Love, Utley (Love Letters #1)

I cried so much that first week.

Feeling anguish over losing the cousin I loved. Feeling terror over being in charge of a child’s life. Feeling selfish for not wanting the responsibility. Feeling the crushing weight of knowing I had no choice, and that I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Chelsea was too young to remember her mother, but we made sure to tell her stories and show her pictures as she grew up. I was always Aunt Hannah, and Mom was always Grandma to her.

And so, for the past decade, it’s been us. The rest of the family is gone, either from old age or from freak illness or accidents.

The family curse.

A sad smile pulls across my lips.

Chelsea started calling it that. And sometimes it does feel like a curse. Like we’re doomed to only have one another.

But that’s more than some people have. And I’d choose these two over anyone else.

“What are you thinking about?” Chelsea’s question has me raising my eyes.

“Hmm?”

“You’re smiling weird.”

“Oh, just thinking about… popcorn.” I lie, not wanting to tell her I’m thinking about the curse.

“Sure.” She rolls her eyes.

“I’d take some popcorn,” Mom chimes in, lifting her eyes to the clock on the wall. “And it’s my birthday in two hours, so I feel like someone else should make it.”

Chelsea quickly puts her finger to her nose, the universal sign for not it.

Making a scene of sighing loudly, I push out of my chair and head to the kitchen.

While the bag expands with popping noises in the microwave, I open the laptop I left on the counter and click through the tabs that I still have open, checking the status of each job application I submitted this week.

THIRTY-FOUR

MADDOX

Sweat beads across my forehead, and I close my eyes, focusing on the strain in my thighs.

Pretty eyes stare up at me.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying not to picture Hannah as blood pumps through my veins.

I thrust up, grunting with the motion.

I open my eyes and stare at my reflection as I step forward and rack the bar into place.

My music is blaring through the speakers of my home gym, the basement walls reverberating around me. But it’s still not enough to drown out the memory of Hannah’s voice.

I tried.

More than anything else, those two words have been on repeat in my brain.

I grab my towel off my shelf and swipe it across my face.

What the hell was she talking about?

What had she tried to do?