I head back downstairs to wait for Cammie. And then I see it—a door, an oval door. Caleb always told me that one day when he built a house he wanted to have the door to his office resemble one of those heavy medieval things you see in movies. I edge toward it and reach out to lift the circular handle that is almost as big as my head. It swings open and the sigh of new house and cologne hits me in the face.

It doesn’t even smell like him. In the last four years he has changed his cologne, I get that coma feeling again.

There are walnut bookshelves lining every wall, filled with novels and textbooks and the occasional knick-knack. I veer toward the desk and seat myself in his enormous swivel chair. I take it for a spin and wheel myself around. This is his favorite room in the house. I can tell. Everything he loves and likes and hates is in here. Autographed baseballs in a wall rack. I can almost see him extracting one from its display and tossing it into the air a few times before he lovingly puts it back. A very diverse music selection sits in a messy pile next to his computer monitor. I notice in mild delight that the CD from the music store is among them and then there’s the model Trojan horse that his father gave him when he missed his 21st birthday party. It was made out of solid bronze and needless to say, it was very heavy. Caleb hated the thing, but he always kept it on display because he said it reminded him to be a man of his word. I pick it up and turn it over until the horse’s belly is facing up. There is a small trapdoor there that nobody knows about. Caleb once told me that he stored memories inside of it—memories that he didn’t want anyone else seeing. I bite my lip before pulling it open. What was one more crime right? My spreadsheet was already extended past ‘far gone’.

My fingers grab onto something thin and papery. I tug it out gently and unroll a vellum script of some sort. It is a drawing done with the snubbed tip of a charcoal pencil. At the bottom of the page the artist signed his name: C. Price Carrol in large, flowing letters. The artwork is of a woman’s face. She is smirking and there is a slight smudge of a dimple on her cheek. I stare at the face I recognize, but can’t quite place—not because it is bad artwork, but because it has been a long, long time since I have last seen it.

“Jessica Alexander,” I say outloud, studying her wide eyes, “another person who trusted me and I screwed over.” I re-roll the paper and set it to the side. I wonder how often Caleb still thinks of her. Does he picture what his life would have been like with her? Does he picture what it would have been like with me? Does he even think of me? I reach in again and this time I pull out something metal and round. Caleb’s thumb ring: the one with the star and the diamond that I gave him for a birthday. I sigh as I put it to my lips. So, he hides it away? At least he kept it, right? Maybe some nights when he is alone and listening to that CD, he pulls it out and thinks about me. A girl can only hope. I pull out a miniature hourglass after that, in which the tiny grains of sand are silver, and then a small booklet, whose colored pages of: black, red, white, gold and green have no words. I don’t know what memories these trinkets come from, after me, I guess. I place the ornament upright on his desk and small tinkling catches my ear.

Where had I heard that sound before? My gaze sweeps the desk, and then the floor around it, looking for the culprit. Where…where? There! My hands scoop it up and a bleat escapes my throat. I don’t know if I am surprised or if I knew that he would find it all along, but my mouth feels dry as I turn the object over in my palm. The penny, our penny. Had he gone to my apartment after I left, to find me? Had he seen it lying there on my abused coffee table? My eyes tear up as I imagine how confused he must have felt. How had he known to take the one thing that symbolized the start of our romance? Leah must have told him, I realize bitterly. Despite her promise to me, she must have dished up the truth with a sick satisfaction. To keep him away from me, because she must have known he would try to find me. I am sulking, slouched, and nauseated when I hear my name being called. It echoes across the big house like it is being sung by a backup singer.

“Olivia!” Cammie comes careening into his office, snapping me out of my daze. She is waving something in her hands, her blonde hair bouncing every which way in her excitement.

“Olivia,” she says again, her eyes wide. “There is something you need to see.”

She holds up a manila envelope, which she then tosses towards me on the desk.

“Where did you find this?” I don’t want to touch it.

“Just shut your mouth and open it,” she folds her arms across her chest and I can’t help but notice how worried she looks. I reach out to grab it and gently push open the top allowing its contents to spill onto Caleb’s desk. Letter’s, pictures……I study them for a minute, before I feel shock waves pass through my body.

“Oh my gosh! Cammie?” I look at her shaking my head. I am so utterly confused.

“I told you so,” she says. “Read them.”

“Lying on the desk are pictures of me…and Turner. There is the engagement shot, the one that we had professionally taken after he proposed and a shot of us at the zoo together during our first year of dating.

“I don’t understand—” I say blankly and Cammie, dear, detective Cammie, points to the pile of letters.

“Am I going to be upset?” I ask biting my lower lip.

“Very.”

I pull at the first letter. It is written by hand on plain white sheet of paper.

Hello Jo,

I know you hate it when I call you that, but I can’t resist.

It’s a strange request that you’ve propositioned me with,

and I must admit my curiosity is peaked. I don’t know what

trouble you’ve gotten yourself into now, but if its anything

like high school…..I’m in!

Joking aside, I do owe you one. Superbowl tickets are worth

my firstborn, so if you want me to take a pretty girl out on a

date, I’m not going to complain.

Anyway, gorgeous I’ll keep you updated on the

status. She better be smokin!

Turner

My wail of anger starts out as a groan and gradually escalates until I sound like a fire truck’s siren. Cammie looks worried, so I calm myself and stop.

“Next one.” I hold my hand out to her, and she places another sheet of paper between my fingers.

Jo-Jo,

Can’t believe this is happening! I mean what the Hell?