“What happened?” she whispered.
“He…” I stared into the flames, letting my vision blur with the dancing light. “He came and, out of nowhere, said he thought he was in love with me. But he somehow insulted me at the same time.” I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to tell her that he had insulted our family too. “And I told him I could never be with someone like him who just cares about wealth, someone who treats his friends like crap.”
“His friends?”
“You know Stephen?” I filled her in on everything Stephen had told me.
“What a scumbag.” Jane hugged her knees. Sitting beside my sister, telling her everything and knowing that she agreed with me, made me feel lighter than I had all day.
“I know. And to think Mom loves him.”
“I honestly think she would trade all four of us in exchange for him,” Jane said, and we started laughing and couldn’t stop, our shoulders bumping together, finally doubling over in a breathless heap.
“Are you okay?” Jane asked before we went upstairs.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just want to be home in my own apartment. Away from Mom and the Butkuses.”
“One more day.” And on that cheerful note, we headed up to the loft.
Jane stopped me just outside. “By the way, Dad’s sleeping inthe fourth bed. Mom kicked him out because he should have convinced you to marry Christopher.”
It took several long minutes for us to recover from the subsequent silent giggle-fest.
I climbed into my twin bed. “Good night, Jane. Good night, Owen. Good night, Dad.”
“Night,” they chorused, Dad sounding a little grumpy.
“And Dad… thanks,” I whispered.
CHAPTER 17
EVERYONE WAS QUIET ASwe packed up to leave the next morning. I assumed the twins were tired after their near-death experience. Mom was being solemn and formal after our blowup—very unlike her, but I didn’t ask questions. I just savored the silence.
As I was zipping up my weekender, Jane entered the room. She tapped an envelope against her palm.
“This was on the doormat when Owen and I left for our run earlier.”
Puzzled, I took it from her. It had my name written on the front in unfamiliar handwriting. My stomach sank and fluttered all at once. I didn’t know anyone else in Leavenworth; this could only be from one person.
Jane’s eyes roved across my face, a concerned crease between her brows. “I’ll… let you read it.” She pulled the door closed behind her.
I perched on the edge of my bed and tore the envelope open. Inside was a formal-looking letter, written in smooth, black ink.
July 14th, 6:00 a.m.
Dear Rachel,
I haven’t been able to sleep since our conversation went so badly. I would like to try to explain a few things. I hope you’ll do me the courtesy of reading this letter, though you certainly owe me nothing.
First, I want to apologize for the way I sprang all that on you with no warning. It embarrasses me to the point of physical pain when I think about it. It was just as you said. It was arrogance, pure and simple. I’m sorry that I assumed you shared my feelings. I’m sorry I said hurtful things. I can’t account for my total lack of emotional intelligence in this instance, except maybe to say I got carried away with an idea… a fantasy.
Second, I feel that a few explanations are necessary. This is not to start an argument or to convince you that you were wrong about anything. I fully expect that you never wish to speak to me again, even after reading this, and I understand that. Sometimes, in a heated moment, words don’t come to me as quickly as I’d like. Only afterward can I form coherent thoughts, but I don’t think you have the same problem, do you? Consider these explanations to be both an apology and a plea for you not to think of me as a villain. Though I know you can never see me romantically, I hope you can see me as a decent person.
I will tackle the topic with no easy answer first. You view money as a character flaw, and on that we must disagree. I try to do good in the world. My company was born out of a desire to help the planet. That it has made a lot of money is, in my view, something to be optimistic about. Still, I agree with you that one man does not need an obscene collection of wealth, and I plan to think long and hard about what else I can do with mine.
The topic of my business will, of course, make you think of Stephen Branson. I was surprised by what you told me about him, because I had never before heard that version of events. This is a longer story, so I will try to make it short. I don’t want to speak ill of anyone, but the truth is not flattering. If you ever wish to see evidence to support my side of the story, I have emails and bank statements to back it up.
Yes, Stephen and I were friends in college, and yes, we thought up the concept of Pageant together. After graduation, we parted ways, and when I decided to try Pageant in the real world, I invited him to join me. He, however, claimed that he had a much more lucrative business opportunity and declined. A year or two later, he contacted me to ask for a large sum of money. Our friendship had ended years before, but he was desperate. He had been conned into a multilevel marketing scheme and was out tens of thousands of dollars. I looked into legal defenses, ways to help him get his money back, but when I couldn’t find any, I gave him the money he needed. He had burned a lot of bridges when he was part of the scheme, and he had been my best friend once. He insisted that he would pay me back one day, but I told him the point of me giving him that money was to get him out of debt, and that he could repay me by getting himself a decent job and getting back on his feet. I believe he did that, although I had no evidence one way or another, because I never heard from him again. I have reason to believe he blocked me on everything after I gave him the money. Seeing him at the wedding with you was the first time I’d had any contact with him in years.
