Happily Letter After(13)

She pulled off her glasses and set them on her leg. “So you’re feeling lots of guilt.”

“Yes, of course. Now there’s an expectation for more from her mother when there isn’t anything more. I started a mess. Her mother’s dead, and any implication that Birdie could still communicate with her is misleading.”

Dr. Emery put her glasses back on and scribbled a few things down in her notebook before looking up at me again. “Sadie, I think it’s going to be important for you to learn to accept the fact that you can’t change anything you’ve done thus far. You know now that playing with fate the way you have, as charming as it was, is really not the wisest idea. So I do think you need to really rip the Band-Aid off here.”

My hands felt sweaty as I rubbed them along my legs. “What do you mean by that exactly?”

“You seem incapable of not engaging whenever she contacts you. I think on some level, you’re so invested because she reminds you of yourself, so it’s almost like you’ve been given this opportunity to do for someone else what wasn’t done for you. And that was hard to resist. You’re also connecting with your inner child a bit. But now you know that engaging is harmful. And the more you engage, the harder it’s going to be to stop. So perhaps, if she contacts you again, you should not open the letter at all.”

Shaking my head repeatedly while staring out the window, I said, “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have to at least know she’s okay . . . even if I don’t engage.”

“She doesn’t know you exist. She doesn’t know you have developed feelings for her. Therefore, your feelings, no matter how strong, do not impact her. If you’re not communicating back with her and if you’ve vowed to no longer interfere by pretending to be Santa Claus, then you mustn’t involve yourself in any way in her life. That includes reading her letters.” She tilted her head. “Can you do that? Can you cut all ties for your own good and, ultimately, the good of this little girl?”

I gazed out at the billboard and watched it change approximately three times before I finally said, “I’ll try.”





CHAPTER 7

SADIE

It had been almost a month since my last letter from Birdie. I’d followed Dr. Emery’s advice and not written back to my little friend, even going as far as putting Devin on mail patrol—asking her to weed out my daily delivery of any new letters that Birdie might send. Though I’d broken down on more than one occasion, demanding to know if any had come, and Devin swore that she hadn’t had to intervene. Lately, I’d even stopped dwelling on whether my letters had done more harm than help. But today wasn’t one of those days, though for good reason.

I had an appointment on Eighty-First Street with a professional matchmaker—not for me personally but research for the magazine. Next month, I planned to write an article on the pros and cons of using a service, and today was my first interview. Kitty Bloom ran the agency I’d visited and gave me tons of great information for the piece. She’d also given me a free thirty-day membership—which went for a staggering $10,000. Although if I wanted to give it a whirl, I’d have to submit a ton of personal information—from medical clearances and a psychological profile to financial statements and a detailed questionnaire that asked about everything from my hobbies to my fetishes and sexual appetite. I accepted the gift but wasn’t sure I wanted someone poking their nose into my business.

It was a beautiful evening, so I decided to take a walk. The matchmaker’s office was on the ground floor of a block filled with beautiful brownstones, and the Upper West Side was one of my favorite neighborhoods that I could never afford. I was on the corner of Broadway and Eighty-First Street, and Birdie lived somewhere on Eighty-Third Street, which could be close by.

I really shouldn’t.

I’d been so good lately.

But . . . I’m already here . . .

What harm could it do just to pass by?

I’d taken an Uber uptown because I’d been running late, but I could grab the train back downtown from a few different nearby stations. So it wasn’t like I’d really be going out of my way if I strolled for a bit in any direction. I could just walk up Eighty-Third, and if I happened to pass Birdie’s house on my way to the train, then that was fate. I remembered her house number, only because it was my parents’ anniversary, February 10, or 210, but I had no idea what block it crossed with. So it really was up to chance whether I passed it or not. If I reached a train before I came upon Birdie’s house, then I’d get to see her house. Big whoop-de-do.

Yet . . . it felt so wrong.

Especially as I turned down Eighty-Third Street and caught the number on the first house I passed: 230.

Oh my God.

Eighty-Third Street ran forever. It had to be at least a half mile on the west side alone, from Central Park down to near the Hudson River . . . yet the very first block I turned onto happened to be the one that Birdie lived on.

It sort of freaked me out a little bit.

My blood started to pump faster with every step.

228.





226.


224.

It was one of the next eight or so houses up ahead.

Damn, the neighborhood was really nice. Birdie lived on a tree-lined street of brownstones worth some serious money. I didn’t know why, but I had envisioned her living in an apartment building, cramped for space like the rest of us in the rat race, not in such a luxurious home. These things went for millions. Even if they didn’t own it and only rented a floor out, it would still be big bucks.