Page 83 of State of Ruin

It’s a leap to assume this kid was that pregnancy. But that doesn’t stop my brain, which immediately hits me with the most brutal of all realizations:

Thanks to my actions that night, my carelessness and cowardice, that photo might not be there at all.

That boy might not even exist.

It’s so physically painful that it slams the breath out of me before I order myself to pull it the hell together. I have no shame in business. No shyness, no matter how uncomfortable a conversation needs to be. Finally taking responsibility for my actions shouldn’t be any different.

“I realize this is out of the blue,” I say, forcing myself to focus, “but I was wondering if we could talk. Twenty-one years ago, you were hit by a teenage cyclist on your way home from a shift at the Lattingtown Club.”

Her eyes widen with surprise.

“I know this because I was the boy who hit you that night and didn’t stop to help. And I realize I’m two decades too late, but I’ve come to apologize, from the bottom of my heart, and make whatever amends I can.”

CHAPTER 43

Elyse

This is it.

The last letter.

The one he warned me was coming.

And I’m actually frightened to read it. I’m scared that whatever grenade lies in this envelope will explode and blow up these tiny green shoots of hope I’ve been nursing where any future with Sinclair is concerned.

As has been my ritual this past month, I shut myself in the bedroom I share with Sylvie and sit on my bed before sliding my thumb under the wax seal. It pops cleanly off the expensive paper.

I take out the letter and begin to read. I’m barely half a page in when his confession hits, and I give an involuntary groan before clamping my hand over my mouth in horror, my eyes tracing the neat lines of cursive wildly.

Oh my God, no. He did not do that. I can see and hear the scene so clearly: the dark, winding lane; the moment of impact; the skid of his bicycle wheels on tarmac as that poor, terrified woman screamed at him to help her, not to abandon her there, in the middle of the road. I stand up and fan myself with the letter because this is way too close to fucking home for my liking.

Still standing, I read on. So his parents cleaned up the mess. Of course they fucking did. This is definitely the least surprising part of the story.

I read on. Jesus H. Christ, it gets worse. She was freaking pregnant? Oh my God. This is horrific. And shit. He’s brought up Sylvie. But honestly—good. I didn’t see this coming. Obviously, I figured after I heard about their little showdown that seeing her in her wheelchair might knock some level of sense into him, might finally make him understand the gross disservice he did my family. But I didn’t realize that seeing her like that would drag a far older crime—and my guess is that what he did was literally a crime—into the light of the present day. He must have stood there on the sidewalk and looked up at my sister and seen that woman lying on the road. And if that gave him a moment of long-overdue reckoning, then all I can say is good.

This is the guy I sent pie to a couple nights ago. If I could snatch that pie back right now, I would. I’m sickened by this. Sickened. How many nights have I wasted over the past six months, lying in bed and fuming, tied up with anger that’s neither productive nor manageable when I think about the person who ran their fucking car into my sister’s bike and knocked her twenty fucking feet down the street and left her there for dead?

Countless, is the answer. Countless nights filled with fantasies of revenge so bloodthirsty that every one is undoubtedly a felony. The anger I have felt threatens to burn me up, sometimes. It’s the worst kind, because it’s so totally helpless, and it has nowhere to go, no outlet, except for lavishing every last bit of energy I have on my sister, for showing her so much care that perhaps it will make up for the total lack of care that that asshole in that car showed to her.

But this kind of anger has a different flavor. For once, I’m not mad at a driver I don’t know, or a billionaire I do know—full-grown adults who should know better. I’m mad at a fifteen-year-old kid. And he may have been spoiled and entitled, with genuine assholes for parents, but he was still a kid. I’m not sure how I can feel sick for the woman he injured—the pregnant woman, remember—and for the terrified little boy who fled the scene, but I am, and it makes me uncomfortable.

One thing I know for sure: I have no clue what to do with this information. No freaking clue. He’s shared the one thing that would upset me more than what he did to me, and he’s asking me to formulate some kind of, what, mature, balanced response?

Actually, that’s not fair. He’s not asking for anything. Not action. Not even forgiveness. He’s just telling me. And honestly, it’s a ballsy move for a guy who’s fucked up so badly to keep on piling on with the bad stuff in the hope, I assume, that by his confessing absolutely everything, I’ll finally be able to make a decision based on knowing him properly, warts and all.

Jeez, if these warts aren’t seriously awful.

And now I’m going to have to do something that’s not fair and get my sister involved. I’m going to have to show her a letter that might seriously trigger her, a week before Christmas, simply because I’m in so far over my head with this shit that I can’t handle this alone.

I go outside and send A.J. away with some meatloaf. This is not a reply kind of evening.

I don’t get Sylvie alone until after we’ve packed Fleur off to bed and Dad has retired, too. On the nights I’m not at Alchemy and he doesn’t have to come pick me up from the PATH at stupid o’clock, he tends to turn in early to catch up on his sleep.

This evening, we’ve been getting crafty with Fleur, making réveillon invitations, paper napkin holders, and general holiday decorations. The French custom of celebrating on Christmas Eve—the réveillon—is one of our most dearly guarded customs. It’s possible we celebrate it with even more verve than we did when Maman was alive, but, in all honesty, I’ve always been a huge fan. When I was a kid, Sylvie and I would always fight over who got to put the Baby Jesus into the crib at midnight. Now it’s always Fleur’s job. She’ll insist on staying up, half drunk on tiredness and excitement and too much bûche de Noël—yule log and something we’ll bake from scratch in the week ahead. It will be just us plus Glo and Reggie, who will spend Christmas Day with Glo’s brother but love any chance for an extra get-together. Having them here helps. It helps make the spare chair that we put at the table for Maman just that tiny bit less awful.

The réveillon invitations are pretty and festive and very, very sparkly. I’ll mail Glo and Reggie’s through their mailbox tomorrow. They like to pin Fleur’s handiwork to their corkboard. The dining table is spattered with red and green glitter, even though most of it seemed to make its way into Fleur’s hair.

“What has you so jittery?” Sylvie wants to know as soon as Dad has gone through to his room with Jambon, but not before pressing a kiss to the crown of each of our heads. I’m hovering next to her at the table, letter behind my back.