Chapter 7 - THE LETTER FROM THE CURB
Five minutes later, Clara returned holding a damp, lined sheet of paper pulled from a cheap spiral notebook. The ink was slightly smeared by raindrops.
I opened the folded paper. Jason’s handwriting—the familiar, slanted scrawl I had seen on a thousand grocery lists and study index cards—jumped out at me.
Lily,
I know you probably hate me. I know you have every right to destroy me. I haven't slept in two days. I can't eat. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the sound of those coins hitting the floor.
I don't know what happened to me, Lily. When I got that job at Apex, everyone around me talked about money, power, and status like it was the only thing that mattered in human existence. I saw guys five years older than me driving Ferraris and buying hamptons houses, and I felt so small. I felt like if I didn't catch up, I would die invisible.
When I met Vanessa, I thought she was my ticket to that world. I thought I was being smart. I thought I was doing what ambitious men are supposed to do.
I didn't realize that the only valuable thing in my life was the woman sitting on that broken couch in Queens, making sure I ate dinner while I studied for my exams.
I don't care about the money, Lily. I don't care about Apex or hypercars or bespoke suits. They took everything from me, and I deserve it. But please... please just let me see you for five minutes. Let me apologize to your face. Don't leave me in the dark like this.
Forever yours, Jason
I read the letter twice.
The words were beautiful. They were eloquent, tragic, and filled with the heartbreak of a man who realized he had traded a diamond for a piece of broken glass.
Three years ago, if Jason had written me a letter like this after an argument, I would have cried. I would have wrapped my arms around him, made him a cup of tea, and told him we could fix anything together.
But three years ago, Jason hadn't thrown coins at my feet. Three years ago, Jason hadn't watched a salesman grab my arm and push me toward a door because he thought I was poor.
I picked up a pen, turned the letter over, and wrote three words on the back:
TOO LATE, JASON.
I handed the paper back to Clara.
"Give this back to security," I said, my voice steady and unwavering. "Have them hand it to him, and tell him that if he remains outside this building in fifteen minutes, corporate legal will file a permanent restraining order."
Clara nodded firmly. "Yes, Ms. Vale."
As Clara walked out, I stood up and walked over to the glass window.
Down below, fifty-four stories beneath my feet, I could see a tiny, solitary figure standing near the black marble fountain outside the Vale Meridian Building. He was wearing his gray suit, soaked through by the Manhattan rain, holding his arms around himself against the cold wind.
A security guard stepped out of the glass lobby, handed him the folded piece of notebook paper, and pointed down Park Avenue toward the subway station.
I watched Jason open the paper, read the three words, and slowly drop his head into his hands.
May you like
He didn't fight. He didn't argue.
He turned around, his shoulders slouched, his feet dragging through the puddles, and walked away into the gray New York rain, blending into the crowd of thousands of ordinary people hustling toward the subway—just another anonymous face in a city that doesn't care about forgotten men.
