Date: Oct 6, 2019, 8:02 AM
Subject: （no subject）
Andy,
Got your text, sorry I’m just getting back to you now. Skye and I have been on our honeymoon and just got back last night, so I haven’t had much time to myself the past couple of weeks.
First of all, thank you so much for all of your help with the wedding. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you （especially stepping in for Wally during his toast—that was one for the books）。 I’m glad we’ve been able to reconnect, and I hope all continues to be well （or as well as it can be） in Langs Valley. I don’t mean to be a preacher, but I meant what I said at the wedding—try to stay off the Oxy, and if you can’t, get some help. I’ve been where you are, and I can tell you that the drugs aren’t worth it. I know the treatment programs are costly—if you ever need help with money, don’t hesitate to ask.
I’ve given some thought on how to best answer your question about my situation with Skye, seeing as it’s something you may want to consider down the line. It’s a lot to explain. This might sound a little wacko, but I’ve been writing about it in a journal I keep on my computer. Heather and I were seeing a couples therapist for a while who suggested we write our feelings down in a diary or journal or whatever, and I ended up writing him all these letters—my therapist, that is—right around the time I met Skye, when things with Heather were crappy. I’ve never shown them to anyone and frankly I never planned to, but I don’t really know how to begin answering your question, and I think the letters （attached） will tell you everything you want to know.
Give my best to Shelly, and don’t be a stranger.
Thanks again for everything, I’ll always be grateful.
Burke
By the time I’ve finished reading the email, my heart has stopped. My blood is frozen.
“I’m getting you some water.” Andie stands.
“Andie. Wait.”
My brain feels like an expanding balloon, the pressure building with no room to give.
“Who the fuck is Heather?” My throat is dry, like sandpaper. “What the fuck is this, Andie? What are these letters Burke is talking about? Have you read them?”
“Skye.” Andie sits again. “All I know so far is that Burke meant to send this email to his friend Andy, the guy who was in your wedding. And he must’ve confused our email addresses, or mine popped up automatically when he started typing in Andy and he just didn’t check.…”
My head is a cyclone. I’m suddenly convinced that none of this is real, that Andie’s disdain for Burke has caused her to push the limits too far.
“Andie,” I start, my voice shaking. “Did you make this shit up because you want me to break up with Burke? Did you create this bullshit just because you fucking despise my husband and have since the day I met him?”
“What?” Andie shrieks, her hazel eyes growing watery and wide. “Are you kidding? Do you think I’m some kind of sociopath? I would never fucking do that, Skye!”
I’m crying, too, now because I know she would never do that; I said what I did in a blind fit of terror, and the worst part is that there’s more.
The letters.
The situation with Skye.
“I know,” I choke, and Andie is beside me, pulling me close. “I’m sorry. Andie, you have to tell me. Did you read the letters?”
“I was just going to read one,” she says, her voice small. “But after I started reading, I couldn’t stop, Skye. I’m sorry. But I think it’s better that I read them first because, oh, Skye—they’re terrible. It’s terrible. I don’t want you to read them. I know you’re going to, but I think—I think maybe I should just tell you first. So you know what to expect. And then you don’t have to read them if you don’t want to.”
The dread is violent, all-encompassing; my insides twist viciously, my skin prickles with heat.
“How—how many letters are there?”
“Eleven. But some of them are pretty long.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out. Burke. Two missed calls. I throw the phone across the room with all my might. I can’t see where it lands, but I hope the screen shatters into a million pieces.
My mind reaches toward every possible terrible scenario the letters could reveal. From what I’ve already read, it sounds as if Burke was in a relationship with this Heather person. But I’ve never heard him mention anyone named Heather. In our brief discussions about past relationships, Burke has only ever mentioned his longtime girlfriend from college and then his ex, Amanda, the one he almost married before she cheated on him. Maybe his college girlfriend was named Heather? But, no, that wouldn’t make sense, because in his email he said that he met me right around the time things were crappy with Heather. Who the fuck is Heather?
Everything inside my head is a hurricane, and I don’t know if I have the strength or stamina to read through each of the letters in the attachment, to wait in excruciating fear for the picture to fill itself.
“I need to see the letters, Andie.” I don’t recognize the sound of my voice. “I need—I need to read them for myself.”
Andie squeezes my hand. “All right. But I’m going to stay right here with you while you read them, okay?”
I nod. I take the laptop from Andie and double-click the attachment to Burke’s email, something titled “BM Diary.” A Microsoft Word document floods the screen.
I start reading.
September 8, 2018
Dear Dr. K,
Her hair is yellow and thick, nothing like my wife’s. Isn’t that awful, that when I first notice an attractive woman, I instantly compare her to my wife? I used to think I was a good person, the kind of man who wouldn’t be struck dumb by the tumble of blond hair down a creamy, anonymous back.
It takes me nearly an hour and a half to read all eleven of Burke’s entries, but I don’t stop until I get to the very last word of the very last one, from September 22, 2019, the day after our wedding.
Then I scream.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Burke Michaels’s Diary
SEPTEMBER 22, 2019
Dear Dr. K,
I am a married man. Twice over, actually, but let’s keep that between you and me. Where I come from, bigamy is frowned upon.
Of course, it won’t actually be bigamy for long. After the honeymoon and several weeks of wedded bliss, I’ll start winding things down. Details on my exact method TBA, but if all goes well, I’ll be divorced by Christmas.
The wedding went smoothly enough, and the potential issue of a prenup took care of itself. Lucky for me, Skye’s father has some baggage around the whole prenup thing—apparently, he was forced to sign one when he married Skye’s mother, a requirement that left him eternally humiliated. Perfect.
Our big day was not without a few hiccups, I will admit. My “best man,” Wally, got shit-faced during cocktail hour and was speaking gibberish during his toast. Scott had to escort Wally off the stage area while Andy took over the microphone, and I have to hand it to them for saving the day, because Mr. Starling’s face had turned as red as the beets on our farm-to-table salads. With zero preparation, Andy gave an impromptu toast about what a great guy I was that knocked everyone’s socks off—even I was impressed with myself.