The lunch rush seems to have died down, and we’re suddenly the only two people in the lobby. It’s eerily quiet.
“Skye, it’s ultimately up to you. If you want to go after Heather, too, then we will.”
“I—I don’t…” My brain feels like a water balloon, filling, expanding, on the verge of bursting. “I need to process all of this.”
“I understand.” My father pulls me in close, smoothing the back of my hair. “Take your time. Call me if you have any questions about … anything. Or if you just want to talk.”
After he leaves for Grand Central, I stay in the lobby for a minute to check my phone. There’s another text from Jan—a row of question marks—and a new email from Max, sent twenty minutes ago.
It’s seriously not okay to ignore someone, Starling. You’d be wise to remember your manners. Let me know about that drink, or you’ll be sorry. Very fucking sorry.
I step out into the blinding cold. A sharp pain is in my stomach, and I’m so confused I can barely walk straight. I stumble into a woman carrying a miniature poodle and she snaps at me to watch where I’m going. I continue forward in a daze, caught between too many versions of the same awful narrative.
There is the story revealed in Burke’s letters to his therapist, Dr. K. This is the story in which I’m a mistaken hookup turned marriage-saving opportunity.
There is the story my father has pieced together involving Burke’s wife, Heather. This is the story in which I’m an unwitting pawn in a larger revenge plot.
There is the story on the Post-it note Burke left me, a story that feels impossible but is still out there, incomplete. I’m so sorry, Skye. I wish I could explain, but I can’t. I love you. This is the story in which Burke loves me. It can’t be true. But what if it is?
And then there is Max LaPointe. Max, who’s still harassing me for some unknown reason, who seems oddly curious about my relationship with Burke. Could Max somehow be tied up in all this?
The truth has to be somewhere in these tangled narratives. And I have to find it.
I hail a cab home. I don’t let myself think about my not having answered Jan’s texts or the degree to which I’m letting her down or that she’s probably going to fire me or that at this rate Max might show up at my apartment and slit my throat.
I’m so distracted that I don’t even remember to wave hello to Ivan in the lobby of my building. But from within my clouded stupor, I hear him calling my name.
“Skye! What perfect timing. A package just arrived for you.” Ivan smiles, holding out a small cushioned mailer—the kind I use to send out galleys for work.
My heart catches in my throat; I instantly recognize the familiar sight of Burke’s angular scribble on the package. There’s no return address, but the handwriting is Burke’s. Positively, undeniably Burke’s.
“Thanks, Ivan,” I hear myself respond.
I run upstairs. I wait until I’m safely inside my apartment before I tear open the package. Inside is a navy blue Moleskine notebook with a folded piece of paper sticking out from under the front flap. I unfold the paper first. It’s a letter—handwritten—from Burke.
Goose,
I’ve started some version of this letter to you so many times without finishing it because, the truth is, I don’t know how to make sense of what’s happened in words. In my heart I know and feel the truth, but in my head it’s a mess.
First and foremost, I want to tell you that it’s been torture not being able to talk to you these past couple of months. It’s agonizing not knowing how you’ve been feeling, and that’s part of the reason I haven’t been able to reach out. The rational part of me imagines you despise me—as you should—and that you will tear up this letter and throw this notebook in the fire before reading a word of any of it. This part of me believes—and hopes—that you have found the strength to move on, to pick up the pieces of the wreck I made of us and to know in your heart that better things lie ahead—things you deserve. You didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve you.
Then there’s a smaller, pathetic part of me that believes perhaps maybe you still love me the way I love you. And confusingly enough, this smaller part of me is just as hopeful as the bigger, rational part. Perhaps it’s cruel to tell you that I love you after the destruction and pain I’ve caused you, but I’ve decided that I can’t not.
The crazy truth is, I wasn’t supposed to marry you. That wasn’t part of the plan. I was supposed to leave you before the wedding, but I couldn’t. And so, selfishly, I didn’t. You deserve to know that I loved you when I married you, and that I still love you. I know that’s not enough. Love isn’t enough. I never used to understand that expression, but I do now. You can love someone completely, and it still isn’t enough to make it work.
It’s not your fault, by the way, so don’t go thinking that, even for a second. I’ve racked every corner of my brain trying to figure out how to communicate the choices I’ve made so that you can begin to understand, but I honestly can’t, Skye. All I can say is that I have to put the safety and well-being of my children before anything else in my life. I simply don’t know another way.
I’m so unbelievably sorry for deceiving you; I’ll live with the shame of it until I die. I know you wish more than anything that you’d never met me—and for your sake, the better part of me wishes that, too. But selfishly, meeting you and falling in love with you has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. When we met, I was in a marriage I thought I could save. Spending time with you only made me realize that my marriage was built on a foundation of tragedy, a cyclical rhythm of brokenness that perpetuated this cavernous void inside me—a marriage that was far beyond repair.
But it was so much more than that, Skye, and that’s the thing. It wasn’t just that you gave me a new perspective on my relationship. You are the first and only person I’ve ever met who sees the world the way I do. Who’s cracked and marred in the same places I am, but who fights ferociously to be better, to create change from within. You’ve experienced tremendous grief and made it part of you; you’ve grown strong from suffering. You will never know how badly I needed to meet you, and how lucky I will always feel that I did. Aside from my children, you are the only person I’ve ever met who has shown me that painful things don’t have to harden you—you’re the only one who has made that void inside me feel full. You opened my mind and my heart. You are a bright star, and I am a terrible cliché.
Here in this package is my journal—my real journal. I went back and forth in my head so many times, debating whether I should give it to you, because it’s only part of the truth. As you’ll see when and if you choose to read it, there are pieces I had to omit. But, ultimately, I decided that you deserve to know as much of the truth as I can give you.
I wish there were a way for me to tell you everything. Perhaps one day you’ll understand why I can’t give you the whole truth now. In the meantime, I hope you can make peace with not having all the answers. I hope you will live a life that is as radiant and beautiful as you are, and I hope you will find a way to believe—if you don’t already—that I got what I deserved.