It was strange how fast Grant had become a fixture in my life, and then disappeared. I’d cut him off just as quickly as I’d let him in.
On Tuesday, there was coupon in my mailbox for the pizza place he liked, and I went to hang it on my fridge, only to remember I didn’t like it enough to order a large pizza for myself.
Wednesday, flowers arrived. Classic red roses with baby’s breath and greenery, in a tall square vase. The card simply said, I’m sorry. I was still angry enough with him that I considered tossing all of it in the garbage, but it had been forever since I’d had fresh flowers in my place, and the arrangement was gorgeous.
I didn’t want to admit to myself the real reason I kept them. I was a sucker for a romantic gesture. Come on, Tara. Apology flowers from boys were cliché, and I was a twenty-eight-year-old woman. Hadn’t I outgrown that shit by now?
I sipped my coffee as I stared at the velvety red roses. Apparently not.
A package was delivered on Thursday from the Law Offices of Sterns and Clifford. More paperwork from Dance Dreams? I’d already signed my life away, what was left to do? It was odd, though, that the address was on Wacker Drive here in Chicago, and not from New York. I tore open the end of the thick mailer and dumped the contents on my coffee table.
It was a cover sheet and a thin book, covered in black cardstock and bound with brass brads. There wasn’t a title on it. I picked up the sheet and read.
I know you don’t want to hear from me. I will do my best to honor that after this letter.
I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. On Sunday, I sat down at my computer to organize my thoughts and try to explain why I did it. I could give you an excuse how I’d only intended to read the entry about our night, but then I was too fucking curious to stop, and was riveted by your words from start to finish.
But there’s no excuse. I did it because I wanted to know more about you, even the parts you chose not to share with me yet. I violated your trust and am ashamed I couldn’t be patient enough to let you make that decision.
I sat down at my computer and intended to write this letter, but something else came out. I went to the club looking for a story, and on Sunday night, I found it. It just wasn’t the one I was expecting.
Enclosed you will find the first three chapters.
Shove it in a drawer. Set it on fire. Rewrite it. Or publish it. It’s yours to do whatever you’d like. I haven’t and won’t share it with anyone else. It’s not my story—it’s yours.
If you’d like me to continue or have notes, I am here for whatever you need.
-Grant
P.S. I’m sorry for using one of Ruby’s envelopes, but I wanted to make sure you read this.
I dropped the letter, letting it flutter to the table, and snatched up the book, flipping to the title page. It was written in simple, unassuming font.
The Blindfold Club
by Tara Vannett
- based on a true story –
Intrigued, I turned to the first page and began reading.
Usually when I arrived at the club, I went to the lounge, changed into my robe, and chatted with the other girls about how their week had gone, but tonight I went into Julius’s office.
He was sitting at his desk, and the wall of monitors behind him was dark since the club wasn’t open yet. When he saw me, he motioned for me to have a seat. “Shut the door.”
Julius’s door was always open. Was he firing me?
I pulled it closed but refused to sit. Just like everyone else, he’d been lying to me. I’d texted him a week ago from the back of my cab after leaving Regan’s apartment, tears stinging my eyes. I’d asked if he knew who she really worked for, and he’d answered by telling me it was complicated.
Which meant yes.
“How did you find out?” he asked softly.
“Her boyfriend slipped.”
He steepled his fingers together, his elbows on the desktop. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. Nobody knows, and I’m not supposed to talk about it.” His expression was reassuring. “You’re safe. They do their thing and we do ours, and everyone stays happy.” He eyed the black book I had clutched in my hands. “What’s that?”
I dropped it on his desk with a thud. “The first three chapters of the book I’m thinking about publishing.”