I'm still in my pajamas, hair piled on top of my head, halfway through my first cup of coffee. The apartment is a mess because I've been too busy working to clean, and I briefly consider pretending I'm not home.
But the delivery person rings again, insistent.
I open the door to find a courier holding a thick envelope. He has me sign for it, then disappears back down the stairs before I can ask any questions.
The envelope is heavy, expensive paper, addressed to me in the same careful handwriting as the note that came with the check.
My hands shake as I close the door and lean against it. This is it. Whatever P.C. wants, it's in this envelope.
I should call Chloe. I should wait until I'm more awake, more prepared. I should do a lot of things.
Instead, I tear it open.
A letter falls out, handwritten on thick cream paper. With it, something else that makes my breath catch.
It’s a first class plane ticket from Boston to Los Angeles for three days from now.
I set the ticket aside and unfold the letter.
Jade,
You cashed the check. Smart. I would have done the same.
Now you're wondering: who am I? What do I want? What's the catch?
There's no catch. The money is yours. No strings. No debt.
But I do have a request:
Meet me. One week. Malibu, California.
First-class ticket to LAX is attached. Car service will meet you at the airport and bring you to my home. You can leave anytime. But I hope you'll stay.
I've waited years to see you again.
Yours,
P.C.
I read it three times.
My childhood is mostly a blur of my mother working long shifts, of being shuffled between after-school programs and neighbors who watched me for extra cash.
There are gaps, though. Pieces I can't quite access. Like trying to remember a dream that fades the moment you wake up.
How do I know this person? How do they know me? My mind is blank.
I sit down on my bed because my legs won't hold me, staring at a plane ticket to California. This is insane. This is how people end up on the news, their photos splashed across headlines about women who made bad decisions and paid the price.
But the money is real. It’s already deposited and I already used it to clear the hospital bills and my student loans. I checked this morning, watched the balances drop to zero with a mixture of relief and terror.
What kind of person gives away almost four hundred thousand dollars? And what kind of person accepts it?
Me, apparently.
My laptop is still open on my makeshift desk. The blog post I wrote last night is already up, already confessing what I did. I have sixteen followers, most of them other struggling writers who occasionally comment with heart emojis. No one has responded yet.
I open a new post and start typing.
