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Frank tossed the envelope on his kitchen counter. Walked away from it. Got halfway down the hallway, almost at the foot of the stairs, and turned around. He went back to the kitchen.
He couldn’t look at the letter directly—only through his peripherals, at the outer corner of his eyes, as if it was Medusa and he would be turned to stone. With his left thumb, he ran his finger over the ink on the front, first his father’s name, then his mother’s, then his, then Joe’s. To Fenton, Laura, Frank and Joe Hardy. The letter had come all the way from Chicago, from River Heights. From her.
This was ridiculous. There was no rational reason why he was being this way. He’d ignored all her phone calls, then her wave of worried text messages, long before this envelope had ended up in his mailbox two days ago. But there was something separating him from the issue—the digital barrier of phone calls and text messages made things feel less intimate than holding a piece of mail that she had once touched herself. He found himself unable to open it. Just like the day before that and the day before that. Just like when Joe had offered to open it himself, and Frank had practically torn off Joe’s hand in protest, stashing the letter upstairs in his room.
It felt selfish. The letter was addressed to his family, for Christ’s sake. It was not intended to be this personal. It was not supposed to be this difficult. He was supposed to open the envelope, read its contents, place the included photographs on their fridge—just like they did with every single other holiday card they’d gotten this year. But something about this felt destructive, self-sabotaging, as if he would open the flap and release something he was unprepared to deal with. Like Pandora’s box, he was not ready to take that plunge.
But he needed to be. He could not keep lying to himself—or Joe, for that matter—about why the letter remained unopened. His mother would ask about it soon; she’d been gracious in giving him the time and space to process the letter’s (weirdly) intimate meaning on his own time, but her patience would not last forever. She would want to call Carson and his daughter and thank them for the kind words. She would also want to return the favor. That’s the type of woman Laura Hardy was.
He eyed the envelope. The corner was beginning to tear from being tossed around so flippantly from place to place. Taking a deep breath, he allowed himself to turn over the letter in his hands, stuck one of his nails under the fold, and slowly push it open. He hated how he could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He hated how slow he was going. This was ridiculous. He was being fucking ridiculous.
The envelope popped open. He squeezed his eyes shut, thought about it, took another deep breath, and reopened them. He could see a fraction of a photo peeking out and before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled it out of the envelope.
Something fell to his feet. He hardly noticed. He was too busy staring at the family photo in his hands. The people in the photo were bordered by fancy script that read Happy Holidays!! with two exclamation points as if that was supposed to make him feel better.
Nancy looked the same as always. Radiant. Carson stood to her left, crouched down with one arm on Toto’s head, the little guy beaming in his version of a smile. Behind him, Hannah stood looking matronly, one arm on Carson’s shoulder, the other hidden behind her frame. But next to Nancy—on her immediate right—was a face Frank was not expecting to see.
He didn’t even know why he was so upset about it. Ned was her boyfriend. Full stop. End of sentence. They’d been together for so long that he had lost count of the years spent pining over a girl with no interest in him. But there was something about seeing Ned so close to her, in a family photo, no less, that made Frank want to throw the entire thing into the furnace. He had no desire to hang this one up on his fridge. Let Ned’s eyes follow him from the kitchen to the dining room every time they sat for a meal. A constant reminder that he was there, and Frank was here, hundreds of miles away.
No. He needed to get rid of it. His mother would understand. She always did. Maybe not entirely—there was a part of her that was skeptical—but she would understand once Frank told her how upsetting this was, how he could not see Ned’s face every single fucking morning when he tried to grab his coffee creamer from the fridge, and I just think I’ll do better if you put this somewhere else, somewhere I can’t see it all the time.
He stuffed the image back into the envelope, feeling himself start to panic. His throat tightened. His muscles ached. He felt the pit in his stomach begin to expand. He knew what would come next—the tunnel vision, the dizziness, the claustrophobia. Intense heat, intense cold. Numbness. That was the worst.
His panic attacks had been mitigated, for the most part, by the distance. Not being around Nancy meant he didn’t actively think about her or his growing feelings. Joe had equated it to having a middle school crush: once you have other options, that person isn’t as desirable as you once thought.
He had been wrong. So fucking wrong.
Envelope in hand, he made a beeline to the living room, repeating the same two things in his head: Start a fire, burn the photo. He wouldn’t tell anyone about it. No one was home, anyway.
His heartbeat quickened. He was beginning to sweat.
He grabbed one of the quick-starter logs from the box by the fireplace, practically threw it into the coals, and then scrambled to find a match. He was engulfed in it now, the panic—it was a haze, something otherworldly. He was acting on autopilot, the envelope clutched so tightly in his hands that it was beginning to bend and form creases. He didn’t care. He wanted nothing more to see it reduced to ashes. Right now.
The match sparked to life immediately. He tossed it into the fireplace, let the log catch flame, then added a couple of smaller pieces of wood until he could feel the heat on the tops of his calves. Ripping off his outer layer and tossing his sweater onto the couch behind him, he tried to slow his breathing, his hands balled into fists. The letter was crumpled. It didn’t matter. He was fully enthralled in his anxiety to the point where he felt like he was just barely keeping his mouth above the crashing waves, like he was drowning but slowly, painfully.
He couldn’t breathe steady, not with the image of Nancy and Ned swirling in his brain. He’d half-expected an engagement photo by now. Maybe Ned would propose at Christmas this year. Maybe he already bought the ring. Maybe the wedding would be in a year, in June. Maybe he would be asked—forced—to go, to attend, to sit as a guest in the stuffy pews and watch her kiss him on the fucking lips.
When he came out of it, he was hyperventilating. He could tell because he was making wheezing noises and his body was practically convulsing from the strain. He pulled back the protective mesh from the fireplace, threw the letter inside the shoot, and watched it catch flame.
It was working. The quicker the envelope burned, the calmer he began to feel. His breathing began to slow. His vision returned as normal. Muscles finally relaxed. Thoughts stopped their violent spiral.
“Frank?”
He didn’t turn. He had to see the entirety of it burn before he would be okay again.
“Frank, are you okay?” Joe said from the doorway. He couldn’t see, but Frank could tell Joe was nervous. Scared, probably. Confused. Maybe even disappointed.
Frank didn’t answer. The fire spread to the last part of the envelope, the outer edge.
“What’s this?” Joe asked.
Frank did not budge. Heard Joe bend over, scuffle around on the floor. Take a few cautious steps closer.
The letter was gone. Consumed.
Frank turned to Joe. He knew he probably looked crazy. “What is what?”
Joe held up a tiny, folded piece of paper, the word Frank written on the side. “Did you open the letter?” he asked. Frank nodded. Refused to go into further detail. “This must’ve been inside. You might have dropped it.”
Frank stared at the note, but his body was exhausted. He could not get himself to take it from his brother’s hand. “What does it say?” he asked instead.
Joe hesitated, then unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned the writing. He swallowed. “Do you want me to read it?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I think you should look at it,” Joe insisted, holding out the paper. It was no bigger than a sticky note. “It wouldn’t be the same coming from me.”
Frank sighed. He took the note. It was in her handwriting, that much was evident.
I miss you. Please call me back.
Without another thought, he tossed that note into the fire to join the others. Then he left without another word, leaving Joe in the parlor and her words in flames.