I looked back at the letter resting on my thighs.
I don’t think anyone had ever written me a letter before. It was shockingly effective. Way better than text or email, like it had a different weight to it or something. There’s something about holding the paper in your hand, seeing the ink on the page, the press of the pen. He made this. It took effort. It was a physical act. He couldn’t erase it if he made a mistake, he had to think about what he was going to say before he said it—or he said exactly what he wanted to and didn’t need to change it.
I looked over at the cupcake. I didn’t even want to eat it. I didn’t deserve to eat it. Nadia Cakes didn’t sell jumbos on a walk-in basis; they were a special order. He special-ordered this—for me. It was thoughtful.
It made me feel a thousand times worse.
I had to go back to the floor, but the letter gnawed at me all day. I kept thinking about it, about how to respond—because I had to respond. But in the meantime, I was going to avoid Jacob like my life depended on it, which wasn’t too hard because I think he was avoiding me too—and why wouldn’t he? I was the Wicked Witch of the ER.
Imagine being the reason why someone hated their new job. That was me. I was the reason.
On my lunch break I slipped into the supply closet with some paper I took out of the printer and wrote him back.
Chapter 8
Jacob
There was an envelope taped to my locker. My heart started to race before I even touched it.
Chances were good it was just a thank-you note from the nurses for the cupcakes. Chances were also good that this was Briana telling me to go to hell.
I shouldn’t have written her.
I wanted to clear the air with her and tell her I was sorry for my comment about her brother. But maybe I should have done it in person. Maybe the formality of a letter was too dry for something like this and she hadn’t taken it in the olive-branch spirit it was intended.
Maybe this envelope was my letter being returned to me unread.
I dragged a hand down my mouth before I plucked it off the door. I pulled it out and flipped to the last page to look for the signature.
It was from Briana. My pulse thrummed in my ears.
I folded it back up without looking at the rest of it and put it into my duffel bag to head home.
I felt like everyone was watching me on the way out, like they all knew I’d been given a letter and they knew what was waiting for me in those pages.
Maybe they did.
Maybe she’d read it to the nurses before she left it on my locker. Maybe she’d read them my letter too…Maybe they were all having drinks together, laughing about it right now.
I could feel the envelope next to me in my bag like it was a ticking bomb about to go off.
The cupcake I’d gotten her was gone at the end of her shift. Did she eat it? Or did she just give it to someone else? Or, worse, maybe she threw it away…She said she didn’t want one, so maybe I shouldn’t have gotten her one. But it had been my experience that most of the time when people say they don’t want food, they actually don’t mind it when it shows up.
Maybe she just didn’t want it from me.
Maybe giving it to her anyway made her upset, like I was forcing baked goods onto her when she’d explicitly said she didn’t want them. Was that rude of me? Presumptuous?
I got home and took Lieutenant Dan on a long walk, mostly to delay the inevitable.
For a split second I considered not reading the letter at all, which was ridiculous. I needed to know where I stood, especially because I had to work with her. But something told me that if this went badly, if the tone of this letter was what I was afraid it was, that would be it for me. I couldn’t stay at Royaume. I’d just have to accept that I’d gotten myself into a situation that simply wasn’t salvageable and move on. Quit and go somewhere else.
When I finally forced myself to sit down and look at the letter, it was almost ten o’clock. I took a deep breath and pulled it out of the envelope. It was two pages, written in blue pen on printer paper.
Dear Jacob,
Since I now know you have anxiety, I figured writing you back instead of talking to you in person would be the best and least stress-inducing way to respond.
I scoffed. Of course I’d managed to work myself up anyway.
I don’t write a lot of letters. My hand already hurts, so I’m going to have to take lots of breaks, but here we go.
First of all, if you think for one second that I can be flipped with cupcakes and handwritten apology letters, then you are absolutely correct. I accept all your apologies and explanations. I also would like to apologize. I have been awful to you.
Awful was underlined twice.
So, I know that you don’t know me, but I’m not usually like this. I know people always say stuff like that, but I’m serious. I’m not always like this. I’m not really the best version of myself these days. I know this isn’t an excuse, but I’ve been having a pretty crappy year, and it’s been wearing me down, and I think I took some of it out on you. That was really unfair and I’m sorry. Like, I don’t even want to eat the cupcake you gave me because I feel like I don’t deserve it. Nadia Cakes is too good for me right now. I’m going to put it in the freezer until I’m a person karmically worthy of cream cheese frosting.
I can’t believe I broke your phone. I will absolutely pay for it. Please let me know what I owe you. And I’m sorry for the way I misjudged you—but to be fair, Gibson was very unclear about the whole chief thing, so I sort of blame him for instigating this. But I am sorry. I feel terrible.
I’d like to make you a peace offering. I think you probably want what every introvert wants—to be invited, even though you won’t come. Grabbing drinks with everyone is probably not your idea of a good time, but whenever we go to Mafi’s, I’m going to invite you anyway. This is going to be my way of making this up to you. Know that you are welcome and wanted, and if you ever do decide to take me up on it, I will sit next to you at the bar and I won’t force you to make small talk with me and I won’t let drunk extroverts anywhere near you. This is my solemn vow. Zero drunk extroverts.
I felt my smile reach my eyes.
Please know that—okay, seriously? Do you write letters like this often? Because my hand HURTS.
Then there was a word scratched out. There were a lot of words scratched out, actually. I think she was struggling with the lack of a Delete button.
All right, back to it. I took a five-minute break to do hand stretches.
If any of my mistakes have brought you stress or unhappiness, please accept my deepest apologies.
Regards （I’ve always wanted to end a letter with regards—oh, and to get one where someone signs it yours truly and calls me “dearest.” It’s so Mr. Darcy），
Bri
P.S. I need to get actual paper. I think lines would have helped.
I smiled softly at the signature on the page.
I couldn’t explain the lift I felt in my chest. For the first time in weeks, the electric hum of my anxiety softened. I could actually feel the almost-constant flow of cortisol that I’d been dealing with shut off. I could breathe again.
Lieutenant Dan put his head in my lap and peered up at me like he sensed the shift in my mood.
I read the letter a second time. Then a third. Every time I read it, I felt myself getting lighter.