Chapter Three #2
“This is weird.” Arden looked at me, anxiety overtaking the exhilaration. “It’s weird, right? I think I’m having a gut feeling. We’re about to be true crimed.”
“Stop,” I hissed.
“I mean,” Phoebe said, catching my eye. “It’s not not weird.”
It was extremely weird. But I had to keep my shit together, so I rolled my shoulders and donned what I hoped was a casual, cool smile. Phoebe. This is for Phoebe.
The receptionist slipped away, veering to the other end of the building. Flashing us a tight smile, she held up a finger and disappeared through a blue door. The blonde remained in the doorway, watching us with wide eyes, and said, “She’ll be right back.”
Arden leaned to whisper in Phoebe’s ear, “They’re going to eat us, aren’t they?”
I took a step backward to join their huddle. “So, he’s here, right?”
“That or his name is a code for terrorism,” Arden replied.
“They’re, like, afraid,” Phoebe murmured, attention locked on the second door, waiting for the receptionist to emerge with or without Benji Dexter. “Maybe he’s a huge piece of shit.”
Arden hummed thoughtfully. “Would a huge piece of shit work for a nonprofit?”
“Uh, yeah. Absolutely,” Phoebe said.
“I don’t know. I think—”
A man emerged from the blue door, effectively sucking every decibel from the room. He had the kind of face that shuts down the possibility of a double take—a glance mindlessly shifted into an open-mouthed stare.
I decided he was 40 percent gorgeous, 60 percent intimidating.
Olive skin, broad shoulders taut against a crisp white button-up tucked into slim charcoal trousers.
I liked the juxtaposition of a polished outfit against the five o’clock shadow coating his angular jaw, crooked nose against a perfect face, thick brown hair finger combed carelessly.
Dark, distrustful eyes pinned me into place.
It was like a young Harrison Ford opted to go into the CIA instead of acting.
He stopped halfway to us, glowering. Suddenly, Arden’s theory about cannibalism didn’t seem so far off. It wasn’t until Phoebe pressed the letter into my palm that I remembered what we were doing here. Who this was.
I took a tentative step forward. “Benji Dexter?”
A muscle in his jaw jumped.
“I’m Violet. This is kind of weird, but, um, I live in your old apartment.
On Bluebird Street?” His eyes narrowed. I took that as confirmation.
“We got this in the mail,” I plowed on, moving toward him, brandishing the envelope.
His eyes snapped to it, and this time the recognition was unmistakable—the hardness in his eyes dimmed, his lips parting ever so slightly.
“I’m sorry if this is an invasion of privacy, but…
I don’t know. We thought you should have it. ”
Without lifting his gaze from the envelope, he reached for it, plucking it from my grasp with enough care that my heart did a little flip—this was important to him, and Phoebe had been right in her determination to track him down.
His eyes flashed to me. “You opened it?”
His voice was low, rough, distracting enough that I nearly missed the question. Shame ripped up my neck. “What? No.”
“It came that way,” Arden blurted.
“It’s your word against ours,” Phoebe said.
He kept his eyes on me, sharp and accusatory.
“I…” I dropped the act, exhaling roughly. “I’m sorry. I figured if it was unimportant, we wouldn’t bother tracking you down. But it’s not. Unimportant.”
His expression didn’t change. And I got it: We had seen a deeply private message intended only for Catalina.
It was like we’d read his diary. If anyone read my journal entries from my worst days, I’d put myself into witness protection, so I didn’t expect Benji to shrug this off.
Phoebe had so many questions for him. So did I.
When did he send that letter? Had he spoken to Catalina since?
What happened between then and now to make a tenderhearted person stare at three strangers with such derision?
We had no right to ask, and I knew he wouldn’t give us the chance even before he turned and stalked back to the blue door, letting it slam behind him.
“Wow,” Arden said, her voice loud against the echo of silence in Benji’s wake. “That was anticlimactic.”
I didn’t want to look at Phoebe. I could feel her disappointment, as if the sheer volume of it shrank the room, closing every wall in.
“Yeah,” I said, willing the door to open again. For him to emerge and give us something, anything that might satisfy Phoebe’s curiosity. I was tempted to bolt forward and knock until my knuckles bled.
It opened again, but only the receptionist appeared, looking troubled. She offered a small smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Dismissed. I chewed my lip and cast Phoebe a glance. She stared at the blue door, eyes glassy, shoulders low, the illumination of excitement extinguished in five minutes or less.
Arden and I led Phoebe out of Sequest. The sky had darkened marginally and mosquitoes were out in full force. We headed down the sidewalk toward home.
“He didn’t even say thank you,” Arden muttered. I raised my eyebrows at her.
“What did you expect him to say? ‘Thanks for reading this deeply personal letter that was only meant to be read by one person’?”
“Not those words exactly.”
“He didn’t seem like a man of many words. Or emotions.” I tilted my head, gazing at the sky. The moon hung low, just a sliver glowing against the fading blue. “The fact that he wrote that letter is mind-blowing.”
“Right?” Arden agreed. “No way is he a romantic.”
“At least not anymore.”
“Do you think he’ll send it?” Phoebe asked, breaking her silence. She was walking a beat behind us, frowning.
Arden and I exchanged a look. No way would that dude send a love letter to anyone, least of all someone who potentially Return to Sender–ed him.
“Oh. I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe? Probably not?”
“But he obviously still loves her,” she protested, dropping her arms to her sides.
“That’s why he’s so mad. He lost the love of his life and he thinks she’s fine with that because she never responded to his letter.
But she never got his letter. Now that he knows it, he could find her and give it to her. ”
Arden bit her lip. “I mean, it’s a nice thought.”
“Did you see the way he looked at it?” Phoebe looked between us, eyes full of emotion. “It means something to him.”
“We don’t know how long ago he sent that letter,” Arden said gently. “Maybe they both moved on.”
“That dude was, like, the loneliest human being I have ever seen in my life.”
“You can’t decide someone’s lonely to fit a narrative in your head,” I said. She shot me a look. “I hope he sends it, Bee. But we did our part. We’re not entitled to the rest of the story.”
The light drained from Phoebe’s eyes and she moved briskly ahead of us, head ducked against the breeze. A backward sprint after so many steps forward.
I could’ve sunk through the pavement from the defeat. Arden squeezed my shoulder and steered me forward. She was always good at keeping me going when it felt like the world collapsed around me.
Phoebe was miserable, and I was clueless, and despite the last forty-eight hours, nothing had changed at all.