“And if you pay attention, sometimes you find them.”
I looked at her.
“Exactly.”
Later that evening, Brian and I sat at the kitchen table drinking tea.
The hole in the living-room wall was still visible from where we sat.
The couch was still pulled forward.
The letters rested on the counter.
“My grandmother hid money in these walls,” I said.
Brian nodded.
“My father hid letters.”
“Yes.”
“I wonder what else is here.”
He looked toward the opening.
“Do you want to find out?”
“Not tonight.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I looked at him.
“But next time we look together.”
“Together.”
“And if you find anything first?”
“I tell you.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
We sat quietly.
Then I remembered something else from Dad’s letter.
“He was right about you.”
Brian frowned.
“My father.”
“He never told you he liked me.”
“No.”
“But he wrote it.”
Brian waited.
“He said some people build things for the people they love because they’re not always good at saying the words.”
Brian looked toward the wall.
Then at me.
“That sounds familiar.”
“It does.”
I reached across the table.
“But you still have to say the words.”
He nodded.
Then he said them.
“I love you.”
No speech.
No performance.
