Chapter 2 - The Letter He Never Sent
For several seconds, I couldn't continue reading.
The bedroom felt too quiet.
Outside our windows, someone's lawn mower moved steadily up the street.
A dog barked.
A delivery truck stopped next door.
Normal Sunday sounds.
Inside my bedroom, my hands were shaking hard enough to make the paper tremble.
Avery,
I know you said no.
I forced myself to keep going.
I know you think the age difference matters. Maybe you're right. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything at the lake. But I can't pretend I didn't feel something. I noticed you before anyone else.
My stomach turned.
Before anyone else.
Before me.
I read further.
There were no explicit declarations of an affair.
No evidence Avery had encouraged him.
If anything, the letter suggested the opposite.
Grant wrote that he understood she wanted distance.
He promised not to make things awkward.
Then the letter became stranger.
Your sister is kind. She deserves someone who sees her completely. I'm trying to figure out why being around her makes me feel calmer, but being around you makes me feel alive.
I stopped breathing.
There it was.
Me.
Claire.
A supporting character in my future husband's love letter to my sister.
I turned the page.
Maybe I'm confusing attraction with something bigger. Maybe one day I'll laugh at this. But right now, I can't imagine wanting anyone the way I want you.
The date was June 17.
Grant asked me to dinner on August 3.
Seven weeks.
I lowered the letter.
Then I looked at the photographs.
Avery sitting on the dock at the lake.
Avery laughing beside our mother.
Avery holding a camera.
Avery at my college graduation.
Avery at Christmas.
There were gaps in the years.
Then newer pictures.
Avery at our daughter's fifth birthday.
Avery holding Caleb when he was a newborn.
Avery at Thanksgiving two years ago.
My pulse pounded.
Those recent photographs terrified me more than the letter.
If Grant had written something foolish at twenty-seven, hidden it, then forgotten about it, perhaps I could understand.
But why keep collecting pictures?
Why hide them?
My phone rang.
Grant.
I stared at his name.
Didn't answer.
He called again.
Then texted.
Running late. Picking up lunch. Want anything?
I almost laughed.
Eleven years of secrets inside a nightstand.
And he wanted to know whether I needed a sandwich.
I photographed everything.
Every picture.
Every page of the letter.
Then I returned the box exactly where I found it.
Except for the envelope labeled AVERY.
I kept that.
I needed one thing before confronting Grant.
I needed my sister.
I drove to Avery's apartment.
She opened the door barefoot, wearing black leggings and one of Dad's old college sweatshirts.
Her smile disappeared when she saw my face.
“What happened?”
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
Her apartment smelled like coffee and photo chemicals.
Prints covered one wall.
Couples.
Families.
Newborns.
Avery had built a successful photography business without ever becoming the vain person everyone assumed beautiful women became.
She handed me water.
I didn't drink it.
“Did Grant ever ask you out?”
Avery froze.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
That hurt.
She slowly sat across from me.
“Claire.”
“Answer me.”
“When?”
“You know when.”
She looked toward the floor.
“The lake.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Avery.”
“He asked if I wanted to go into town with him.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I said no.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She looked miserable.
“Because you liked him.”
I stared.
“You knew?”
“You talked about him constantly after that weekend.”
“So you said nothing?”
“I thought it was harmless.”
“Harmless?”
“He backed off immediately.”
“Did he tell you he had feelings for you?”
Avery swallowed.
“Yes.”
The room seemed to shift beneath me.
“When?”
“The last night at the lake.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“He said he couldn't stop thinking about me. I told him I was nineteen and he was twenty-seven and I wasn't interested.”
My eyes burned.
“Then seven weeks later, he asked me out.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“I didn't know immediately. You called me excited after your second date. When you said his name, I realized.”
“And you still didn't tell me.”
“I wanted to.”
“But?”
Avery's eyes filled with tears.
“Mom told me not to.”
That surprised me.
“Mom knew?”
Avery nodded.
I stood.
“Who else knew?”
“Claire, please.”
“Who?”
“Mom. Maybe Dad. I don't know.”
I walked toward the window.
My whole family had known something about the beginning of my marriage that I didn't.
“Why?”
“Because Mom thought Grant had moved on.”
“Seven weeks?”
“She said telling you would only make you insecure.”
I laughed.
It came out broken.
“So everyone decided what I deserved to know.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Did Grant ever contact you after we started dating?”
Avery hesitated.
That hesitation was the second earthquake.
“Avery.”
“Twice.”
I turned.
“When?”
“Once after you two had been together about six months.”
“What did he say?”
“He sent me an email.”
“Do you still have it?”
“No. I deleted it years ago.”
“What did it say?”
“He said he hoped things weren't awkward.”
“That was it?”
Avery's silence answered.
“What else?”
“He said sometimes he wondered whether timing had changed everything.”
My throat tightened.
“And the second time?”
Her eyes closed.
“The night before your wedding.”
I couldn't speak.
Avery rushed forward.
“Claire, nothing happened.”
“What did he do?”
“He called.”
“You answered?”
“I didn't recognize the number.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether I thought he was making the right decision.”
I felt physically sick.
“Marrying me?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him if he had to ask me, he shouldn't marry you.”
The room became painfully still.
“What did he say?”
“He said he loved you.”
I laughed softly.
“Then why call you?”
Avery wiped her eyes.
“I asked him the same thing.”
“And?”
“He said he needed to know that whatever existed between us was really over.”
“What existed?”
“Nothing.”
“Exactly.”
Avery stood.
“I told him there had never been an us. I told him I loved you and that if he ever contacted me like that again, I would tell you.”
My anger faltered.
“You threatened to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Did he contact you again?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Not personally.”
“What does that mean?”
“He sometimes reacts to photos. Family posts. Normal stuff.”
I remembered the photographs in Grant's drawer.
Recent ones.
“Has he ever asked you for pictures?”
“No.”
“Sent you messages?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I believed her.
That made everything worse in a different way.
Grant's fixation didn't appear to be an affair.
It was something lonelier.
Something secret.
Something he had carried into our marriage and preserved like a private museum.
I showed Avery the envelope.
Her face drained.
“He wrote to you.”
She didn't touch it.
“What?”
“Eleven years ago.”
“I never got a letter.”
“I know.”
I showed her the photographs on my phone.
By the third one, Avery looked horrified.
“I didn't give these to him.”
“I know.”
“These are from Mom's social media. Claire, this one is from your house.”
“I know.”
She covered her mouth.
“Oh my God.”
I sat beside her.
For the first time since the dinner, my anger turned into something colder.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Avery grabbed my hands.
“You don't protect me from this.”
“What?”
“You don't worry about whether I feel guilty. You don't protect Mom. You don't protect Grant. You protect yourself and the kids.”
I started crying then.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
Avery held me.
“I never wanted him,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I never wanted your life.”
“I know.”
“You were never second to me.”
That sentence broke me.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Then my phone buzzed.
Grant.
Where are you?
I stared.
Another message appeared.
Emma wants to know if we're still doing movie night.
I wiped my face.
“I have to go home.”
“You don't have to confront him tonight.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“I can't sleep beside that nightstand knowing what's inside.”
Avery looked frightened.
“Then don't do it alone.”
“I won't scream.”
“That isn't what I'm worried about.”
“Grant has never hurt me.”
“I know.”
“But?”
Avery looked toward the photographs on my screen.
“Sometimes you don't know someone until they realize the version of themselves they've been protecting is about to disappear.”
I went home.
Grant was in the kitchen making popcorn with Emma.
Caleb was building a Lego spaceship at the table.
For one surreal moment, we looked like the family from Christmas cards.
Grant smiled.
“There you are.”
I looked at my husband.
The father of my children.
The man who had held my hand during two births.
The man who had once driven through a snowstorm because I wanted lemon ice when I was pregnant.
The man with a box of my sister's photographs hidden beside our bed.
“Kids,” I said, “why don't you take your popcorn upstairs and pick a movie?”
Emma frowned.
“Family movie.”
“In a minute, sweetheart.”
Grant's smile disappeared.
The children left.
I waited until I heard Emma's door close.
Then I placed the envelope on the kitchen counter.
Grant went white.
He didn't ask what it was.
He knew.
That told me everything.
“Claire.”
“How long?”
He stared at the envelope.
“How long what?”
“Don't insult me.”
He looked toward the stairs.
“Lower your voice.”
“My voice is low.”
“Where did you find that?”
“In your nightstand.”
His jaw tightened.
“You went through my things?”
I almost smiled.
There it was again.
He hurt me.
Then became angry about the method by which I discovered it.
“I dropped my phone.”
“You had no right.”
“Interesting.”
“Claire.”
“Did you love Avery when you married me?”
“No.”
“Did you want her?”
“Years before.”
“Did you call her the night before our wedding?”
Grant's face changed.
Very slightly.
But enough.
“You talked to Avery?”
“Yes.”
He looked furious.
Not ashamed.
Furious.
“Of course you did.”
“What does that mean?”
“She always loved being the center of attention.”
I stared at him.
“You called her.”
“She didn't need to tell you.”
“She should've told me nine years ago.”
“So now everyone's against me?”
“This isn't about everyone.”
I pulled out my phone.
I opened a photograph of the black box.
“This is about you.”
Grant sat down.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then:
“You're going to misunderstand those.”
“Try me.”
“They're memories.”
“Of my sister?”
“Of that period of my life.”
“Why no pictures of me?”
“There are thousands of pictures of you.”
“Not in the secret box.”
His eyes met mine.
And suddenly I realized something.
Grant wasn't scared that I had found old photographs.
He was scared I had found something else.
I slowly looked toward the staircase.
“The letter wasn't everything, was it?”
His face went still.
“What are you talking about?”
“There is something else.”
“No.”
“You're lying.”
“Claire.”
“What else is in that drawer?”
He stood abruptly.
“Nothing.”
I stepped backward.
Grant noticed.
His entire expression changed.
“I'm not going to hurt you.”
“I didn't say you were.”
“You moved away.”
“Because you're acting like a stranger.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I need you to listen.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
He looked at the envelope.
Then at me.
Finally he whispered:
“The box isn't really about Avery.”
I stared at him.
“Then who is it about?”
Grant closed his eyes.
And when he opened them, I saw something I had never seen in my husband's face before.
Fear.
“It was about whether I made the biggest mistake of my life.”
My heart sank.
“Marrying me?”
Grant didn't answer.
But he didn't have to.
And then I noticed something sticking from beneath the lining of the envelope.
A tiny folded receipt.
I pulled it out.
A hotel name.
A date.
Four years into our marriage.
May you like
And beside the room number was a handwritten name.
Avery Mercer.
