I think the reason I’m writing this letter that you will never, ever read is that I wish I could talk to you. If my life were a movie, I’d trudge to your tombstone and bare my heart while a public-domain symphony in D minor plays in the background. But you were buried in California （inconvenient, much?）， which makes letter writing the only feasible option.
All of this is to say: First, I miss you. A lot. A fucking huge lot. How could you leave me here without you? Shame, Helena. Shame.
Second: I am so, so grateful you left me this home. It’s the best, coziest place I’ve ever lived in, hands down. I’ve been spending my weekends reading in the sunroom. Honestly, I never thought I’d set foot in a house with a foyer without being escorted off the premises by security. I just . . . I’ve never had a place that was mine before. A place that’s going to be there no matter what. A safe harbor, if you will. I feel your presence when I’m home, even if the last time you set foot here was probably in the ’70s on your way back from a women’s liberation march. And don’t worry, I fondly remember your hatred of cheesy and I can almost hear you say, Cut this shit out. So I will.
Third, and this is less of a statement and more of a question: Would you mind it if I killed your nephew? Because I am very close to it. Like—sooo close. I am basically stabbing him with a potato peeler as we speak. Though it occurs to me now that maybe it’s exactly what you wanted. You never mentioned Liam in all the years I knew you, after all. And he does work for a company whose main product is greenhouse gases, so maybe you hated him? Maybe our entire friendship was a long con that you knew would end in me pouring brake fluid in the tea of your least favorite relative. In which case, well done. And I hate you.
I could give a comprehensive list of his horribleness （I curate one in my Notes app） but I like to inflict it upon Sadie and Hannah via Zoom. I just . . . I guess I wish I understood why you put me in the path of one of the asswipiest asswipes in the country. In the world. In the entire damn Milky Way. Just the way he looks at me—the way he doesn’t look at me. He clearly thinks he’s above me, and—
The doorbell rings. I stop midsentence and run to the entrance. Which takes me, like, two whole minutes, proving my point that this house is plenty large for two people.
I wish I could say that Liam Harding has shit taste in home decor. That he abuses inspirational-quotes decals, buys plastic fruit at Ikea, sticks neon bar lights everywhere. Sadly, either he knows how to put together a pretty nice house interior, or his FGP Corp blood money paid to hire someone who does. The place is an elegant combination of traditional and modern pieces; I’m almost certain that whoever furnished it can correctly use the word palette in a sentence, and that the way the deep reds, forest greens, and soft grays complement the hardwood floors is a little more than accidental. And there’s the fact that everywhere looks so . . . simple. With a home as large as this one, I’d be tempted to stuff every room with tables and sideboards and rugs, but Liam somehow limited himself to bare necessities. Couches, a few comfortable chairs, shelves full of books. That’s it. The house is airy, full of light, sparsely decorated in warm tones, and all the more beautiful for it. “Minimalist,” Sadie told me when I gave her a video tour. “Really well done, too.” I believe my response was a snarl.
And then there’s the art on the walls, which is unwelcomely growing on me. Pictures of lakes at sunrise and waterfalls at sunset, thick woods and lone trees, frozen grounds and blooming fields. The occasional wild animal going about its day, always in black and white. I don’t know why, but I’ve been catching myself staring at them. The framing is simple, the subject mundane, but there’s something about them. Like whoever took those photos really connected with the settings. Like they tried to truly capture them, to take home a piece of them.
I wonder who the photographer is, but I can find no signature. It’s probably some starving Georgetown MFA grad, anyway. They poured their soul into the series hoping it’d be bought by someone who appreciates art, and instead here it is. Owned by a total ass. I bet Liam didn’t even choose them. I bet they were just a tax-deductible purchase for him. Maybe he figured that in the long run a nice collection is as good as stock dividends.
“I’ll need a signature,” the UPS guy tells me when I open the door. He’s chewing bubblegum and looks about fifteen. I feel decrepit inside. “You’re not William K. Harding, are you?”
William K. It’s almost cute. I hate it. “Nope.”
“Is he home?”
“No.” Mercifully.
“Is he your husband?”
I laugh. Then I laugh some more. Then I realize that the UPS guy is squinting at me like I’m the Wicked Witch of the West. “Um, no. Sorry. He’s my . . . roommate.”
“Right. Can you sign for your roomie?”
“Sure.” I reach for the pen, but my hand stills in midair when I notice the FGP Corp insignia on the envelope.
I hate them. Even more than I hate Liam. Not only does he make me miserable at home mowing the lawn at seven thirty a.m. on the one day of the week I can sleep in, but he adds insult to injury by working for one of my professional nemeses. FGP Corp is one of those huge conglomerates that keep on causing environmental messes—a bunch of overeducated dudes in $7K suits who disseminate biotoxins around the world with utter disregard for the brown pelicans （and the entire future of humanity, but I’m personally more attached to the pelicans, who did nothing to deserve this）。
I glare at the thick bubble mailer. Would Liam sign for an EPA envelope on my behalf? I doubt it. Or maybe he would. Then he’d tie it to red balloons his buddy Pennywise provided and watch it disappear into the sunset. I’m already 73 percent certain that he’s been hiding my socks. I’m down to four matching pairs, for crisp’s sake.
“Actually.” I take a step back, smiling, reveling in my own pettiness. Helena, you’d be so proud. “I probably shouldn’t sign for him. I bet it’s a federal crime or something.”
The UPS guy shakes his head. “It’s really not.”
I shrug. “Who’s to say?”
“Me. It’s literally my job.”
“Which you are performing admirably.” I beam. “But I still won’t sign for the envelope. Would you like a cup of tea? A glass of wine? Cheez-Its?”
He frowns. “You sure you won’t? This is express shipping. Someone paid a lot of money for same-day delivery. It’s probably really urgent shit that William K. will need as soon as he gets home.”
“Right. Well, that sounds like a William K. problem.”
He whistles. “That’s cold.” He sounds admiring. Or just scared. “So, what’s wrong with poor William K.? Does he leave the toilet seat up?”
“We have separate bathrooms.” I mull it over. “But I’m sure he does. In the very remote possibility I end up using his.”
He nods. “You know, when my sister was in college she used to have a roommate she hated. I’m talking warfare. They’d yell at each other the entire time. She once wrote an entire list of everything she hated about him on her phone and it crashed her Reminders app. It was that long.”