And she’s already strolling into the room, recommencing her inspection as she pulls drawers and doors open.
“You have some lovely things. Need any of these shirts?” She indicates a row of brightly colored satin blouses.
“Actually, a couple of those would be great, thanks. Not too fussed which ones.” And I nod toward the open suitcase on the floor.
This house, although not ancient, has squeaky bones, the floorboards groaning in protest as we patter around.
“I’m unsurprised James found your hiding place given how loudly it announces itself,” Dimple says, three blouses in her hands.
I stop, brows scrunched. She catches the confusion. Elaborates.
“The hiding spot under the floorboards. Where he found your letters.”
The evening of the housewarming, the confession about theletters…It all feels like a lifetime ago. It’s been mere weeks, but I feel like an entirely different person from who I was back then.
A small shake of my head. “Those weren’t hidden in this room. They were in the spare bedroom, next door.”
We both look to our feet.
“Do you think there could be…” Dimple leaves the question unfinished, but it’s clear we’re both thinking the same thing. We get to our knees. Dimple throws the blouses aside, presses her fingertips across the wood until she feels the weak spot. “Here,” she says.
With the back end of a pair of sturdy tweezers, we manage to lever the floorboard up. For a moment, I’m ready to tell Dimple she was wrong, that there’s nothing to see here. But then I see the white corner of a small box. It takes a bit more levering and a big stretch with my arm, but my fingers find waxy coated cardboard pushed out of immediate sight and pull out the prize.
We’re both nervous as we stare at it.
“What is it?” Dimple asks.
“Fucked if I know.” But I’m desperate to find out, gingerly removing the lid.
And at first, the contents are almost a disappointment, sheafs of paper nestled together. It quickly becomes clear what they are as I pull some out and flick through them.
You never really liked me for me.
I’m trying to starve it out
I was too stupid to realize that just because you said you liked me, it didn’t mean you respected me
I regret being too slow to notice what you were doing
But the worst thing you took from me was my sister.
Copies. Copies of each of my letters. And then I see something that punches me in the gut so hard that it winds me.
Dear James,
I sometimes wonder, if we’d met at a different time, in a different place, whether things might have ended differently, too. I don’t think there was ever really the possibility of a happy ending. So much stood between us—so much history, so much blood—that the way things have worked out is sort of fitting.
Despite that, I really do think it’s a shame that things have turned out this way. I did love you. I think. Perhaps.
I would have certainly given you almost anything you’d have asked of me. I guess, though, when the chips were down, what you wanted was something I just couldn’t give.
I’m sorry for everything I’ve done.
I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through.
But now, after everything, I think we both have to agree that what we have between us needs to come to an end. As much as we’ve been at odds, I don’t believe you’d fight me on that. As much as we’ve been at odds, I think you’d agree that only one of us can come out of this marriage alive.
At first, I’m confused. The writing is so much like mine, and it sounds so much like me, that for a moment, I wonder if I’ve finally cracked. If I’ve well and truly lost my mind. But then I reread it, read the sentiments that don’t quite ring true.
