Forever & Always: The Ever Trilogy (Book 1) by Jasinda Wilder Read Free Book Online

learned a lot at the arts camp, and I’m using it all in my photography. Maybe next letter I send you I’ll include a print of one of my photos. Daddy is thinking of making me a darkroom in the basement so I can do my own developing.
    I guess I’m not sure how to talk about your news about your mom. I’m so sorry that’s happening. I know “I’m sorry” or “that sucks” doesn’t really help, but I don’t know what else to write. I wouldn’t try to tell you it’ll be okay. When someone you love is hurt, or dying, or dies, it’s not okay. I know how you feel. I lost my mom, too. She was in a car accident. I think we talked about this at camp. I told you, and I don’t tell many people. But I feel like I can trust you. Maybe we understand each other, or something. Like, in some kind of way that words don’t really explain. I feel that way. And I know what you mean about these pen-pal letters being like a journal. I write them and send them knowing you’re going to read them, but I never feel embarrassed to write things that I wouldn’t tell anyone else.
    So I’ll tell you this: write me as much as you want. I’ll write you back every time. I promise. I’m your friend.  
    I’m sorry you’re going through this. No one should have to go through it, but you are, and you have a friend in me. You can talk to me about what you feel.  
    Be strong, Caden.
    Your friend for always,
    Ever

    I read Ever’s letter ten times before I finally folded it back up, slid it carefully into the envelope, and tucked the envelope—which smelled ever so slightly of perfume, like her—in the front of the shoebox that contained the others from her. There were six letters so far, one for every week that had passed since the end of the Interlochen summer arts camp. I picked up the lid to the box, which had once contained the very shoes I was wearing, a pair of Reebok cross-trainers. They were a year old now, and getting too small. I wasn’t sure why I had kept the box, but I had. It sat in the bottom of my closet, buried on the left side beneath an old hoodie and a ripped pair of jeans, until I had gotten the first letter from Ever Eliot and needed somewhere safe and private to keep the letter.  
    Now the blue box with the red Union Jack flag had six letters in it, and it sat under my bed.  
    I slid the box back under the frame of my bed and moved to my desk. Even though I had a laptop and there was a printer in the living room, I still wrote the letters by hand. I took a long time for each letter, because my handwriting was almost illegibly sloppy most of the time.  
    I sat staring down at the spiral-bound notebook for a long, long time, the pencil in my fingers, unable to summon the words. I blinked, took a deep breath, clicked the top of the mechanical pencil, and started writing.

    Ever,
    It feels stupid to write “dear” all the time. So I’ll leave that part off, I guess, unless I think of something else to put there.  
    I’m writing, but I’m not really sure how long this letter will be. Mom is in the hospital full-time now. She stopped the chemo, said no to the surgeries. I guess they said they could do a surgery and it had a 20% chance of working, and it was really dangerous. She said no. They already removed her breasts. She has no hair. She’s like a stick covered in paper now. She’s my mom, in her eyes, but she’s not. I don’t know how to put it.  
    Ever, I’m scared. I’m afraid of losing her, yeah, but I’m afraid for my dad. He’s losing his mind. I don’t mean that in an exaggeration. I mean it for real. He doesn’t leave her side, not even to eat. No one can, or even tries to make him leave.  
    Will it make me sound selfish if I say I’m afraid of losing him, too? It’s like as sick as Mom gets, he’s there with her. Going with her. But I’m only 15, and I need my parents. I know Mom is going to die, but does Dad have to go, too? He loves her so much, but what about me?
    I hate how