we are going to be her definition of love.

  With that fear fresh in my mind, I try again—this time about something more mundane. Maybe if I can get him to look at me, he will notice how I feel like he’s slipping away faster than I can hold on.

  “Brooks, we need to talk about the schedule next week. I have some things coming up for the party, and you’ll have to pitch in a little more.”

  He doesn’t look up from his phone, mumbling some indiscernible agreement under his breath.

  I take a minute to stare at this stranger I’m married to. He’s handsome. He always has been. His light blue eyes are a shocking contrast to the dark eyelashes framing them. The scruff on his jaw does nothing to hide the strong jawline and muscle there. He runs one hand through his hair, rumpling it. He looks so much like my husband, but I haven’t seen the man I married in a long time.

  I can tell you the moment I let myself recognize that my marriage was failing. That seems strange to say, as it was such a random moment, one of no true significance, but I remember looking at the clock and thinking that sometimes the moments we perceive as insignificant turn out to be the ones that change our lives.

  It was 5:15 p.m., a time that used to be my favorite time of day. I used to rush to the door when I heard Brook’s truck pull into the driveway. I could never wait a second more than I had to to hear about his day and tell him about mine. He would sweep me up in his arms, and I would kiss him like he had been gone for days instead of hours.

  That day six months ago, I heard him pull into the drive, and instead of rushing to meet him, I felt annoyed. As a stay-at-home mom, I spent all day juggling our daughter’s needs, cleaning, and planning an anniversary party for my parents. I had just got off the phone with the printing company working on the invitations for my parent’s Ruby anniversary when Brooks walked into the kitchen. I couldn’t explain my annoyance until he walked in, not bothering to take off his boots. Dirt crumbled off them onto the floor from whatever construction site he had tromped on that day. He didn’t acknowledge the dirt or the clean floors he was dragging it across. He was tense and silent and matched my mood perfectly. I knew something was bothering him, but I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t bring myself to bring his burden on my shoulders too, so I let it go, at least for the moment. But – then the mood continued. He was snappy and rude. I hoped it was a bad day for both of us, but then it turned into a bad week. Now, it’s six months later, and our marriage has changed.

  I have gone through the motions of planning the anniversary celebration, numbed at the cold distance that has entered my own. There has been little desire to celebrate someone else’s marriage when I wonder if my marriage will even make it to the next year.

  I love the man, but our marriage is spiraling, and he won’t fight for it.

  “Brooks…” I whisper, trying to keep my voice from wavering. He glances through me. He hasn’t seen my pain in a long time. Maybe he has been lost in his own, but I’ve reached the point where I need to start swimming out of this darkness, with or without him.

  “Brooks…”

  His eyes stay glued to his phone.

  My chest burns. My lungs only get half breaths as I hold back the sobs I’ve swallowed for six months, maybe more, because if I’m honest, he stopped noticing me physically once Avery was born. His “good morning, beautiful” came less and less. I chalked it up to being exhausted first-time parents because I also stopped noticing him for a while. I was a new mom, breastfeeding and recovering from giving birth. I didn’t have the confidence to notice him. When I finally started feeling like myself again, our marriage felt off. Our once impenetrable relationship felt like it was one disaster away from crumbling.

  I thought I could save us, but now I’m not sure. I’m drowning. I have to get up to the surface, for me, but more than anything, for our daughter. I refuse to let this be her definition of love, not when I had the perfect one growing up.

  “Brooks Montgomery…” I yell, slamming my hand on the counter. The cold marble stings against my palm, but I welcome the pain. Being able to lose control, if only for a moment, is gratifying.

  This time, he looks up. His gaze misses mine by about an inch, but he still doesn’t put down that stupid phone. His eyes are cold and hard.

  “Is it necessary for you to yell? I’m sitting right here,” he asks. Anger and irritation leech into his voice.

  I close my eyes and count to ten to control my temper. We can’t keep living like this. If I don’t say this now, we both might drown, taking our daughter down with us.

  “Brooks, I need you to listen to me. Really listen, okay?”

  His eyes meet mine this time, softening, “I always listen to you.”

  “Brooks, just say okay, please.” My irritation flames at the lie that easily slipped off his tongue. Once upon a time, it was true, but now conversations happen while his head is buried in paperwork—or worse, a phone.

  He studies me, wariness creeping into eyes once filled with warmth and love. I cross my arms and straighten my back, unwilling to continue this conversation until I know I have his full attention for once.

  “Fine,” he says, setting his phone face down and tipping back his chair. He folds his arms across his chest, matching my stance. “Is that better?”

  I ignore the sarcasm and study him again—giving myself time to gather the courage to say what I need to. He continues to watch me, our gazes like a clash of swords against one another—and, while I’ve been yearning for his attention for months, now it feels like too much at once.

  “The past six months have been rough,” I say. “I know you feel it too. You’ve always been the guy I can count on to save me from drowning. You’re my best friend, but lately, I don’t see that man. I cut eight inches of my hair, Brooks. EIGHT INCHES. You didn’t even notice. You’re short-tempered, and even when you are here, you aren’t really here. I can’t keep living like this. It’s not fair to either of us, especially not to our daughter.”

  My breath is shaky as I pull it in. I’m not prepared for what I am about to say. Brooks’s brow rumples, bringing that steeliness back into his stare, but he remains quiet.

  “I don’t want this to be the end of our marriage. I want to fight, but I can’t do it alone. So – I’m giving you an ultimatum.

  “What do you mean an ultimatum? We are fine.”

  “We aren’t fine and haven’t been fine for a while. So, we either go see a counselor or—”

  “Or what? You’ll leave?” His tone is even and controlled. “We don’t need a counselor.”

  My voice breaks. I try to hold back, but if I don’t say it now, I never will.

  “Maybe I will. I don’t know. I just know I’m unhappy with how things are right now.”

  Silence floats between us. I hold my breath—waiting. I need him to beg me not to go, to tell me he can’t live without me.

  “Brooks,” I say, trying again. “We need counseling. Please, go with me.”

  Tears burn in my eyes, and I watch him swallow hard, trying to hold back his own, “I would like to think about it.”

  My breath comes in short spurts, sounding harsh in my ears, and pain rushes through my chest, causing my shoulders to curl around it. It didn’t hit me until now that his answer might be no.

  “Twenty-two years of knowing one another, five years of marriage, and a three-year-old daughter, and you need time to think about this?”

  My cheeks are hot as I consider the gall of this stranger before me. A deep-seated anger burrows its way into the edges of my heart. I’m so tired of feeling like roommates in our marriage.

  “Emryn, what do you want me to say? At the moment, I feel like you put a bomb in my lap that I don’t know what to do with, so yes, I would like some time to think.”

  “Fine. You have two days. After that, I will decide for you.”

  Brooks stares down at his phone screen. A vertical line appears between his brows.

  “Twenty-two years, and I get two days? That’s hardly enough time to make a decision this big.”

 

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