Chapter 59
Bree Morgan, I love you.
:
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It’s scary, isn’t it? The fact that I’m so ready to just scream it from the top of my lungs. But it’s true. It’s not just some passing crush, it’s not some fleeting thought–it’s become my entire world, my entire life, my entire existence. I breathe for you. I live for you. My heart belongs to you in ways I didn’t think were possible.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Sure, I’ve had girlfriends. Sure, I’ve told them I loved them. I believed it in the moment. I thought I meant it. But what I feel for you? It doesn’t compare. Not even close. It’s like trying to compare a spark to the sun. They’re both light, but only one keeps the world alive.
And here’s the thing–I’m not afraid of how much I love you. Not really. What I’m afraid of is you not being ready for it. That maybe you’ll think I’m pushing too hard, or too fast, or that I’ll smother you with everything I feel. That you’ll see this letter and think, God, he’s too much. And I guess I am too much. But I don’t know how to be anything else when it comes to you.
Love is supposed to be about risk, right? About stripping yourself bare, offering your heart to someone, hoping they don’t crush it, hoping they choose to protect it instead. It’s about leaping without knowing if there’s a net. About going all in when the payout isn’t guaranteed. That’s what I’m doing here. That’s what you make me want to do.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: I love you. I love you so much it feels like it’s spilling out of my chest, too big to contain, too heavy to carry alone. Maybe it is obsession–hell, it probably is—but if being obsessed with you is wrong, then I’ll take every consequence that comes with it.
The way I grew up, with my family, with my dad’s expectations–you’ll see it all for yourself eventually–it was never supposed to be like this. I was supposed to find a trophy wife. That’s what my dad did. He found someone polished, beautiful in the way magazines tell you is beautiful, someone who didn’t have too many opinions, someone who looked perfect on his arm and gave him the legacy he thought he needed. I was supposed to follow that same path.
But Bree, I don’t want that. I don’t want perfect. I don’t want polished. I don’t want what’s expected.
I want you.
And yes, don’t get me wrong, you’re gorgeous. I’d be blind not to see it. Your blue eyes–God, they undo me. Sometimes they’re as clear as a summer sky, sometimes they’re dark and
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stormy, like the sea when the waves are about to break. I love your glasses. I don’t know why, but I do. They frame your face perfectly, make you look like every brilliant thought in your head is just waiting to be spoken. Your hair–don’t even get me started. It’s so soft, like it was made to slip through my fingers.
You’re by far the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen, and I don’t think you even know it.
But it’s not just that. Your looks are just the wrapper. The gift is what’s inside.
It’s the way you brighten every room you walk into, without even trying. It’s the way you pull people toward you, even when I’m seething with jealousy because I want to be the only one who gets that version of you. It’s the way you treat people with kindness, even when they
don’t deserve it.
It’s how your mind works. The way you notice the smallest details in the books you read, the way you can pull out a single line and use it to unravel the whole plot. The way you thirst for knowledge, the way you never stop pushing yourself to learn more, to grow more. The way you don’t quit, even when your body begs you to. The way you look at me and smile, like just having my hand in yours is enough to make your day. The way a stupid wink from me can make you blush and soften all at once.
It’s how you celebrate people–not just your own wins, but everyone else’s too. It’s how you give warmth without asking for anything back. It’s how you make people stronger just by believing in them. That’s who you are, Bree. That’s who I love.
And that’s why I don’t want a trophy wife. I don’t want perfect. I don’t want someone who looks good on paper. I want the girl who makes me jealous because she’s too magnetic, who drives me crazy because she’s too kind, who makes me ache because she’s too damn brilliant. I want you.
I want to come home from away games and find you in our kitchen, rolling your eyes at me while telling me stories about the chaos in your classroom. I want to see you stand at a podium, lecturing, watching you own the room while I sit in the back, grinning like an i***t because you’re mine. I want to be there when you publish for the first time, to see you hold that book in your hands and know all your hard work was worth it. I want to stress with you over edits and deadlines, I want to bring you coffee at two in the morning when you’re swearing at your computer.
I don’t want you to be my cheerleader, Bree. I want to be yours.
That’s how I know this is real. That’s how I know this won’t falter. Because even if you’re not ready yet, even if you need time to figure things out, I’ll be here. Waiting. Cheering. Loving you quietly if that’s what you need, loudly if you’ll let me.
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I see a future for us, Bree. One so bright it almost blinds me when I think about it. I see us celebrating each other, pushing each other, being proud of each other. I see us dancing in the kitchen, burning dinner, laughing until our stomachs hurt. I see Christmas mornings with your mom, summers where we visit your dad’s grave and tell him everything about our lives. I see late nights on a porch swing, the sun sinking low, the quiet settling around us while you lean
into me.
I see us fighting, too. Because we’re human. I see us snapping at each other over stupid things, but I also see us making up, because nothing–nothing–could ever matter enough to make me walk away. I see us building a life that’s messy and loud and imperfect, but it’s
ours.
Most of all, I see myself loving you for the rest of my life. Not perfectly, not always smoothly, not without mistakes–but fully. Completely. Endlessly.
You’re mine, Bree. Not because it’s easy, not because it’s convenient, but because I simply cannot help myself.
Yours forever,
Adonis.
**
Dear Gage, you don’t know it yet, but I’m done fighting us.
Yes–that’s right. I’m not going to push away whatever is between us anymore. I’m not going to test it, poke at it, or pretend it isn’t real. I’m going to stop barricading my heart and start opening the door instead. I’m going to let whatever this is breathe, grow, and surprise us.
The girls say you keep claiming me, and that I need to start claiming you back. So I made a plan. I’m going to court you. Old–school. Properly.
Savannah helped me pick out a dress–something she swears will make you swoon, something she says will make you go weak in the knees. At first I bristled; Savannah dresses louder than I do. But I think she found something that still feels like me and will make me feel good. She’s doing my hair, a little makeup, the whole thing. I’m doing it because I want to show you I can step into your world and still be myself.
You might not want a trophy wife. You might not want a parade of perfection at your side. And that’s okay. Because I don’t want that either–not really. I want to be the woman who stands beside you with purpose. I want to be the woman cheering from the sidelines, the one who walks into an event and makes you proud because she is strong and present and real.
I want to learn to cook well enough that you come home to something warm and thought–out
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after a long game. I want to learn the kind of dishes you actually love, the meals that anchor our nights. I want to sit through teadious study sessions with you, bring you coffee at two in the morning, hold your hand when the pressure mounts and everything feels like too much. I want to be handy at the small, ordinary things because those are the pieces that build a life.
But even more than being useful, I want us to grow together. Not to fit some mold other people designed for us, but to find what’s best for us. I will become the woman you deserve- not by erasing who I am, but by letting you help carry my baggage so I don’t have to shoulder it alone. I will learn to stop second–guessing every second we spend together. I will let myself bask in the glow of your love instead of worrying I’m not enough.
You’re the man for me, Gage. It’s ridiculous I hesitated. It’s ridiculous I kept holding back when everything in me wanted to reach for you. So this is me making up for lost time.
I will be there for you. I will be at your practices when I can, at your games when I can. I will be present during the boring, the stressful, the exhausting. If I can’t fix it, I’ll be the hands that hold you while you fight through it. I will cheer loud and proud. I will be your partner when things are messy, and your sanctuary when you need quiet.
This will be my last letter like this. After tonight, I won’t write these feelings down and send them across a page. I’m going to say them to your face. I’m going to look you in the eyes and be transparent and strong and honest–not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. I don’t want our life to be lived on paper. I want it lived between us, in the small moments and the big ones, in the way we touch and talk and forgive.
I will love you even on the days I want to rip your head off for leaving your socks on the floor. I will love you through the late nights, the long practices, the times I’m exhausted from teaching and you’re exhausted from everything else. I will love you through crying babies and midnight feedings if that’s our future; through the mess of parenting and the ache of sending them out into the world. I will love you on the days when we argue and on the mornings we make up with coffee and bruised laughter.
You’ve been my rescue in ways I didn’t know I needed–the tall, ridiculous man who once asked me if I liked cheese and somehow made me feel ridiculous and cherished at the same time. You will always be that: the man I wanted to better myself for, the one I want to be enough for. I am done underestimating what this could be. I am done wondering if I deserve
you.
So I’m starting to show it. Not in a letter. In messy, loud, ordinary life. In the kitchen when I burn the dinner and we laugh about it. In the quiet when I’ve had a bad day and you know exactly what to say. In the way I will stand beside you, proud and unafraid.
You are my person. I will love you until my last breath, and beyond, if anyone can say such a thing. If I ever sound doubtful, remind me. Because I mean this in the center of me: you are it.
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You are my choice.
Yours until the end of time,
Bree.
