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Again, I almost set the envelope aside unopened. Again, I think about shredding it, burning it, throwing it away whole. About doing anything and everything to it but the one thing Ethan intended—opening it.
And yet, knowing Ethan wrote whatever is in there exclusively for me, makes it impossible for me to do anything but run my fingertips along the envelope seams in an effort to pry it open.
Eventually I get it open and the first thing that falls out is a picture of the two of us.
Just looking at it gets the tears burning behind my eyes all over again, but I clear my throat, blink several times. I’ve cried too much in the last twenty-four hours and I’m not going to do it anymore. Not now. Not today.
It’s hard though, very hard, because I remember the day this picture was taken. It was right at the beginning, right after Ethan and I first met. It was a charity event on the beach benefiting the environment and I’d been trying, hopelessly I might add, to build a sand castle. Ethan had come around and—much to my chagrin—sat down next to me. Within half an hour, we’d built one of the most impressive sand castles on the beach. When one of the judges came by, she’d given us a perfect score and that’s the moment this picture had been taken, Ethan’s head and mine tilted backward with laughter as we stand over our sand castle and the tide slowly rolls in.
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It had been a good night, one of the first nights we spent time together. I had tried so hard to keep Ethan at arm’s length, but I know that this is one of those times that I can point to and say that this place, this moment, is when I began to really fall for Ethan.
Though I know I should probably throw the picture away, I shove it in my purse instead. Then I pull out the only other thing in the envelope, a folded letter that seems to actually be burning my fingertips.
For long seconds, I just sit there with the letter in my hands, eyes squeezed shut and body shaking. Part of me is dying to open it, dying to know what Ethan has to say. But another part of me is terrified of what I’ll find, terrified of what his words will do to me. I’m barely hanging on as it is. The slightest thing—good or bad—might very well send me over the edge.
In the end, though, I don’t have a choice. Knowing what Ethan wrote is a compulsion within me, one I have no shot at not obeying. With a deep breath, I unfold the paper, smooth my fingers over the creases. And then I start to read.
Dear Chloe,
After everything that has happened, I know I don’t deserve the chance to speak to you, let alone the chance to try to talk to you about the past—and the present. And yet I’m asking you for just that, for the opportunity to show you how much I love you and how sorry I am that I didn’t tell you about Brandon the second I found out about him and how I’d do everything differently if I could just turn back the clock.
But I can’t turn back time, can’t change all the mistakes that I’ve made. All I can do is move on from here, loving you. And I do, Chloe, more than I ever dreamed it was possible to love another person. This picture is one of the few we’ve taken together, and it’s my favorite, because we took it at the very beginning of our relationship when almost everything between us was just a possibility, just a maybe. I knew even then that I wanted you, that I would do anything to have you, but I also knew that you didn’t feel the same. Not then. Not yet.
I know you’re hurt and scared—you have every right to be—but I’m asking you to take another chance on me. On us. You took one once and I hurt you because I wasn’t strong enough to take care of you, wasn’t strong enough to trust our love to get us through.
This time, I won’t hurt you. This time I’ll put you first no matter what. This time I’ll take care of you the way I promised to all those weeks ago.
You are the bravest woman I know, and though you’ll argue with me about that statement (you always do), I assure you that I mean every word of it. I love you, Chloe, so much more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone.
I’m not asking for forgiveness and I’m not asking for you to simply move past the pain and rage inside of you. I’m asking only that you give me a chance—to love you, to take care of you, to help you through whatever comes next.
I love you, Chloe, and I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to talk.
Please let me love you again.
Ethan
I read the letter several times, Ethan’s words breaking over me like an early morning thunderstorm breaks across the dawn. I’m not sure what to feel about what he has to say, any more than I know what to feel about him. Sure, it’s a sweet letter, but it doesn’t tell me anything more than I knew already.
He lied to me. He’s sorry. He promises not to do it again.
But does it matter? His lies, his apology? Does any of it matter at all when the past stretches between us like a nightmare? Like a bloody battlefield that I can’t escape from? Like a specter I’m terrified will haunt me for the rest of my life?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now, except that if I don’t leave right now, I’ll be late for work.
Carefully, very carefully, I fold Ethan’s letter and slip it back into the envelope. I put the envelope in the inside pocket of my briefcase. And then, after taking several deep, steadying breaths, I put the car in gear—it goes smoothly, without its usual hesitation—and pull out of the parking space.
As I turn onto Prospect Street, I pretend my stomach doesn’t hurt. I pretend I’m not terrified of what comes next. I pretend, just for a little while, that everything is okay even though I know that nothing will ever be okay again.
Chapter Five
I’m a mess by the time I get to work, totally unsure of what I expect to happen next.
Is Ethan going to be waiting in the parking lot for me?
Are my personal items going to be boxed up and sitting on my desk?
