Harry raises an eyebrow. “I have two daughters, Rose. I know a lie when I see one.”
“You mean, hear one?” I correct him, laughing to lighten my statement.
“No, I mean, see one,” he says, pointing at my face. “You looked up to the right when you answered my question. That means you are lying, Miss Rose.”
I sigh. “It is nothing. It’s just received an email from Frankie. I’ll be fine. I just need to move past it.”
“Oh bother, why don’t you let me respond to the chap. I’ll take care of him once and for all.”
I laugh because I think Harry is serious. He walks back over to me rather than leaving through the front door, and places his hands on my shoulders. “I know, it’s only been a year since you’ve been in our family’s lives, but I look at you much like
I look at my two daughters, Rose. You deserve happiness, and you don’t deserve what that man did to you. Plus, you came here to London to fix your heart—you can’t fix something that’s broken when there is an object lodged in the cracks.” Harry leans forward and places a father-like kiss on my forehead and turns to walk away. “Listen to the old man. I’ve been around the block a few times.”
How do I explain to anyone that sending that letter yesterday made me feel good? It’s my way of having the last word, which is why I brought another piece of paper here with me today. Eventually, I will run out of words. It might be what heals me.
I place the paper down onto the glass countertop and reach for the pen that’s on top of the order form beside me.
The second the tip of the pen touches the paper, relief washes through me.
Dear No Name no-name,
I wonder if “no-name” should use capitalization. It’s supposed to represent your name, so I suppose I should capitalize it. However, I remember learning that capitalization is meant for important proper nouns. You are not important to me. Therefore, I change my mind.
I have decided to let you know that I have moved to London, a place far away from you. I’m happy here. It’s beautiful and quiet. People are friendly and loving here.
I bet you there are no cheaters living in this small town. Maybe that’s because someone outlawed all cheaters from this place. If that’s the case, I would be safe from you finding me here, wouldn’t I?
I woke up this morning with the urge to tell you: I hate you.
There it is. I hate you, Frankie.
I plan to continue writing you these letters until I feel it’s clear how much I hate you. Funny enough, I had no intention of sending you the letter I did yesterday, but as soon as I signed my name and slipped the paper into an envelope, the urge to finish the job was incredible. I’m supposed to trash the letter and feel better, but I knew I wouldn’t feel as good as I do knowing you see these hateful words.
I doubt you have realized this yet, but I stole your 1952 Mickey Mantle baseball card. Last night, I lit it on fire and threw into the metal trash bin in front of my house. I feel like you may have mentioned that it was worth over a million dollars at some point. So, that sucks.
Anyway, I hope Amber is treating you well, making you your favorite meals, cleaning up after your sloppy ass, and bringing in matching income. I know you loved all those aspects of our marriage.
I hated those aspects of our marriage. I hated all the meals you loved. I hated cleaning up your gross socks and underwear because you couldn’t manage to drop them into the laundry bin just two feet away. I hated that you wouldn’t agree to me starting a blog, making it profitable so I could become a freelance writer rather than working at a low-paying newspaper job. I supported you all those years, and you didn’t care about anything I loved.
Therefore, now, I can easily tell you: I hate you.
I know I’ve already said so once in this letter, but it’s important for you to know that I don’t miss you at all. I’m having the time of my life here. Thank you for breaking my heart and setting me free.
Love,
Rose
4
Two Months Later
“Oh, Rose,” Suzette sighs, walking in through the front door. She isn’t due to be home for another hour.
“What are you doing home so early?” I ask.
“We’re supposed to get some nasty storms tonight, so we closed down early for the night. Is this what you do when I’m not home?” She’s referring to the handwritten letter I’m completing. If I was working, I would be typing on my laptop. She knows exactly what I’m doing.
“It’s—”