40. Elyse #2
I’m procrastinating. Here’s what I just about absorbed: I became just as good at managing the image game as my parents and their parents, not because I worship appearances, but because
appearances = levers
levers = power.
Okay.
Deep breath.
Confession corner:
Falling for you was the first time, probably ever, that I’ve felt like I was at the mercy of someone else.
It was the first time someone else had all the control.
That’s how it felt, anyhow, because I was so powerless in the face of how you made me feel.
So the first time you had a shot at gaining even more power, I pulled the biggest fucking lever I had and made sure I was the only one who’d get to see your face.
And I lost you anyway.
I lost your face, and your heart, and the whole damn lot.
I say the following with no agenda. All I ask is that you please let these words sink in.
I am so fucking sorry, my darling. I am So. Fucking. Sorry.
The reason I want to say this now is that this might just be the first time I get to apologize to you while understanding precisely what I did and precisely why and precisely how wrong it was. Which leads me to…
Confession Corner #2:
Honestly, right after you broke up with me, I was mainly sorry you’d found out.
I was sorry you’d reacted that way (which is to say I believed you’d overreacted) and I was sorry that I’d upset you…
but, at that point, I was categorically not sorry I’d pulled the campaign.
I was still far too wedded to my own victimhood and my fucked-up MO that the ends always justify the means.
I was honestly just pissed that I hadn’t gotten away with it.
If nothing else, you might draw some satisfaction from knowing that I finally get it.
I finally understand what I did to you, what I took from you, and coming face to face with it feels like being forced to stare into the jaws of hell.
Forget the fact that you were the best person for the job (you were, by a mile, and if the launch is a gigantic flop, there is only one person to blame).
Forget the financial side of it, the opportunity I stole from you and your family to claw your way out of that mountain of debt.
I’ll never forgive myself for that, but I’m even more sorry for the principle of the matter.
I met the most beautiful woman with the purest soul.
You took the time and trouble to see me.
You trusted me with your body and your warm heart and your wellbeing.
And I went behind your back and played God with your career, with your fate.
I harmed you, I sabotaged you, I treated you like a toy—just as you said in my office.
I wanted to be the one person who could be a safe haven for you, and in a single, despicable act, I ensured I never could be.
That you ever, for a single second, thought you lost that campaign through your own unworthiness was the nail in the coffin for me.
I will never, ever stop being sorry. I will never, ever stop regretting what I’ve done.
But one tiny, bright kernel is emerging from this work I’m doing with Elizabeth, and do you know what that is?
I’m no longer sorry you found out. I can’t regret that part anymore, because I’d rather have no claim on you and no part of your life than know that I’d lied and cheated my way to having you trust me.
I’ll never be worthy of you, but at least now I understand why. And that’s something, I guess.
It’s so dark here. I hate this time of year. But I’m glad I’m alone instead of surrounded by all the bullshit trappings I’ve acquired the wrong way.
I love you, Elyse.
I couldn’t say it until I said sorry properly, and I couldn’t apologize until I truly understood my sins.
Being allowed to love you, however briefly, has been the greatest privilege of my life.
Yours always,
Sinclair
P.S. I released Vanessa from her exit NDA last week.
She’ll probably think I’m insane, but I don’t care.
It felt good. I’m not telling you to earn brownie points; I’m telling you because I know you, and I know you’ll hate that she was the worse off for having defended you.
So hopefully that’s one less thing for you to worry about, my love.
P.P.S. I’ll write you one final letter on Friday, and then I’ll let you be.
It’s a big one. A bad one. It makes everything else I’ve done—including hurting you—look innocent by comparison.
I’m terrified to tell you. But I’m even more terrified of it eating me alive if I don’t.
You’re my confessor: with one key difference.
You don’t owe me your confidentiality. You don’t owe me anything.
The street outside my bedroom is dark, too.
I sit on the bed and press my fist to my mouth.
It’s too much, and I can feel he means it, every word.
I can feel the emotion, the sincerity, pouring out of him as if he’s purging his soul through these letters.
Frantically, I wipe my eyes, but the tears keep coming.
I made tarte tatin this afternoon—Maman’s favorite.
This year, winter feels even bleaker and more brutal and endless, and God knows I need baked goods to get through it, especially French-style ones with sticky, caramelized apples and buttery pastry.
In a couple hours, I’ll head into the city for my Alchemy shift.
I’ve noticed that Sinclair has been timing his letters so that they reach me early evening, before I head out, and it makes me glad.
His poor messenger, whose name I now know is A.J.
, doesn’t need to stand around all night waiting for me to come home and tell him there’s no reply.
I cut a slice of pie for A.J. and wrap it up.
Then I cut another. I wrap it in foil and put it in a snug Tupperware to keep it secure.
I go outside, Jambon trailing faithfully behind me, and hand A.J. his pie. Then I hold out the Tupperware. “I have a reply.”