Page 228 of The Wright Man

"Bet." I tossed them aside like kindling.

The next set of pictures hit different. Beauty school days. A bunch of selfies with Alicia—back when she was still rocking blue lipstick and eyebrow slits. Angelica was in all of them, glowing even in her awkward phases. Tight ponytails, tiny hoops, no makeup but always grinning. Happy, tired, determined.

I smiled to myself, running my thumb over the edge of one. She was so young. Still her, but soft in the way people are before life starts to calcify your edges.

"You were cute," I said.

"I was exhausted," she shot back. "I used to fall asleep under the dryers between clients."

"And you still looked cute."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue.

At the very bottom of the box, under a bent binder and a crushed flyer for a pep rally, was a thick, folded piece of paper with my name scribbled across the back. I paused, my fingers brushing the edges.

She didn't say anything at first, but I could feel her freeze behind me.

"What's this?" I asked, even though I already knew.

"That's nothing. Give me that." She reached for it.

I pulled it back, eyes on hers. "You wrote me a letter?"

"It's old. I was mad. Don't—Maleek, seriously—"

But I was already unfolding it.

She groaned and flopped back on the floor like she couldn't bear to watch. "You're the worst."

I didn't respond. My eyes were already scanning the page.

Her handwriting was the same—looped, rushed, a little messy. But the words? The words were something else. Raw. Restless. She'd written it during one of the many Gavin meltdowns she never told me about. Something about a fight they had over her staying late at the salon she was interning at. Him accusing her of caring more about clients than their future. Her feeling trapped. Alone. Second-guessing every decision that led her away from the life she might've had with me.

And then… my name.

The way she wrote it.

"I don't even know if you'd want to hear from me. I don't know what I'd say if you answered. I just miss you. Sometimes it feels like everything would make more sense if you were here, or if I had the guts to leave. Sometimes I think I already know who I belong to. And it's not him."

I didn't realize I'd gone completely silent until I felt her shift beside me, nervous.

When I looked up, she was avoiding my gaze, pretending to be busy refolding the old Badu poster.

"You really felt like this the whole time?" I asked.

She hesitated. "I don't know. I guess. It was stupid. I never sent it, Maleek. It doesn't matter now."

But it did. I could hear it in her voice—the way her bravado softened into something smaller, more vulnerable.

I folded the letter carefully and set it down between us.

Neither of us said anything for a moment. I looked at the letter — her handwriting, her name for me, those words written in the dark of someone else's life — and felt the years of it settle in my chest.

She was watching me. I could feel it.

"It matters," I said, quieter this time. "Even then… you felt like this."

She finally looked at me, her eyes wide and unsure.