Another ambush. Only this time I walked straight into it.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the sink. Dressed to the nines and perfectly coiffed for my big night, an elegant updo and flawless makeup. I wonder what he made of me when he walked into the ballroom tonight. Whether he thought the years had been cruel or kind. As if any of that matters now. Still, I fish around in my evening bag for my lipstick and, with shaking hands, touch up my mouth, then dab a bit of powder on my nose. I stand there another moment and study my handiwork.
This is how he will remember me, I think. And then I think, No . . . this is not what he will remember. He will remember what I did—and what I didn’t do.
I find him at the bar, already sipping a gin and tonic. There’s a glass of white wine on the black marble bar top and an empty stool beside him. I slide up onto the gray velvet seat and immediately reach for the glass. I look around the bar, wishing there were more people, wishing there were music. It’s so terribly empty, so terribly quiet.
“You look wonderful, Belle.” He says it in that low, faintly feline tone that used to make my pulse rush. “Still beautiful.”
Don’t! I want to scream at him. Don’t sit there and toy with me.
“Don’t call me that,” I say instead. “I haven’t been Belle for a long time now. And you were never quite as charming as you thought you were.”
“I seem to remember you finding me a little charming. Not for long, I’ll grant, but for a while. Surely you haven’t forgotten.”
My face flames. I reach for my wine again, my eyes fixed on the rows of liquor bottles lined up shoulder to shoulder, like jewel-colored soldiers behind the bar. “Say what you came to say.”
“I didn’t come to say anything. I came to listen. I thought you might have something you’d like to say to me, something you’d like to explain.”
I hide behind my wineglass, watching his face out of the corner of my eye. I have no idea how to make such a confession, which words to use, what order to put them in. Instead, I decide to start with why. “I couldn’t trust you. After what you did . . . I could never trust you again. It didn’t matter that I was alone. I did what I had to do. I got on with my life.”
“Because of the story?”
“Because of everything. But yes, mostly because of the story.”
The ice tinkles in his drink as he upends it. He sets down the empty glass and signals the bartender for another. “After all these years, you still blame me.”
“Who should I blame?”
“I went to that bloody station two hours early, dragged both suitcases down there, and waited for you to show. Do you know what it felt like standing on the platform watching that train pull away?”
I stare at him, stunned that he can sit there and talk about hurt—to me. Has he forgotten his part in all of it? The promise he made and the breaking of it? His disappearance from my life without a word? “I imagine it felt a lot like walking into your apartment the next day and finding it empty.”
“I went to the station as agreed. You didn’t come.”
“I sent you a note.”
“Yes. Your note was quite clear. I’m sorry your wedding plans fell through, by the way. Though I still say you dodged a bullet. Teddy was never good enough for you.”
Teddy?
I haven’t thought of my ex-fiancé in years and the name catches me off guard. “Why bring up Teddy now?”
He shrugs. “If you must know, it’s a question of pride. It still baffles me that you could have chosen that buffoon over me. Even now, I can’t quite wrap my head around your words. Or the fact that you thought I could be pacified by such unmitigated tripe.”
I put down my glass and look at him squarely. Either I’ve lost the thread of the conversation or he has. “Which words are we talking about? We wrote so many.”
“I’m referring to the letter you had Dickey deliver to my apartment.”
The letter. That’s what he’s talking about. Relief prickles through me. None of this has been about Zachary. But what he’s saying doesn’t make sense. “I never mentioned Teddy in my letter.”
The bartender appears with a fresh gin and tonic and takes the empty glass away. Hemi nods his thanks and turns back to me. “No, you didn’t mention him by name, but I got the gist.”
“What gist? What are you talking about?”
He studies me a moment, his blue gaze so intent I’m almost relieved when he finally speaks. “Why the gaslighting? When we both know what the letter said? Why does it even matter now?”
“I’m not gaslighting you,” I snap, annoyed with whatever game it is he thinks he’s playing. The bartender’s eyes slide in our direction. I throw him an awkward smile and lower my voice. “I know what I wrote.”
Hemi reaches into his jacket pocket. I assume he’s reaching for his billfold, to pay, to leave. Instead, he produces a square of blue paper, unfolding it with an almost delicate care, and places it in front of me on the bar. “Perhaps this will refresh your memory.”
I stare at the page, sharply creased along its folds, as if it has been opened and refolded many times. It’s been crumpled at some point, too, but the wrinkles have smoothed over time, and I realize the letter has been carefully preserved. The ink has faded, but the words are mine.
How does one write such a letter? Knowing the pain it will cause. To end things so bluntly, after so much planning, seems unthinkable even to me. You’ll think me hard and selfish. Perhaps it’s true. Yes, I’m certain it is. But we would never have been happy, you and I. Not in the end. I care for you—will always care for you in my way—but it never would have worked. We’re not matched in the things that really matter, which is why I must now end what should never have begun. If you look at it squarely, as I have, you’ll see that it’s for the best. In fact, one day I believe you’ll be glad I came to my senses. I’m to blame, of course, for letting it go on as long as it did, for letting it happen at all, I suppose. And this is hardly a brave way to end things, a few words scribbled on a scrap of paper. But when your pride has recovered from the sting of this note, you’ll realize I’ve spared us both. The truth is I’ve promised myself to another and despite my misgivings, I’m not strong enough to break that promise. I’m going away, will already be gone when you read this, too much of a coward to face the mess I’ve created. Please don’t try to contact me. My mind is made up. I beg you to forgive my selfish and fickle heart.
—Marian
I look up at him, baffled. He’s waiting for a response, quite pleased with himself, too, as if he’s caught me in a lie of some kind. But the letter’s all wrong. Familiar, yes, but all wrong. How on earth . . . “Hemi, why do you have this?”
A chilly smile settles at the corners of his mouth. “What can I say? I’m sentimental. Please don’t tell me you’re going to pretend you didn’t write it.”
“No. I wrote it—to Teddy. How did you get it?”
The smile drops away, and for a moment, his face goes blank. “You sent it. With Dickey.”