As a writer, you always worry about accidentally committing such an act. You fear that one of the lines you write might actually not be your own, that perhaps you’ve read it somewhere else and it sank in so deeply that you thought it was yours. But this was not like that.At all.In fact, this was like me saying that, just because my ass was four times larger than it should be, I looked like Kim Kardashian. Let me assure you at this point in our story together that I donotlook like Kim Kardashian—or any Kardashian, for that matter. My pale European skin, given to me by an Irish grandmother, which boasts far too many freckles when the sun comes out, and my mop of bright red hair, given to me by a very gingery uncle named Teddy, were definitely testament to this. God, my brain was rambling, my thoughts were swirling and . . .
I needed a drink. What was I saying? I needed six. I cursed the fact that I didn’t consume alcohol, and wished I did in this moment.
I lay back on my couch and looked up at my ceiling. I had a real dilemma on my hands, literally. I was holding a dilemma in my sweaty, plagiarist paws right then. I raised my hands to my face and looked at the letters.What on earth was I meant to do now?The ball was rolling. Daphne (the second esquire) had made sure of that when she’d called my publisher and promised a literary masterpiece of epic, maybe even award-winning proportions. I’d wanted to throw up as she’d said that, but what was I meant to do? Psychically pry the phone from her claws? Tell them both I’d experienced a terrible lapse of sanity and that actually I was a liar and there was no book, and probably (definitely) wouldn’t be one?
Balls were rolling alright! Like a bowling ball skidding down a slippery alley, ready to collide with the pins at the bottom and send them flying. Well, I felt like one of those pins right now, and I was just waiting for the ball to smash into me.
I sat up quickly on the couch and very shakily put the letters down on the coffee table in front of me. On my rose quartz coffee table, to be specific. Another expensive item I’d bought that I didn’t really bloody need. But I’d read a book about crystals, some “woo-woo hoo-hoo” thing about mystic energies and whatnot and so forth, etcetera. It had said that rose quartz was very calming and brought love, tranquility and peace into the home. At the time, I’d needed peace. I hadn’t gotten it, though. All I’d gotten was a massive dent in my credit card.
I began to fan the letters out, smoothing them down with my hands and running my fingers over them, taking in their textures, until . . .
My fingertips came into contact with something else entirely. Something smooth. I pulled it out and took a closer look. There, among all the worn and tattered letters, was a sealed envelope. I turned it over in my hands and looked at the back of it. I could see it had never been opened. I looked at the writing on the front; it was completely different to the other writing. This writing was more elaborate and feminine. Curly, calligraphic lettering and swirly hearts.
I tried to open it carefully, but my hands were sweating so profusely that I seemed to be leaving a wet, sticky stripe across it. I finally managed to open the envelope and delicately removed the letter inside. It was perfect. Like it had been trapped in a time capsule. Untouched, pristine. I unfolded it gently and looked at the frilly, cursive handwriting, and then started to read.
