The Letter I Folded Into His Book Eight Years Ago

The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind us, cutting off Leighton's voice.

"How far is far?" The question still rattled against my eardrums as my mother shoved my wheelchair over the concrete driveway toward our rusted sedan.

She popped the trunk and wrestled the metal frame inside. I dragged myself into the passenger seat, resting my head against the cold glass of the window as the engine sputtered to life.

Watching the Miller estate shrink in the rearview mirror, I traced the condensation on the glass. Eight years ago, I locked my terminal biopsy report inside my desk drawer, and three days later, I screamed every vicious lie I could invent just to force him onto his flight to London.

Now, the worn, green spine of The Great Gatsby sat heavily on my thighs.

My mother had pulled it from her tote bag and placed it there before starting the car. I ran a bruised fingertip over the frayed fabric cover. Tucked exactly at page eighty-eight, a sealed white envelope rested untouched. Eight years of silence, folded into a single square of paper.

I didn't open the book. I just kept my hand pressed flat against the cover.

"We'll get you straight into bed," my mother said, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "You need your pain medication."

"I'm fine, Mom."

"You are not fine, Elise. He had no right to speak to you that way."

"He doesn't know."

"That doesn't give him a pass to be cruel."

"Drop it," I whispered, closing my eyes. "We'll never see him again anyway."

We pulled into our narrow driveway. The cracked asphalt bumped under the tires. My mother hurried around to my side, unfolding the wheelchair and helping me settle back into the vinyl seat.

She pushed me through the front door and into the center of our cramped living room. The faded floral sofa and the scratched coffee table felt entirely too small after the sprawling marble foyer of the Miller estate.

"I'll get your pills," she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

I stayed in the middle of the rug, staring at the blank television screen. The book remained on my lap.

The doorbell rang.

Three sharp, impatient buzzes echoed through the quiet house.

My mother hurried out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She pulled the front door open, ready to turn away whoever was selling magazines or asking for donations.

She froze.

Leighton stood on our front porch.

He had shed his navy suit jacket, rolling the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up to his elbows. Right beside him stood his fiancee, Vanessa. She had swapped her heels for designer flats, but her posture remained just as arrogant.

"What are you doing here?" my mother demanded, blocking the doorway.

"My parents insisted," Leighton said. He didn't look at her. His gaze cut straight over her shoulder, pinning me to my chair. "They wanted us to catch up. Old family ties and all that."

"We don't want you here," my mother snapped. "Leave."

"It's alright, Mom," I called out. My voice sounded thin, frail. "Let them in."

My mother hesitated, her shoulders rigid, before stepping aside.

Leighton walked into our living room like he owned the property. He stopped in front of the coffee table, towering over me. Vanessa trailed behind him, her eyes darting across the peeling wallpaper and the stained lampshades.

"Cozy," Vanessa murmured, wrapping her arms around her chest. "Very vintage."

"Why did you really follow us, Leighton?" I asked, keeping my hands resting firmly over the green book.

"I told you. My parents made me." He shoved his hands into his pockets, scanning the room. "They think it's a tragedy about your legs. Wanted me to see if you needed anything. Money, maybe? A better chair?"

"We don't need your charity," my mother said from the entryway.

"It's not charity, Mrs. Marchetti," Leighton fired back, his tone heavy with condescension. "It's pity. There's a difference."

"You have no right to come into my home and insult my daughter."

"Your daughter insulted me fine on her own," Leighton said, turning his attention back to me. "Isn't that right, Elise? Or did you forget how to speak along with how to walk?"

"I have nothing to say to you," I replied.

He leaned down, bringing his face closer to mine. The sharp scent of cedar filled my lungs again, thick and suffocating.

"Is that why you came back?" he asked, his tone dropping into a low, mocking register. "Did your new life fall apart? Did the guy you left me for finally figure out how empty you are?"

"I came back because I wanted to," I said.

"Right. You just felt like rolling back into town after eight years of absolute silence." He let out a harsh laugh. "Where is he, anyway? The guy who was so much better than me?"

"He isn't here."

"Obviously. Did he dump you when the wheelchair arrived?"

I clamped my teeth together. The metallic taste of blood seeped onto my tongue.

"You know, you had a lot more fire in you the night you walked out," Leighton pressed, his eyes narrowing. "You stood right in my dorm room and told me I was nothing but a stepping stone."

"People change."

"You said I was too boring for you. That my plans for London were a joke."

"I remember what I said."

"Do you?" He straightened up, his jaw tight. "Because looking at you now, it seems like karma did my work for me. You just got quieter. And a lot more pathetic."

Vanessa stepped up beside him, resting her hand lightly on his forearm. The massive diamond on her finger flashed under our dim ceiling light.

"Don't be too hard on her, babe," Vanessa said, offering me a pitying smile. "It must be terribly difficult, living like this. Confined to a chair all day. I could never imagine losing my mobility."

"She brought it on herself," Leighton said.

"Still," Vanessa continued, looking around our cramped living room. "It's very... humbling. The peeling wallpaper. The tiny windows. It really puts things into perspective."

"Vanessa, please," my mother warned, her voice trembling with anger.

"I'm just making an observation," Vanessa said, feigning innocence. "Leighton told me you used to be so vibrant, Elise. It's just sad to see you like this."

I stared at the zipper of his trousers, refusing to look him in the eye. Every word he spoke drove another nail into my ribs, but I welcomed the pain. It meant my plan had worked.

He hated me. He moved on. He built a perfect, healthy life with a woman who could actually walk down the aisle.

"If you're done delivering your parents' message," I said, keeping my voice entirely flat, "you can leave."

"Kicking me out again?" Leighton asked.

"I'm just tired."

"You were always tired of me, weren't you?" He took half a step back, shaking his head. "I spent years trying to figure out what I did wrong. Why you threw us away like garbage."

"Leighton, please."

"I almost didn't get on that plane to London because of you," he sneered. "I almost threw away my entire career to stay here and beg you to take me back."

My chest tightened. The disease beneath my ribs throbbed in time with my racing heartbeat.

"But looking at you now?" Leighton continued, his voice devoid of any warmth. "I realize you just never had a heart to begin with. You did me a favor."

"Think whatever you want," I said softly.

"I will."

Vanessa sighed, clearly bored by the tension radiating between us. She released his arm and wandered toward the sofa, her eyes landing on my lap.

"Is that a first edition?" she asked, pointing a manicured finger at the book resting on my thighs.

"It's just a book," I said, pulling it slightly closer to my stomach.

"I love Gatsby," Vanessa continued, ignoring my dismissal. She closed the distance between us in two quick strides. "Leighton actually bought me a rare print for my birthday last year. Let me see the cover."

"No," I said, my voice finally cracking.

I tried to pull the book away, but my right hand lacked the strength. My bruised fingers slipped against the fabric.

Vanessa didn't listen. She reached down and grabbed the top edge of the hardcover, yanking it upward.

"Don't touch that!" my mother yelled, stepping forward.

It was too late.

Vanessa pulled the book from my lap. The sudden motion caused the worn binding to fall open.

The pages fluttered wildly, fanning out in the air.

It fell open to page eighty-eight.

The thick, yellowed paper of the sealed white envelope slid from the crease, dropping halfway out of the book.

I threw my entire body forward and slammed my palm flat against the exposed paper.