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.
I started to slow down as I counted the addresses.
220.
218.
216.
Birdie’s house was only three more away.
When I came right upon hers, my heart started to beat so fast. I slowed my walking speed and tried to get a look inside the windows. But it was about ten steps up to the front door from the sidewalk, and I couldn’t really see much from down here. Disappointment came over me. A few steps after passing the staircase that led up to Birdie’s front door, I forced myself to stop staring like I’d been casing the place for a potential robbery. As I looked down, something shiny caught my eye out of my peripheral vision, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs.
Is that?
No . . . it couldn’t be.
I looked around—no one seemed to be paying any attention. So I backed up and bent down to take a closer look.
My eyes widened.
Oh my God.
A silver hair barrette was lying on the bottom step, the kind a little girl would wear to clip back her hair when her father sucked at making braids. And . . . it had a silver butterfly on it.
Butterflies.
Birdie.
There was no doubt that the two went together.
Without thinking, I picked it up.
Only . . . what the hell was I going to do with it once it was in my hand?
I supposed putting it somewhere safer would be the right thing to do. The pretty little clip could just blow away out here on the last step. Or, at the very least, someone could step on it and break it.
It didn’t look like anyone was home in the Maxwell house anyway. I could just leave it at her front door.
Yeah . . . that was a good idea.
The fact that I might get a better look inside the windows from up at the top of the stairs was just a coincidence. I was doing the right thing, after all, making sure Birdie’s little barrette didn’t get broken. She could be attached to this thing, for all I knew. Glancing around again, I noticed there was also a door underneath the main staircase, a few steps down from ground level. Maybe the Maxwells lived in the basement apartment? Though my gut didn’t think they did.
So I took a deep breath and started up the brownstone stairs. My knees wobbled a bit as I climbed to the top one. God, I really was nervous.
From the sidewalk, I hadn’t realized how tall the front doors were—the double set of ornate glass doors had to be at least ten feet, maybe more. Looking to my left, I could see right into the front window, which gave me a partial view of a big living room. A man’s suit jacket was lying over the top of a chair across from the sofa, and I wondered if it belonged to Sebastian. I stood there staring for a long moment, trying to pick up any small details I could see—the titles of the books on the bookshelf, the photos inside the frames on the mantel—until suddenly the curtain moved.