Let me first say, I love you. You’re my first love and you’re my best love. Yes, I understand that these letters might seem a bit morbid, but carpe diem, right? I asked Bentley to have you open these the night of the funeral therefore I know you have probably waited a day or two.

“Or seven,” I muttered and couldn’t help but smile a little as I read the next line.

Or seven. But I felt like we have so much left unfinished. So much we haven’t been able to do. I’m sorry I won’t be there at your graduation. I’m sorry I won’t be able to get extremely trashed with you when you turn twenty-one. I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it to your first book signing. I’m so, so sorry that I won’t be there to hug you after your next heartbreak or be your maid of honor at your over-the-top wedding.

But I need you to do something for me, Ash. I need you to stop blaming yourself. Right now! Stop it! I need you to at some point start moving on. I’m the one who died, not you. Remember? So, listed on the next page is your bucket list. Yup, I made your bucket list because I knew you never would. Each time you complete an action, I have a letter for you to open—as if I’m right there beside you.

So, get to reading the list. NEVER open a letter until after you’ve completed the task. And for God’s sake, take a shower, brush your hair, and put on some makeup. You look terrible. Kind of like a hybrid love child of the Devil and Big Bird.

I’m sorry about all the tears, and I’m sorry you feel so lost and alone. But trust me…

You’re doing great, kid.

-Gabrielle

I moved to the second piece of paper and stared at my ‘bucket list.’ I wasn’t surprised at how accurate the list was with some of the things we used to talk to each other about doing. Sky diving, read the complete works of Shakespeare, fall in love, publish a novel and have an awesome book signing with cupcakes, have twins, date the wrong guy, get into University of Southern California. Those were just some of the things I’d dreamed of doing. But then other items on the list were a little more Gabby than they were me.

Forgive Henry, cry because you’re happy and laugh because you’re sad, get drunk and dance on a bar, give Bentley his promise ring back, take care of Mom, recreate the infamous scene from Titanic.

The front door of the apartment crept open, and I saw Mom standing in the living room, pacing back and forth. I placed the letters back into the box and closed it. Moving out of the bedroom, I stood before her, and she stared at me for the longest time. Tears filled her eyes, and her mouth parted as if she wanted to say something to me, but nothing came out. Her shoulders rose and fell, leaving nothing but quietness.

She looked so broken, worn out, shattered.

“I’m leaving for Henry’s tomorrow,” I said, shifting my feet around on the carpeted floor. For a brief moment, Mom began to shiver. I thought about taking the words back and staying put in the apartment. But before I could offer that up, she spoke.

“That’s good, Ashlyn. Do you need Jeremy to drive you to the train station?”

My head shook back and forth. My heart pounded against my chest as my fingers formed tight fists. “No. I’ll figure it out. And just so you know, I’m not coming back.” My voice cracked, but I bit back the tears. “Never. I hate you for leaving me when I needed you the most. And I’ll never forgive you.”

She glanced to the floor, her posture falling low. She then looked up at me one more time before moving back toward the front door. “Have a safe trip.”

And with that, she left me standing, once again, alone.

Chapter 2

Always remember our first glance,

And I’ll promise your heart that I’ll be enough.

~ Romeo’s Quest

The next day came fast. I was sitting outside of a train station on top of a large suitcase. I’d never been on a train before today, and it had been quite the experience.

Three things I’d learned about trains: One, sometimes strangers sit next to you and snore and slobber, but you had to act like it was normal; two, a can of soda would cost you more than buying a herd of cows; three, the train collectors looked exactly like the guy in the movie Polar Express—minus the whole computer-animated character thing.

Trains always seemed cooler in the movies and in books, but really, they were just cars that ran on tracks. Which made sense, seeing how they called each link of a train a ‘car.’ Well, almost each one. The front one was called the locomotive and the last one was called the caboose.

A smile ran across my face as I thought about the word caboose. Say that five times without giggling.

Caboose.

Caboose.

Caboose.

Caboose.

Gabby.

Oh no. I was laughing out loud and crying at the same time. All roads led back to my sister. The people walking past me probably thought I was crazy because I was laughing so hard by myself. To scale off the crazy looks, I pulled out a book from my purse and opened it up. People could be so judgmental sometimes.

I tossed my purse back on my shoulder and sighed. I hated purses, but Gabby had loved them. She’d loved everything about dressing up and being pretty. She’d been super good at it, too. Me? Not so much, but she’d said that I was beautiful, so that counted for something.

You know what the best thing about purses was? They could carry around books. I was reading Hamlet for the fifth time in the past three weeks. Last night, I stopped at the part where Hamlet wrote Ophelia telling her to doubt everything she saw except for his love. But the silly girl still went on to kill herself later in the story. The curse of being in a Shakespearean tragedy.

As I was reading, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man pulling his luggage out of the train station. He proceeded to lean the luggage against the side of the building. It was strange to call him a man because he wasn’t that old. But he was too grown to be called a boy. There needed to be a word for the in-between years. Maybe moy? Ban? Banmoy?

This banmoy had also been in my car—car being our link of the train—and I’d noticed him right away. How could I not? It wasn’t often that I found someone beautiful, but he was the top of the line. His hair was long—too long. At least that’s what I thought until he ran his fingers through the dark brown hair and it lay perfectly on his head.

Total blushing from me.

On the trip to Wisconsin, he’d sat two seats behind me. When I’d gone to the bathroom, I saw him tapping his fingers against his thighs in a rhythmic pattern, and his head was rocking back and forth. Maybe he was a musician. Gabby had always been tapping her feet and rocking her head.