The letter sits on their dresser for weeks, the pale grey envelope with her name on it in Gail's messy handwriting propped up against the picture of them from Christmas a year or two ago.
They're sitting in the big armchair at the Peck's house—well, she's sitting in the big armchair. Gail's sitting on the arm, halfway to sliding into her lap. She did, Holly remembers, just after the picture was taken. Full of Bill's potent egg nog and warm from the fire just behind them, she'd cuddled right into Holly in the chair, not caring a bit what anyone else would think.
It's one of the few times Gail seemed completely free, completely unburdened by the world. Content to sit in Holly's lap and watch while everyone opened presents, while Holly opened theirs.
They were warm and happy and completely in love. And that's what Holly wants to remember the most.
Even now.
Even when it hurts.
Dear Holly,
I'm sorry.
I promised you I'd always come home and if you're reading this, I lied.
I didn't mean to, truly. If it was up to me, I'd come home to you forever. You should know that.
If I have a choice, Hols, I'll always pick you.
Holly doesn't remember much about the funeral.
Rows of dress uniforms, yes.
Flags and white gloves and a final salute.
The dark wood of the coffin, the drizzle of rain.
But beyond that, her memory is hazy. People spoke. People hugged her. People introduced themselves to her and spoke to her. People cried.
Holly didn't, that much she can remember. By the time the day of the funeral arrived she'd had no more tears to cry.
The after, that she remembers more clearly.
Riding back to the Peck house with Elaine and Bill and Steve. Sitting silently in living room with a cold cup of tea that someone had given her. Listening to people share memories of Gail as a child, as a teenager, as a rookie. Hearing stories Gail never would have told her.
Someone asked her how she was doing, and she parrotted the same response she'd been giving for days.
She was surviving.
There was nothing more to say.
Eventually she dozed off, the plush armchair and the warm fire lulling her into a false sense of safety, of security.
And then someone, Steve probably, carried up her up into Gail's old childhood bedroom and tucked under the covers, the faintest smell of Gail still on the pillows. And the last thing she remembers of the most terrible day in her life is a gentle hand on her cheek, soft and sorry. Elaine.
I guess something went wrong. I hope it wasn't me. I hope I did what was right. I hope that I didn't screw-up, didn't give anyone a reason to be disappointed in me.
That's the thing, Holly. I've screwed up so much in my life. I've disappointed everyone I know at one point or another. I'm writing this and thinking of all the mistakes I've made, all the things I've done wrong, and you know what I keep coming back to, over and over again?
You.
You are the best thing in my life, Holly. And even when I've screwed up, even when I've walked away, you've always forgiven me for the things I've done.
I hope you can forgive me for this.
She doesn't sleep in their bed. Not for days.
She sleeps on the couch instead, curled up under a quilt, while someone else watches from the chair.
Lisa, Rachel, Traci, Steve, Oliver, she's surrounded the first couple of days. Kept company by people who have no idea what to say, no idea what to do. Who sit in silence and in grief and look at her with sorrow in their eyes.
Traci is the only one Holly can stand to be around. Because she was the only one who has any idea of what Holly is feeling, what Holly is going through.
Eventually, Holly shoos them all out; all but Traci.
She asks the other woman what it will be like, this grief. She asks her if it will ever go away, ever get better.
She asks Traci even though she knows the answer already.
It won't.
It doesn't.
The worst part, Traci had tells her, is the forgetting. Forgetting that the person they love is gone. Waking up and wondering why the other side of the bed is cold. Dialing the number and hearing the operator's message at the other end. Wanting to share exciting news and realizing you have no one to tell.
This is just the beginning, Holly knows. From now on she'll be measuring time as how many years since.
It's been four days since, and the future stretches out, long and empty, in front of her.
But I hope you can forgive me for not kissing you again in that coat closet too. For not realizing what I was feeling when we went out to the batting cages. For not calling you like I wanted before you ended up on a date at the Penny.
I hope you can forgive me for all the time I wasted. Because I wasted so much, Holly. We could have had so much more but I was stupid and I was stubborn and I didn't understand how I could feel so much for someone I'd just met.
You are the person I spent my whole life waiting to love, Holly, and I hope you can eventually forgive me for not being around to show you.
She always thought that if this day came, it'd be Oliver who came for her.
It isn't.
When the day comes, it's Steve who stands at the door of the lab, his voice somber and hollow.
She knows before he said a word, knows that there is no hope.
Knows that Gail is gone.
Still, she needs to hear it, needs to hear the words from Gail's big brother's lips.
The words will haunt her for years to come.
She doesn't bother to deny it, doesn't bother to insist that they'd got it wrong, that they'd screwed up somehow. Doesn't bother trying to believe that Gail would walk in at any moment and ask her what was wrong.
She drops her scalpel, her hands are shaking so violently, and waits for them to steady before picking it up again. Even at her worst, she has a job to do.
It's not until her assistant touches her wrists, and takes away her instruments, that she realizes she's not steady at all. Her whole body's just joined in.
It's not until Steve's wrapped her up in his arms, until she can feel the wet fabric of his shirt, that she realizes she's crying.
It's late, and you're asleep next to me in bed. And I'm trying to remember everything about this moment, about you. Because right now, in this moment, I know I'm happy. And that's why I have to write this now. Because I'm happy and I want you to know that it's because of you. Because you're snoring just a little bit and you keep kicking my leg with your cold toes, but I know that if I slide down to lay next to you, you'll wrap your arms around me and hold me close.
I should stop now, though, because if I keep writing I'll get tears on the paper and I want you to remember that I was happy when I wrote this. I want you to remember that I was always happy when I was with you, that you made me so happy.
More than happy, Hols, you made me whole. Every piece of me that someone else took away, every scar that someone else left, you filled with your love. You made me a whole person and I hope—God, Hol, I hope—that somehow I made you feel the same.
She can taste herself on Gail's tongue, on Gail's lips. Her lover kisses her deeply, her face still wet with Holly's warm cum, and Holly's muscles twist and flop with renewed arousal. She wants to do the same for Gail, bring Gail to the same heights she's just been taken to.
She wants to feel Gail's hand in her hair and Gail's clit between her lips, wants to feel Gail thrust her hips up into the feeling of being filled, so filled, as Holly thrusts into her.
She wants to hear Gail's breath get faster and her voice get higher, wants to hear her girlfriend, her love, shout her pleasure to the roottops.
Holly wants to mark her with her love, to give her something to remember as the slow hours of the day tick and tock away.
But instead, Gail rises from their bed—work beckons.
And it's okay, Holly tells her.
They've got tonight.
They've got tomorrow.
They've got the rest of their goddamned lives.
Be happy. And be loved. This is what I want for you. Even if it's without me, this is what I want for you.
I love you, Holly Stewart. You made my life better, and you made me better. And I'm so, so sorry that I broke my word.
I'm so sorry, baby.
I love you.
Gail