The ceiling creaks as he walks down the hallway into his bedroom. He returns with two envelopes, one a letter addressed to me, dated July 2001. The first lines turn my stomach inside out: Vanessa, I wonder if you remember me, last November, moaning into your soft warm lap, “I’m going to ruin you”? My question for you now is, did I? Do you feel destroyed? There’s no safe way to get this to you, but guilt may make me willing to risk it. I need to know you’re ok. Inside the other envelope is a birthday card. He’s signed the inside Love, JS.
