By the way, I looked you up a few times over the years, mostly through social media. You seemed really intelligent and witty, and you had nice friends in high school, and you went to a really good college. That boyfriend you had—Ethan—the one with the glasses and skinny jeans? He didn’t deserve you, and you deserved better than a hipster wannabe. I was happy when you dumped him. You write. I know because I found your blog. And you’re damn good at it. And you should know that although we don’t look much alike, we make a lot of the same facial expressions. And we both have the same ears.
So if you’re reading this now, it’s because we never met, and I need you to trust me when I say it was for the best. And while I’m still struggling to get over everything, I just want you to know that I’m trying to love you anyway.
I just might need a little more time.
* * *
Your brother,
Bryce
* * *
PS – I’m sure you’re wondering about your dad since you never had the great fortune of meeting the douche. I’ve included some photos, so you could see what he looked like, and I’ve written some things on the backs of them. I’m not going to glorify or idealize him. I won’t sugarcoat. He was a narcissistic asshole. He drank heavily and smoked like a chimney. He blew his retirement savings at the casino and my college funds on a brand new Corvette that he totaled within the first month of owning it. He didn’t cry at my mother’s funeral, and he married and divorced two more times after she died. I don’t know if he ever really loved anyone.
* * *
I fold the letter neatly and place it in my purse, glancing out the tiny oval window to my left as the plane soars through wispy clouds. My chest is tight and my eyes burn, but more noticeably there’s a stinging sensation all over my body, like a wound exposed to fresh air for the first time.
This must be what the beginning of closure feels like. First you’re ripped open, then you feel everything, and then you heal.
I jam the key into the lock of my condo, peeking my head in first to make sure I’m not going to barge in on a Vivian and Fernando impromptu sex romp. The place is quiet except for the dull blare of the TV from Viv’s room.
“Hello?” I call out.
A bra hangs over the back of one of the living room chairs, which doesn’t surprise me. I head back to my room, which looks precisely the way I left it weeks ago, and I switch out some of my clothes for other options. It gets old wearing the same outfits week after week.
I’m not sure how long I’ll be in the city once I get back. I’ve got a few more meetings lined up to deal with Bryce’s foundation, and I still need to pack up his place and ship everything into storage, but after that I should be done with everything. Done with New York.
I’m already done with Rhett.
I’m not proud of the way I ended things with him. Maybe I should’ve blurted out the truth and let it blow up in my face, but at the time it seemed a lot easier to pretend like I wanted more from our little arrangement. That’s always the easiest way to send a man running in the opposite direction.
Plus, I know he likes me. I know it. I feel it. I see it. He can deny it all he wants, but he was starting to fall for me.
And I was starting to fall for him too.
“Hey!” Vivian bursts through my door, flinging her arms around me. “Oh, my god! I can’t believe you’re home. I missed you so much.”
I hug her back. “You act like I’ve been gone forever.”
She rolls her eyes. “When you’re used to seeing someone every single day for months, you start to miss them when they’re gone.”
Viv’s platinum hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s not wearing a bra. Must be the one from the chair in the other room. She plops onto the center of my bed and crosses her legs, watching as I unpack my bag.
“Everything go okay in New York?” She worries her bottom lip, blue eyes wide.
“Yeah.” I force a smile. I’d fill her in on everything, but I’m exhausted, and I don’t have the energy. I’ve been traveling all day, and I just want a nap. My mom’s going to be calling any minute now, making sure I landed, and I’m supposed to pick her up for dinner in two hours.
“Did I tell you my script is being optioned by Paramount?” she asks, slicking her hands together.
“What?! No! Viv, that’s great news. Oh, my god.” I cup my hands over my mouth. Viv is an insanely talented scriptwriter, and she and Fernando are an amazing team. They’ve spearheaded several projects, and he’s a staff writer on this supernatural horror show that’s the hot new thing in Hollywood right now.
“So, I was going to tell you…” She lifts her finger to her mouth. “I think Fernando and I are going to move into this rental house in the Hills.”
She studies my face, expecting disappointment, but I’m anything but. Those two have been an item for years, and he practically lives here anyway. Our condo is small for two people, but three makes for close living conditions. Plus, she’s worked so hard. She deserves to live in some fancy house with a privacy fence and a security gate and an indoor pool.
“That’s wonderful, Viv,” I say.
She smiles. “You sure?”
I nod. “I was thinking of maybe getting a house or something too.”
Her smile twitches. Last she knew I was a struggling writer. There’ve been times I’ve had to pay for my half of the rent with IOUs, laundry, errands, and housework. Freelance writing isn’t the most reliable source of steady income.
“You sure you’re going to be okay, Ayla?” Her head tilts.
I give her an emphatic “Yes” and toss a dirty t-shirt into my hamper. “Please don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine. I promise.”
“Hey, hey,” Fernando says from the doorway. His v-neck t-shirt hugs his muscled runner’s body, and his dark hair is damp like he just showered. He smiles, dimples and big teeth, and gives me a nod “hello.” “Look who’s back. You missed us?”
“Only for a week, then I’m heading back,” I say. “And yes, I missed you both. Congrats on the script.”
“Thank you.” He grins ear to ear, his eyes lighting. As a writer, I know that feeling—someone deemed your work worthy and entertaining. It’s validating, and it puts you on cloud nine with a high twenty times more addictive than morphine.
“You want to go out tonight with Fernando and I?” Viv offers.
“I’m meeting my mom tonight,” I say.
Viv pouts, climbing off my bed and heading to her man. She slips her arm under his, her hands resting around his hips, and he leans down to kiss her forehead. I’ve never met two people more perfect for each other than these two. They click. They fit. They just work. It’s so effortless, it’s scary sometimes.
He gets her. She gets him.
Sometimes they stay up all night just talking.
And he listens. He clings to her every word like it’s the most important thing he’s ever heard, even if she’s talking about guacamole recipes or some new bag she wants to buy. Last I knew, he was teaching her Spanish.