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The first page is blank. I blow out a steady breath and lift it, revealing the second page.
It’s a handwritten letter to Jeremy. Fearfully, I begin to read.
Dear Jeremy,
I hope it’s you who finds this letter. If it isn’t you, I hope it will get to you somehow because I have a lot to say.
I want to start off with an apology. I’m sure by the time you read this, I’ll have left in the middle of the night with Crew. The thought of leaving you alone in the home where we shared so many memories together makes me ache for you. We had such a good life with our children. With each other. But we’re Chronics. We should have known our heartache wouldn’t end with Harper’s death.
After years of being the perfect wife to you, I never expected this career that I love and devote most of my time to would ultimately be what ended us.
Our lives were perfect until we somehow flipped into an alternate dimension the day Chastin died. As much as I try to forget where it all started to go wrong, I was cursed with this mind that never forgets a single thing.
We were in Manhattan having dinner with my editor Amanda. You were wearing that thin grey sweater I loved—the one your mother bought you for Christmas. My first novel had just released and I signed the new two-book deal with Pantem, which is why we were at that dinner. I was discussing my next novel with Amanda. I don’t know if you tuned this part of the conversation out, but I’m guessing you did because writer talk always bored you.
I was expressing my concerns to Amanda because I wasn’t sure which angle to take with the new book. Should I write something completely different? Or should I stick to the same formula of writing from the villain’s point of view that made my first novel so successful?
She suggested I stick to the same formula, but she also wanted me to take even more risks with the second book. I told her it was difficult for me to make a voice in my novel sound authentic when it wasn’t at all how I think in my everyday life. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to improve my craft with the next book.
That’s when she told me to try an exercise she learned in grad school called antagonistic journaling.
This would have been a great time for you to be paying attention at that dinner, but you were on your phone, probably reading an eBook that wasn’t mine. You caught me staring and you looked up at me, but I just smiled at you. I wasn’t mad. I was happy you were there with me and being patient while I received advice from my new editor. You squeezed my leg under the table, and I directed my attention back to Amanda, but my focus was on your hand as it trailed circles around my knee. I couldn’t wait to get back to our place that night because it was our first night away from the girls together, but I was also very interested in the advice Amanda was giving me.
She said antagonistic journaling was the best way to improve my craft. She said I needed to get into the mind of an evil character by writing journal entries from my own life. . . things that really happened. . . but to make my inner dialogue in the journal entry be the opposite from what I was actually thinking at the time. She told me to start by writing about the day you and I met. She said I should write down what I was wearing, where we met and what our conversation was that night, but to make my inner dialogue more sinister than it actually was.
It sounded simple. Harmless.
I’ll give you an example from a paragraph I just wrote above.
I look over at Jeremy, hoping he’s paying attention. He isn’t. He’s staring down at his fucking phone again. This dinner is a huge deal for me. I realize this isn’t Jeremy’s scene—these fancy dinners and meetings in Manhattan—but it’s not like I force him to do this all the time. Instead, he’s reading someone else’s eBook, being completely disrespectful to this entire conversation.
He reads all the time, yet he doesn’t feel comfortable reading MY books? It’s an insult in the highest form.
I’m so embarrassed by his audacity, but I know I need to mask my embarrassment. If Amanda notices the irritation on my face, she might notice Jeremy’s disrespect.
Jeremy looks up at me, so I force a smile. I can save my anger for later. I give my attention back to Amanda, hoping she doesn’t notice Jeremy’s behavior.
A few seconds later, Jeremy squeezes my leg, right above my knee, and I stiffen beneath his touch. Most of the time, I crave it. But in this moment the only thing I crave is a husband who supports my career.
And that’s how easy it is for a writer to pretend to be someone they aren’t.
As soon as we got back to our place, I went straight to my laptop and wrote about the first night we met. I pretended my red dress was stolen in my alternate version. I pretended I was there to hopefully fuck rich men, which was absolutely not true. You should know me better than that, Jeremy.
I wasn’t very good at making myself much of a villain the first time I tried it, so I made it a habit of writing down our milestone moments. I wrote about the night you proposed to me, the night I found out I was pregnant, the day I gave birth to the girls. Every time I wrote about a new milestone, I got better and better at being inside the mind of a villain. It was exhilarating.
And it helped.
It helped immensely, which is why I was able to create such realistic, terrifying characters in my novels. It’s why they sold, because I was good at it.
By the time I had finished my third novel, I felt I had mastered the craft of writing from a point of view that wasn’t at all mine. The exercises had helped me so much, I decided to combine all of my journal entries into an autobiography that could be used to teach other authors how to master their craft. I needed to tie the chapters together with an overall storyline so that the autobiography was more cohesive, so I pushed the envelope with every scene to make it more jarring. More disturbing.
I don’t regret writing it because my only intention was to eventually help other writers, but I do regret writing about Harper’s death just days after it happened. My mind was in such a dark space though, and sometimes, as a writer, the only way to clear your mind is to let the darkness spill out onto a keyboard. It was my therapy, no matter how hard that may be for you to understand.
Besides, I never thought you would read it. Beyond that first manuscript, you never read anything I wrote.
So why...why did you choose to read that one?
It was never meant for anyone to read and believe. It was an exercise. That’s it. A way to tap into the dark grief that was eating at me and eliminating it with every stroke of the keyboard. Putting all the blame onto this fictional villain I had created in that autobiography was one of the ways I coped.
I know this letter is hard for you to read, but it can’t be any harder than the manuscript was to read the night you found it. And if we’re ever going to come to a place of forgiveness, you need to keep reading so you’ll know the absolute truth about that night. Not the version you discovered days after Harper died.
When I took Harper and Crew out on the lake that day, I was trying to be good for them. That morning, you mentioned how I didn’t play with them anymore, and you were right. It was so hard because I missed Chastin so much, but I also had these two beautiful children who still needed me. And Harper really did want to go to the water that day. It’s why she ran upstairs crying, because I had told her no. I never scolded her for her lack of emotions like I stated in the manuscript. I was using artistic freedom to further the plot. It’s an insult that you believe I would speak to one of our children that way. It’s an insult that you believe any of that manuscript—or that I was capable of harming them.
Harper’s death was an accident. Her death was an accident, Jeremy. They wanted to go in the canoe, and it was so beautiful that day. And yes, I should have put life vests on them, I realize that. But how many times had we gone in that boat without them? The water wasn’t that deep. I had no idea the fishing net was beneath the surface. If it weren’t for that fucking fishing net, I would have found her and helped her to shore and we all would have laughed about the day the boat tipped over.
I can’t even tell you how sorry I am for not doing everything, anything differently that day. If I could go back, I would, and you know I would.
When you got there and pulled her out of the water and held her, I wanted to rip my heart out and feed it to you because I knew you no longer had one of your own. I didn’t want to live for another second after seeing your anguish. My God, Jeremy. To lose both of them. Both of them.
I watched your suspicion come to a head a few nights after Harper passed. We were in bed when you started asking me all those questions. I couldn’t even believe you would think I would do something like that on purpose. And even if it was a fleeting thought, I saw the love you had for me leave your body and flitter away like it was never even there. Our entire past…all the great moments we shared together. It just left.
Because, yes, I did tell Crew to hold his breath. I told him to hold his breath as the canoe was tipping over. I was trying to help him. I thought Harper would be fine because we’ve played in that lake many times before, so my focus was on Crew after we fell into the water. I grabbed him and he was panicking, so I tried to make it back to the dock as fast as I could before he caused us both to drown. Not even thirty seconds had passed before I realized Harper wasn’t right behind us.
