Page 17 of The Rules We Broke
He left it on the sofa table the same Christmas he broke my heart.
I’d never opened it.
I’d unwrapped it once. And that was all I could manage. I tried—on more occasions than I care to count to peek at what was inside. Sat with it in my hands. Willed myself to lift the lid.
But I could never bring myself to do it.
I even tried to send everything back by courier once—the jacket, the ball, the unopened box.
But it came back.
With a single note:These don’t belong to me.
I held the little velvet box in my hand—the one that had tortured me for years—and stared at it. Tears slipped quietly down my cheeks as I wondered what was inside . . . too afraid to find out.
Bravely, I began to peek, but the hinge creaked.
I snapped it shut before I could look. This was stupid.
I tore off his dumb jacket, flung it—along with the football—back into the “hopeless” chest. Then I took the stupid box with me to bed and shoved it into the nightstand drawer like it might stop haunting me.
I turned off the light and cried myself to sleep.
I woke early and dressed carefully—for Aunt Lu’s sake.
It felt a little ridiculous, getting dressed up just to sit in a hospital room all day. But I was used to doing things that didn’t make sense for Aunt Lu. That was basically my life in a nutshell.
I’d packed a black Calvin Klein pantsuit that fit the bill perfectly. It hugged my curves, hinted at my slender figure, and carried just enough authority to pass muster with her fashion standards. I paired it with pointed black stiletto heels—non-negotiable in Aunt Lu’s book.
I even took the time to curl my now shoulder-length hair. If we were going to discuss lawyers and legacies, I might as well show up looking like a woman who could carry it all.
Doris was already waiting in the kitchen, breakfast prepared and plated, when I came downstairs. Bless her.
I usually grabbed a piece of fruit and called it good. I’d never really learned to cook—Aunt Lu hadn’t either. Why would we? We had Doris. And if Doris wasn’t around, we had takeout.
My culinary skills were limited to frequently burnt toast, semi-passable smoothies, and salads that rarely ventured beyond romaine and a few sad croutons. If I was feeling really adventurous, I’d throw in some baby carrots.
She placed the plate in front of me with practiced elegance: Blueberry pancakes, perfectly crisp bacon, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
I needed a Doris in Atlanta.
I made small talk with Doris while I ate. It was nice—comforting—to have someone to talk to in the morning. It reminded me just how lonely life was back in Atlanta.
Sure, I had business associates and employees, and even a few people I considered friends—like my agent, Olivia. But the truth was, I lived a pretty solitary existence. By choice.
I dated occasionally. No one seriously. A few of them would’ve liked to be more than passing chapters, but I always kept the story short.
Most of my spare time went to fan mail. I answered every letter personally. Olivia told me I was nuts for doing it, but I couldn’t imagine not replying—especially when a child had taken the time to write to me.
They told me how much they loved Aunt Calliope and Jane. How they wanted to visit the places I’d written about. Some wrote just to say someone believed in them.
A few shared stories I’ll never forget—little ones facing sickness or grief, kids just needing to know someone out there cared.
And so I wrote back.
I tried to help Doris clean up before I left, but she shooed me out the door with a warm fuss and a final clatter of dishes.
Driving through town again, everything looked the same. I couldn’t decide whether that comforted or disappointed me. Either way, I was relieved to hit the highway without catching anyone’s attention.
