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Cory kept everything Shawn sent them—every postcard, every birthday card, every letter written on the back of a disposable napkin with an odd orange stain in the corner—in an old shoe box in the back of their closet.
Topanga hadn’t known for years, had figured Shawn’s correspondences regularly got lost in the shuffle of Riley’s math homework, and her briefings, and Cory’s lesson plans, and eventually they were thrown out. But no, she realized one day while rooting through the closet for the pumps she wanted to wear to the firm dinner that night, no he kept everything in a Nike box labeled Shawn.
It was an old box, certainly, the picture on the side the kind of athletic sneakers he hadn’t worn since college, or high school even. Shawn’s name was printed in Sharpie and underlined with a certain finesse, a loopy curl at each end of the line. Topanga stared at the box for a good ten seconds before pulling it out and setting it on the bed she and her husband shared.
It was a Friday afternoon. Topanga had taken off early to get ready for her dinner that night, springing Auggie from daycare and putting him down for his afternoon nap in his own bed. Cory and Riley were still at their separate schools and would be for at least another two hours, so she had the apartment to herself.
Topanga stared at the box, tracing Shawn’s name with her finger. She considered not opening it, considered putting it back in its spot beneath Cory’s snow boots. It was probably nothing, she told herself, maybe pictures from their childhood or high school yearbooks, or something equally benign.
But why, a voice in the back of her head that stemmed from long ago fears whispered, why would it be hidden in the farthest corner of their closet, behind the Hawaiian shirt Eric got him as a joke with hang gliding cats, under the boots he wore three times a year, if that was all it was? Wouldn’t he bring it out, show Riley and Auggie like they did with all their other scraps of childhood?
Topanga sucked in a breath and tried to banish the voice back to the dark corner of her mind from where it came. It was probably nothing, she reiterated to herself.
Still, Topanga had always been curious. It couldn’t hurt to look, could it?
The first thing Topanga saw when she opened the box was the birthday card Shawn had sent Cory three weeks ago. It made her let out a sigh she didn’t know she’d been holding in. So this must be where Shawn’s letters went, she thought. It really was like Cory to be so sentimental, especially about his childhood friend.
She pulled out the card and directly underneath it was the postcard Shawn had sent most recently from Buenos Aires and another plain white envelope Topanga had never seen before. She picked up the envelope, wondering what it was and noticed it was heavy in one corner. She could feel something hard and donut shaped in it and against her better judgement, Topanga pulled out the continents of the already opened envelope.
Inside was a three page letter written in Shawn’s handwriting and a gold ring. Upon inspection, the ring was plain with no stone. It took Topanga a minute to find the only distinguishing factor, a small engraving along one side. When she read it, Topanga’s stomach dove off a cliff.
C + S
She didn’t need anyone to tell her who C and S were because she knew. They were who they always were, always and forever. Cory and Shawn. Shawn and Cory.
Topanga had explained many things away over the course of her relationship with Cory. She’d argued with the voice in her head that he and Shawn were just best friends, just brothers really, united together because of a million shared experiences. She’d rationalized to herself that they were so close because of Shawn's lack of a stable family, because growing up Cory had been his one constant.
Topanga had gotten good at rationalizing, but it was hard to rationalize away a ring, especially when that ring so resembled a wedding band.
With shaking hands, Topanga picked up the letter again and realized it hadn’t been sent to their apartment, but to the school where Cory worked which was why she hadn’t seen it before. Looking at the date stamped on it, it appeared to have been sent for Cory’s most recent birthday.
Topanga didn’t read the letter. She didn’t want to. The first line—Happy Birthday, Cor!—and the last line—Love Always, Shawn—were enough for her. There were some things, some intimate details, that she didn’t need to know.
Topanga put the ring and the letter back in the envelope, then it and the birthday card back in the box. With a two second consideration, she returned the box to its hiding place in the closet and laid down on the bed, staring up at the crack in the ceiling that they always talked about painting over.
Topanga clenched her hands into fists. She wanted to smash things, she wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. She wished she’d never looked in the box and she wished she’d looked in the box before they got married, before they’d built a life together
Some part of her had always known, she figured. Some part of her had always realized that Shawn and Cory were too close to just be friends. It was the part that yelled at them to stop hugging, the part that never asked Cory who he loved more because it already knew the answer.
Topanga sighed and wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing her elbows. She pulled herself up from the bed. She’d better go wake Auggie from his nap if she ever wanted him to fall asleep tonight.
The thing was, she wasn’t a child anymore. She wasn’t twenty and confused and jealous, in a marriage that was functionally nothing different than before they married. Maybe Shawn had a corner of her husband’s heart, maybe he always would, but he wasn’t here. She was here, Riley was here, Auggie was here. That’s what mattered.
If she repeated it to herself, maybe it would be true.