Fiance Next Door

She pauses. I’m guessing she’s hesitating because Aster is with me.

“It’s okay, Giselle. You can tell us.”

She draws a breath. “Older injuries. And these are not from football. There’s a scar on his shoulder that looks like a bullet graze. From how bad it’s healed, I’m guessing he just patched himself up.”

“A bullet graze?” Aster sounds as puzzled as I am.

“And he has needle marks,” Giselle adds.

I frown. I’m less surprised by that. Still, I was hoping he wouldn’t resort to drugs.

“Anyway, I’m really worried about him,” Giselle says. “I tried asking him questions, but he wouldn’t answer any of them. Also, he told me not to call you, but I just had to. I had to talk to someone.”

“Did he say not to call me specifically?” I ask. “Or just not to call anyone?”

“Not to call you,” Giselle answers. “And not to alert any cops.”

I nod. “I see.”

“Mason, is Lee in trouble?” Giselle asks.

I can tell from her voice that she really is worried, and I can tell from the look on Aster’s face that she’s the same.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I’ll find out.”

“And you’ll let me know?” Giselle asks hopefully.

“Yes.”

“Thanks. I have to go. Nice to talk to you, Aster. We’ll talk more next time. As sisters. I have to go.”

The call ends. Still, Aster remains silent, the expression on her face serious as she touches her chin.

“Hey.” I grab her hand. “Don’t worry about Leander, okay? Let me do it.”

Aster’s eyes grow wide. “I thought you were mad at him.”

“You told me there’s nothing going on between the two of you, so no,” I tell her. “Besides, he’s still my brother.

She nods.

I squeeze her hand. “Let me take care of Leander. You take care of your dad, okay? Help him move into his new home.”

Finally, I see a smile. A faint one, but a smile just the same.

“Okay.”

Chapter Twenty-Three ~ Doubt

Aster

I hum an old tune, the title of which I don’t know, as I transfer my father’s clothes from his closet to the suitcase. All I know is that my dad used to sing it to me.

Maybe I should ask him. He seems to remember stuff like that. He just can’t remember the important things, like the fact that he quit his job or that his wife died or that he has a daughter.

I press one of his shirts to my chest. It smells like him. At least, it smells like the old him. Like his old soap and his old deodorant, which he doesn’t want to use anymore. Maybe I should keep this one as a souvenir.

I move on to the next shirt in the pile but stop as I see something at the back of the closet – a paper bag with the name and logo of Mason’s company on it. It piques my curiosity.

I didn’t see this back in Mason’s apartment, so my dad must have had it for a while. Or maybe it’s what Mason gave him when he came home for Giselle’s wedding? Maybe Mason gave my dad something more than that gaming thing?

I pull it out. Inside, I see a pen, also from Mason’s company. Then I see envelopes with letters inside – one addressed to me and another to Mason.

I sit on the edge of the bed and read mine. At the end, tears are trickling down my face.

I wipe them away. Strange. I don’t usually cry. Then again, if any dad wrote this kind of letter to his daughter, she would surely cry.

It’s a kind of a goodbye letter. I have a feeling my dad wrote it some months ago, when he felt like his Alzheimer’s was getting worse. He wanted to tell me things before he lost the chance to tell them, the kind of things a man would say on his deathbed.

I glance at Mason’s envelope. Why would he have something for Mason, though? We only got married a little over a month ago.

I hold Mason’s letter in my hands. It isn’t sealed, which makes it even more tempting to read.

Should I?

I know I shouldn’t. It’s not right to read other people’s letters. But my curiosity wins.

I’ll just take a peek.

Or so I tell myself, but I end up reading one line after another and my eyes grow wide. When I’m done, the letter falls from my hands as I let out a gasp.

No.

I regret reading it now, knowing the information it contains. But since I did, I need to know if what it says is true. And since my father can’t talk about it, there’s only one person to ask.

~

“What are you doing here?” Mason asks me when I show up at his office. “I thought you were packing your dad’s stuff.”

“I was,” I admit. “That’s how I found this.”

I hold up the white envelope in my hand.