29 MARGOT

When Forrest is gone and everything is silent except for the muffled whimpers I’m forcing back down my throat, my body propels me out of the lodge toward his cabin. It must have snowed the night we were away because the trail is covered and deep. Bullwinkle is standing beside it, placidly munching on God knows what, and I rush past him, my calf muscles aching as I break snow. When I finally make it to Forrest’s front door, I know he won’t be inside, but he’s not what I’m looking for.

I push my way in and make a beeline straight for the bedroom, not stopping until I’m pulling open his underwear drawer. I let out a small sob at the sight of my sister’s last letter. More than anything, I need her voice in my head. I need to hear that somehow everything’s going to be okay. I rip open the envelope, breathing hard.

Dear Margot,

Can you believe this is your last week? Can you believe that you’re actually sad about it? And no, don’t give me that bullshit—I know you are, you know you are. But I bet you’re also missing L.A. and, dare I say it, your annoying little sister? Technically, as I write this, you haven’t left yet (you’re currently holding a Pilates posture on our patio that reveals exactly what your birthing face would be), but I’m already missing you SO much. Even more so because of my big news.

Over the course of these letters, I’ve tried to show you that I understand why you needed that Happily Never After file. I’ve cherry-picked examples of the worst men in your life and acknowledged my role in taking advantage of your kindness. No arguments, please.

But the thing about pretty words on paper is that you can read them and choose to ignore them. They can have a major impact, and even change your perspective, but there’s always the option of not doing anything about them. And in this case, that’s not okay. My worst fear is that you’ll come back from this reinvention trip a changed woman, exactly as planned, and slowly slip back into old, comfortable routines. Which is why—deep breath here—when you get back to L.A., I’ll have already moved out.

It wasn’t a decision that I made lightly, Margot. Having you as a roommate and caretaker has been the greatest gift anyone in my position could ever hope for. More than they’d even have the right to hope for, because no one can give that much without completely sacrificing themselves. And that’s exactly what you’ve done for me, over and over again. And while it’s a beautiful, selfless thing, it’s also allowed me to become a crutch for you. A ready-made excuse to shut out all possibilities of self-discovery, transformation, and yes, love.

I know this news is going to hurt. I know you’re probably on the verge of a heart attack—please sit down, okay? You have to trust me when I say that this is exactly what’s needed to happen for a long time now. And not just for you but for both of us. More than anyone I know, you deserve a Happily Ever After, and I hope, with this new space and room to grow, you’ll be able to welcome it with open arms when it comes rushing into your life.

Be safe, but not too safe,

Savannah

For once, Savannah is wrong. Despite my trembling body, I’m not having a heart attack. Having a heart attack would require a heart, and all I’ve got left is a smoking crater in the center of my chest. I also don’t need to be told to sit down. I’m already on the floor in a crumpled heap. It occurs to me to try pulling myself together enough to get up and take action, but all I can do is stare at her familiar looping cursive. I’m searching for proof that an imposter wrote these words and not my sister. Please be an imposter . But her backward-looking F’s are the same as they’ve been since second grade, and I know it’s her.

The urgent need to take a sharp gulp of air alerts me to the fact that I’ve stopped breathing. I take another. And another. My brain is having difficulty parsing the sudden arrival of this news with the fact that she wrote it weeks ago. This wrecking ball has been in motion all along, right next to Forrest’s neatly folded boxer briefs, and I can’t decide whether I should laugh or scream. What comes out is a sound more like a death gurgle. I have the reflexive need to do something, anything, to stop her from moving out, but logically, I know she’s already gone. Gone like our dad, gone like Adam, gone like my readers, and—I swallow painfully around the quickly expanding pressure in my throat—gone like Forrest.

I don’t know how long I cry or how many pairs of his clean underwear I use as makeshift Kleenex. But when I manage to stumble into a standing position, I’ve come to two irrefutable conclusions: I can’t stay here, and I need to see Savannah at once. I wipe my eyes. Refold my letter. I’m finally going home, but not really. Not at all.