Page 49 of Ricardo

The cream envelope sits at the bottom of the box.

My fingers still before they touch it.

Thick paper. Soft ivory. My mother called it classic. Harrison’s mother called it appropriate. I remember standing in a stationer’s office in Connecticut with both of them while they discussed engraving, paper weight, edge beveling, and whether the ink should be charcoal or black.

I remember saying charcoal was fine because no one was actually asking me.

I pick up the envelope and slide one finger beneath the flap.

The sample invitation comes out clean and heavy in my hand.

Mr. and Mrs. Patrick O’Brien request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Julia Catherine O’Brien to Harrison James Winthrop III.

For a moment, I simply stare at my own name.

I hate it. I hate the beautifully printed script. I hate the old-fashioned wording. I hate the stupid charcoal lettering.

I hate everything about it.

I read it again, then put it back into the envelope. My first instinct is to save it. Evidence. Proof. A reminder of the life that I almost had. Reminder to myself not to allow myself to be in that position again. Not to allow a man so much control that he could make me disappear inside his life.

Then I think of my apartment. My shelves. My boxes. My Saturday.

I do not want this here.

I tear it.

This time, I do not stop until the pieces are too small to read.

By the time I finish, I have made a mess on the floor. Paper scraps cling to my leggings. My coffee has gone cold, and scraps float in the cup as well. The tasteful apartment looks less tasteful now, which actually makes me like it a lot more.

I sit amid the mess and laugh freely.

Then, because apparently I have crossed some invisible line into mild rebellion, I order a set of bright ceramic bowls from a shop in Andersonville, a ridiculous print of lemons for the kitchen, and a red throw pillow I am not entirely sure will match anything.

I do not care.

The freedom of that is alarming.

I eat toast over the sink because I do not feel like making a proper meal and refuse to feel guilty about that too. Then I shower, change into jeans and a black sweater, and make myself put on actual socks, which feels like a concession to civilization.

By 11:30, the apartment is cleaner than before, yet somehow more unsettled.

The boxes are open now, which seems to be a mild problem. Before, they were possibilities stacked against the wall. Now they’re front and center.

I have one pile for things to keep, one pile for things to shred, one pile for donations, and one pile I label emotionally radioactive and put near the door because I have not yet decided its fate.

My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter with a text message.

I grab it too quickly.

Dante: You alive?

Relief hits so hard I have to close my eyes.

I hate that.

I hate it, and I am grateful, and both feelings sit together in my chest, sharing the space.