“I was thinking, Mama …” I say. “Now that you and Dad have a little extra money, maybe you should take over the home nurse payments? Get August his money back?”
She pauses, mid-reach, for a Santa ornament.
“It’s the right thing to do,” I say. “He only did that because he wanted to be with me—and you won’t allow that. It’s just kind of unfair now, don’t you think?”
Her lips flatten. “After everything that family has done to ours, I think it’s more than fair.”
“But he had nothing to do with any of that.”
“Trust me, the Monreauxs aren’t missing a dime of that money. I doubt Vincent even knows it’s gone.”
“Still doesn’t make it right.”
“That family has caused a mountain of heartbreak for ours over the years. They’ve attacked our names, our reputations, our livelihood …”
“Maybe just think about it?”
She fidgets with another ornament, moving it over and down a couple of branches.
“He’s a good person, Mama,” I add. “He’s kind. And he’s got a good heart. I’m sorry you’ll never get a chance to see that.”
Her lips press flat, like she’s stifling what she really wants to say. And then she takes a step back from the tree to examine her work.
“There’s something on your dresser.” Her voice is so low, I almost don’t hear her.
“What?”
“In your room. On your dresser. There’s a note for you.” She avoids eye contact.
I dash to my room, heart pounding in my ears, and find a slip of folded notebook paper sitting between my vanilla jar candle and a half empty bottle of a perfume I received two birthdays ago.
Unfolding it, I’m met with blue ink and a handful of words from the man I love.
Rose girl—
The night I first saw you, I was coming to save you. Believe it or not, I thought you were drowning. Never could I have imagined it would’ve been you saving me in the end.
Thank you for showing me what love is for the first time in my life.
Thank you for saving me from the monster I was destined to become.
I love you now. I’ll love you always. And if you ever change your mind, I’ll be waiting.
—Enemy Dearest
“How long have you had this?” I ask Mama when I find her standing in my doorway. “And how’d you get it?”
“Adriana dropped it off the week of Thanksgiving,” she says.
It makes sense now, why my parents were so intent on coming to see me for Thanksgiving instead of having me home. They probably figured August would be back, and keeping me close and out of town would keep a safe wedge between us.
Adri texted me a few weeks ago saying she dropped a letter off at the house for me—I assumed she meant it was a piece of mail, like an old pay stub or tax document from work. It didn’t occur to me that she meant a literal letter … nobody writes letters anymore.
“I was only trying to protect you,” Mama says, sighing. “I don’t like that he’s a Monreaux. And I will never forgive his father for what he’s put our family through. But I’m willing to admit that maybe, maybe I was wrong about him.”
“There’s no maybe about it, Mama.”
Grabbing my keys and bag and coat, I hurry to the door.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
“To him.” I skip down snow-shoveled steps and cracked sidewalk and climb inside my still-warm car.
Two months ago, I deleted his number.
I’d gone out with my friends, enjoyed way too many rum and Cokes, and convinced myself I was doing the right thing. That if I no longer had his number, it would be easier because the temptation to text him or call him would be gone.
When I woke the next morning, it took me a second to remember what I’d done.
But instead of feeling empowered, I was nauseous with rum and regret.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m at the wrought iron gate to the Monreaux mansion, frantically hitting the buzzer.
“Monreaux residence, how may I help you?” An older man’s voice greets me through the speaker.
“Hi, I’m here to see August. Is he home?”
“One moment, please.” The speaker goes silent for a minute, then another. I’m about to hit the buzzer again when the iron gates part, and up ahead a man walks toward me in a hunter green parka, his hair blowing in the December wind.
I fly out of my car so fast I leave the driver’s door open, and I sprint to him.
He catches me in his arms, squeezes me until my feet leave the ground, and swings me in a circle.
“Mama gave me your letter,” I say.
His smile fades and his brows narrow. “How did your mom get the letter?”
“Adriana dropped it off at my house … and I guess Mama took it upon herself to read it.”
Maybe that was Adri’s entire point—maybe she knew Mama had read it and hoped it would help her see him in a different light? It’s not like the letter was sealed. I’m sure she read it before she even handed it off.