A bored-looking delivery guy holding an electronic signature pad and a package stands at the door.
“Haven Lee?” he asks without looking up.
“That’s me.”
“Sign here.” He taps a few times, then holds out the pad.
I hesitate, my hand hovering over the screen. “Who’s it from?”
He sighs as if I’ve asked him to recite the Constitution backward. “No idea.”
I scrawl my signature, and he hands me a small package before trudging back to his van.
There’s no return address on the shipping label.
“What is it?” Astrid asks, not even trying to hide her snooping.
“Guess I’ll find out,” I mutter, already heading back upstairs.
I ignore her annoyed sigh, taking the steps a little faster than usual. I understand what Melissa was on about. It’s kinda nice getting a delivery…even when I don’t know what’s inside.
I close my room door behind me.
Wouldn’t want to scar poor Abigail if she bursts in on me and it turns out someone sent me a dead rat, a bloody tampon, or indeed a big pile of poop.
I give the box a wary sniff, then rip it open.
To my relief, and shock, there’s a brand new bubble-wrapped phone inside, a credit card with my name on it…and two packets of peanut butter cups.
My stomach drops.
There’s a note tucked inside, written in handwriting I’d recognize anywhere.
You push. I push back harder.
That’s who we are.
Sorry it made you feel something you weren’t ready for.
The rest?
I’m not sorry for that at all.
Regret’s a luxury I can’t afford.
If I had to do it again, I would.
Take the phone.
Take the card.
Get yourself something pretty.
You know I like pretty things.
Jesus,Bastian.
What the fuck is this? Because it sure as hell isn’t a fucking apology. And nowhere near a confession. Especially unsigned. Sure, handwriting analysis,bla bla bla.
