Valcott & Finch. I know that firm—estate planning, trusts, wills, the kind of law that deals in death and money and the complicated intersection of both. Maybe someone left the company something. A former investor. A dead designer whose archive we’re being offered.
I tear it open, expecting legalese and formality. Instead, I pull out two loose documents.
The first is a letter, brief and professional, requesting my presence at a reading of a last will and testament. I have been named as a beneficiary and my attendance is required at my earliest convenience. Standard legal language, nothing alarming.
It’s the second document that stops my heart.
A funeral announcement. Heavy cream cardstock with an elegant black border. The kind of announcement you send for someone important, someone loved, someone whose absence will be felt like a missing limb.
The photograph in the center shows a woman with wild, curly red hair and a smile that takes up half her face. She’s laughing at something off-camera, caught in a moment of pure, unguarded joy.
Whitney.
My best friend.
Wasmy best friend.
Before.
The words swim in front of me.Beloved daughter, friend, and dreamer. Gone too soon. Memorial service…
I can’t read the rest. My hands are shaking. When did they start shaking?
Whitney is dead?
Whitney can’t be dead.
Whit isgone?
This can’t be real.
I would’ve known. We haven’t spoken in almost two years. Not since that stupid birthday dinner. That ridiculous fight. The day I chose between the two most important people in my life…and I chose wrong.
“You’re disappearing, Celeste. Every year, a little more of you vanishes into that marriage, into that man who doesn’t cherish or respect you, and I can’t watch it anymore. I love you too much to watch you become someone you’re not.”
I told her she didn’t understand. That marriage was complicated. That Greg had his flaws but so did everyone. That she couldn’t possibly judge my choices when she’d never had to make them.
She said:“I’m not judging you. I’m mourning you. You’re already gone.”
I stopped returning her calls after that. Changed the subject when mutual friends brought her up. Told myself I’d reach out eventually, when the dust settled.
I should’ve called right away, but I was too angry.
I should’ve called when Greg left me, but I was too ashamed.
I should’ve called the minute the ink was dry on my divorce papers, but I was too busy—determined to piece my life back together.
And now, I’ll never get to…
How did this happen? What the hell? I’ll never get to tell her…I’m…that I…
The room tilts. I try to stand, to get to the window that actually opens, to getair, tobreathe, but my stilettos catch on something—the rug, my own feet, or my own fucking denial—and suddenly I’m falling, sideways, the world going diagonal in a way that doesn’t make sense.
Strong hands catch me.
Greg.
He must have come back. Must have heard something, or forgotten something, or just had impeccable timing for once in his miserable life.
