Wicked Restless

“Ugh,” I sigh. “Fine.”

I stomp my feet playfully back to my room, returning to my closet, to the rows of boring formal wear and pantsuits. I pull out the silk pants and decide those will be good enough.

“Hey, Em?” Lindsey calls down the hall. “I forgot to give you something. Your dad…he came by. He left something for you. He said it was important.”

“My dad came by? He knows my schedule,” I say, my brow pulled in and my mouth twisted while I try to both figure out why my father came when I wasn’t here and how to work the tight band of my pants over my hips. I haven’t worn these in a year, and it seems my hips are not willing to work with me tonight. I discard them and reach for the cocktail dress I bought on sale over the summer and have never had a chance to wear.

“Yeah, I thought it was weird too. He said something about having to take your brother somewhere or something. I don’t know. But he left this,” she says as she enters my room. She tosses a large manila envelope on my bed as I spin to face her. I glance at it, but don’t recognize it. It must be my mail from home. Sometimes I get magazines.

“What do you think?” I ask, bending down to pull on my silver strappy heals. These shoes make me taller than anyone in the room—always. I think the only person who could possibly stand taller than me in these shoes…is Andrew.

I huff and right my posture, shaking my curls from my shoulders, then spinning to one side so Lindsey can properly evaluate my outfit, a slender-fitting gray dress with a back that dips low. She smiles, but tilts her head to the side. She glances to my dresser top, her eyes lighting up when she spots a pin. “Here, let me just try something,” she says, pulling the pin in her hand, opening it and taking a small strand of my hair between her fingers. She twists it into a tight line, pulling it to the back of my head where she fastens it in place. “There,” she says, standing back with her arms crossed. “Now he can see your eyes.”

My shoulders relax as I smile back at her. With a simple gesture, Lindsey has made me feel beautiful.

“Thanks,” I say, taking one more deep breath.

“Relax,” she says. “He already likes you.”

I nod and keep my happy expression in place, never letting her know that what I’m really worried about is me liking him.

Lindsey retreats to her room, probably to get ready for Andrew’s visit, and for a moment, I think about walking to her room and telling her everything. My feet never leave their comfortable roots in my carpet though. I tell myself that it’s because I just don’t want to ruin my friend’s happiness. And that’s definitely part of my reason. But I’m also scared. I’m afraid of how she’ll react, afraid it will ruin something between us, and maybe…maybe a little afraid that it will solidify the path for Andrew and me. Lindsey and I wouldn’t survive that. I’d have to pick. And my heart is so very selfish.

Graham will be here soon, so I look over my dress once more, making sure everything that should be hidden, is. This is a dinner with important people, so I decide to pull out the thin black sweater just to be safe. I look over myself once more in the mirror to see how the sweater lies in the back, and I catch a glimpse of the envelope on my bed behind me. I step over to it and lift it in one hand, a little surprised at how heavy it feels.

Sitting on my bed, I listen to the sound of our apartment. Nothing.

I pull the envelope into my lap and slide my finger along the poorly-sealed edge, reaching in. My fingers find a stack of thick-feeling paper, and when I pull what’s inside out, my eyes catch up to what I think my soul already knew, and time stops. Even the handwriting cuts to the core, the way he took care to write my name, the look of his own name on paper. Every single envelope is sealed. Never opened.

“Your words went into oblivion,” I whisper to myself, the tears pooling up quickly. I glance up to my door, my feet following my gaze to the lock on my door, and I click it, rushing back to the envelopes that were all meant for me—the words I should have read years ago.

These letters represent the gap in everything from my life before to now.

With a hard swallow, I tear into the one on top.

Emma,

I’m sorry that this has to be a letter. It’s the only thing I’m allowed to do. I wanted to call you, but there really wasn’t an opportunity. I didn’t know where to call, either. All this time, and I still never asked you for your phone number. I’m such a jerk.

The past floods my insides, overtaking me completely. The envelopes still in my hand feel hot to touch, and I drop them on the bedspread beside me, spreading them out like a deck of cards, the one letter I began to read still on top.