The Letter I Folded Into His Book Eight Years Ago

My palm slapped against the brittle yellow paper, trapping the white envelope securely against page eighty-eight.

Vanessa flinched, snatching her manicured fingers back as if the pages had burned her.

"Jesus, Elise," she muttered, rubbing her wrist. "Fine. Keep your dusty book."

"I need to put this away," I said. My voice sounded hollow, completely detached from the rapid pounding in my chest.

I gripped the cold metal rims of my wheelchair and pushed backward. The rubber tires squeaked against the faded rug as I spun away from the coffee table.

"Let me help you, honey," my mother said, stepping forward with her hands outstretched.

"I've got it." I forced the wheels over the transition strip of the hallway linoleum. "Stay with our guests."

I navigated the narrow corridor to my bedroom, leaving the door cracked open. The familiar silence of the small room wrapped around me. I tossed the green hardcover onto the edge of my mattress, ensuring the pages remained tightly shut.

Slipping off my heavy puffer jacket, I stared down at the back of my hand, where eight years of relentless treatments had left a permanent, bruised map of countless needle punctures. Every single check-up, it had been just me and my mother, her hands gripping the handles of my wheelchair as we faced another round of failing hope.

The floorboards creaked outside.

Leighton pushed the bedroom door wide open. He didn't bother to knock. He leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders filling the space, his eyes scanning the cramped, shadowy room.

"Nice setup," he drawled. "Very glamorous."

"You shouldn't be in here, Leighton."

"Why not?" He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft click. "Vanessa is busy telling your mother about our upcoming trip to the Maldives. I figured we could finish our chat."

"We have nothing to talk about."

"I disagree." He closed the distance between us, stopping just inches from my footrests. "I want to know about this amazing life you traded me for. Where's the big career? Where's the rich guy who was going to give you the world?"

I kept my hands folded over my lap. "I never said there was another guy."

"You didn't have to." Leighton let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You stood in my dorm room and told me I dragged you down. You said you needed better prospects."

His words dug into my chest, twisting like a serrated blade. I remembered that night perfectly. I had just hidden the terminal biopsy report under my mattress. I screamed those lies until my throat bled, just to make him let go of me.

"You were going to London," I said softly. "You had a fellowship."

"And I wanted you to come with me!" he shouted. The sudden volume rattled the cheap windowpanes. He caught himself, his jaw clenching as he lowered his voice. "I offered you everything I had. But it wasn't enough. You wanted money. You wanted status. And look what it got you."

He gestured sharply at my wheelchair.

"Karma is a bitch, Elise. You threw me away for a better future, and now you're stuck in a rotting house, unable to even stand up."

A sharp sting hit the back of my eyes. I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the physical pain to ground myself. I couldn't defend myself. If I told him the truth now, it would ruin his engagement. It would ruin his life.

I let the insult wash over me. The venom in his voice was a shield. As long as he hated me, he was safe from the truth.

"Are you happy, Leighton?" I asked.

He blinked. The question clearly caught him off guard. "What?"

"With Vanessa. With your career." I forced myself to look up, meeting his hostile gaze. "Have you been doing well?"

His expression darkened. "Don't try to change the subject. Don't act like you care."

"I do care. I just want to know if you're happy."

Leighton crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm fantastic. I run a firm. I make seven figures. I'm marrying a woman who actually respects me. My life started the second I got rid of you."

"Good." I managed a small, fragile smile. "I'm glad."

My lack of retaliation seemed to infuriate him even more. He wanted a fight. He wanted the fiery, stubborn girl he dated in college to scream back at him.

"You're pathetic," he spat. He turned away, pacing toward the edge of my bed. "You sit here acting like a saint when we both know you're completely hollow inside."

"If calling me names helps you, then go ahead."

"It doesn't help me." He stopped pacing and glared at the mattress. "Nothing about this helps me. Coming here was a mistake."

"Then leave."

"I will."

Leighton reached down and grabbed the vintage copy of The Great Gatsby off the edge of my bed.

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Put that down."

"Why?" He weighed the hardcover in his palm, running his thumb over the gold lettering. "Vanessa liked it. She collects these old editions."

"It's mine, Leighton. Put it back."

"You owe me," he said, his eyes flashing with a cruel, vindictive light. "For the plane ticket I almost didn't board. For the months I spent drinking myself sick over you. Consider this a small souvenir of your current misery."

He didn't open the cover. He didn't see the thick white envelope tucked securely between page eighty-eight and eighty-nine.

"Leighton, please," I whispered. My voice cracked, betraying the panic clawing at my throat. "Don't take that."

"Watch me."

He turned his back to me and strode out of the bedroom, his fingers wrapped tightly around the worn green spine.