Page 163 of Sincerely, Your Enemy

A package?

I don’t remember ordering anything.

“Okay, thanks.”

With that, she walks out of the house, leaving me to wonder if I bought something online and forgot about it. Seems unlikely, considering I make it a point to keep a close eye on my expenses. I track everything, all the time, to make sure I have enough in case of emergencies.

I don’t waste a second, making my way to the kitchen and grabbing the package off the counter. It doesn’t seem like an online order. In fact, there’s no label on it.

There’s only my first name, written in black Sharpie right on the box.

It doesn’t say who the package is from either, and the box is taped shut, so I have to get a utility knife from one of the kitchen drawers to open it.

It takes me a moment to make sense of what’s on the inside.

The first thing I see is a big ball of bubble wrap. Then I notice there’s an envelope sitting at the bottom of the box.

I immediately realize that the bubble wrap is protecting something fragile, but it’s hard to pinpoint what that is with all the layers. I begin to pull at the tape holding the whole thing together and carefully unwrap the mystery object.

My jaw hits the floor when I realize what I’m holding.

In my hands is the mug my dad made at the ceramic painting place we visited on my last birthday with him.

The last time I saw this mug was the day I dropped it on the kitchen floor and it exploded into a million pieces. I remember throwing it away, but it’s all fixed now.

All the broken pieces were glued back together, carefully reassembled one by one. It was shattered beyond repair. This would’ve taken forever to fix.

This should be gone. No one else knows about that mug except…

My legs nearly give out from under me when realization washes over me, and I sink down onto one of the kitchen chairs to avoid dropping to the ground.

TJ.

TJ did this.

It has to be him.

He was the only person there that day. He’d showed up to take care of me when I was sick, and he saw me break the mug. It was that time he brought me a bunch of meds and soup.

But then that means he would’ve had to go through the trash to pick up the pieces when I wasn’t looking.

No.

No way.

My hand flies to my mouth when memories flash in front of my eyes.

Oh my God, is that why he cut his hand?

He had to wear some sort of bandage for a few weeks because he’d cut the inside of his palm, and he gave me some excuse about how he broke a glass. And he had to get ointment from the doctor, too, because it was at risk of infection.

Holy shit.

I’d be willing to bet he cut himself picking it out of the trash.

This was back when he was supposed to hate me.

I sit there in silence for what feels like an eternity, trying to process my discovery. My breath hitches as I stare at TJ’s gift, and my walls shatter as quickly as the mug did.

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