I’m numb by the time I return to my apartment. I slide the key into the lock, knowing before I walk through the door that I won’t find you on the other side. I drop the suitcases and sag onto the sofa, not bothering to take off my hat and coat. I’m still sitting there when I see something slip beneath the door.
It takes a moment to process what I’m seeing—an envelope with my name scribbled in black ink—and then I’m on my feet, scrambling for the door, stumbling over suitcases and nearly falling out into the hall.
“Belle!”
Your name echoes in the narrow hallway. But instead of you, I see a lanky boy with a tweed cap and a green coat scurrying toward the mouth of the stairs. He turns, wide-eyed, and goes still. His face is familiar. Your sister’s boy. The quiet one you call Dickey. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“Where’s your aunt?” I say as calmly as I can manage. “Is she with you?”
He closes his mouth, shakes his head.
“You’re here alone?”
He nods, still silent. I keep one eye on him as I bend down to retrieve the envelope from the floor. “How did you get here?”
“On my bike. I have to go now. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“She said that?”
“I’m supposed to just push the letter under the door and come straight back.”
“Will you tell your aunt something for me?”
His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
He turns then and darts down the stairs. I carry the letter to the sofa and slide it out of the envelope, a single sheet of blue stationery. I stare at the page with its loopy, elegant lines. Pretty words meant to absolve you, but you needn’t have bothered. It changes nothing.
I’ve heard people say that at the most terrible moments of their lives, they felt as if the ground had been yanked out from under them. I always thought it a hyperbolic turn of phrase. Now I know better. That moment on the platform, when the train pulled away and I was left standing with the cases, I felt as if I’d been dropped into some bottomless abyss, all my tomorrows black and empty. There’s no forgetting a moment like that—no forgiveness. For us, the die was cast the moment that day’s 3:00 p.m. Limited left the station without us.
I crumple the note and toss it away, then go to the kitchen and retrieve the bottle of gin I tossed in the bin before I left. I pour myself a glass and swallow half of it in one go, welcoming the trail of fire it leaves on the way to my gut, the brief but woozy kick as it hits bottom.
I’ve just topped up my glass when the phone rings. I stare at it, heart thumping against my ribs. I can’t bear to hear your voice again. Not if you’re just going to repeat what’s in the note or, worse, say you’re sorry. I let it ring. And ring.
But what if you’ve changed your mind? I lift the receiver, clear my throat. “Hello?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t call, you bastard!”
Not you. Goldie.
There’s a kind of caving in in my chest, the finishing blow. I tell myself to hang up, but I can’t make my arm work. Instead, I stand there, clutching my glass of gin, and let her screech.
“I was sure you’d come crawling back when you realized what an idiot you’d been. Throwing away the kind of story every newspaperman dreams of—an honest-to-god bombshell—because you’ve developed a taste for some expensive bit of skirt? I never took you for a fool, but I guess you are. So it looks like I’m going to have to be the bigger man here. And if I were in your shoes, I’d think very carefully.”
Her consonants are thick and slushy, the way they get when she’s been drinking. Still, she pushes on. “I’m going to give you one more chance to be a star, you British baboon. Not that you deserve it. And to prove I’m serious, I’m going to let you name your price. Hell, I’ll even let you write the headline. But this offer comes with an expiration date. You’ve got twenty-four hours to make up your mind and get back to your desk or I’ll make someone else a star.”
I swallow the rest of my gin and thump down the empty glass. “I don’t need twenty-four hours.”
Forever, and Other Lies
（pgs. 70–76）
December 7, 1941
New York, New York
I slip out of the house before breakfast with nothing but my handbag, ducking out through the back door, then make my way along the service alley to the garage. Banks isn’t about yet, since my father’s away, and the garage is quiet. I lift the keys to the Chrysler from the pegboard on the wall and slide behind the wheel. I feel almost giddy as the motor purrs to life. I imagine you waiting for me across town, pacing and watching the clock, as eager as I am to begin our new life.
Our tickets—the ones you bought for yesterday’s Limited—have gone to waste. How I wish I had decided sooner and left in time to make that train. We’d be in Chicago by now, perhaps on our way to the registrar’s office. But we’ll buy new tickets when we get to the station and at long last wave farewell to New York. A day later than we’d planned, perhaps, but what’s one day compared to a lifetime?
It seems a reckless thing to do, to put my trust in you again after what I learned, but after all my weeping and wrestling, I realized I couldn’t bear to lose you. But with Cee-Cee watching my every move, I didn’t trust the phone. And so I paid Dickey a dollar to deliver my letter on his way to the druggist. When I swore him to secrecy, he eyed me warily, so I wasn’t entirely sure he’d see it through. But later, he knocked on my door and told me the deed was done. He could barely look me in the eye, poor thing. He’s not cut out for intrigue.
I haven’t left Cee-Cee a note; she’ll know soon enough where I’ve gone. And by then I’ll have slipped the net for good, never to set foot in my father’s house again. I keep my eye on my rearview mirror as I drive, recalling Cee-Cee’s gleeful admission that she’s been keeping tabs on me. I couldn’t bear it if something were to go wrong now.
I have to park a block and a half away from your building, then climb the narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. I’m a little light-headed by the time I reach the top. I half expect to find you hovering in the open doorway, but you’re not. I’m even more surprised when I try the knob and find it locked. I dig out my key and let myself in, nearly tripping over my suitcase sitting just inside the door.
I wander through the rooms, casually at first, then more frantically. Looking for you. Looking for your suitcase. In the bedroom, the bureau is bare, the bed still made. The bathroom, too, has been emptied of your things. But that’s normal, I tell myself, pushing down a mounting sense of unease. We’re going away and you’ve packed it all. That’s why everything feels so empty, so unsettlingly quiet.
I hunt for a note, but there isn’t one. There isn’t anything—except an empty gin bottle in the sink. Every trace of you is gone. The room wobbles and sways. I close my eyes, waiting for it to stop. When I open them again, I spot the envelope on the floor near the couch, blue, with your name on the front. The flap is open, its contents gone.
I’m still staring at the envelope when a man in a rumpled shirt and a stained cardigan appears in the open doorway. “You can’t be in here.”