Page 250 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
He’s probably loving the snowstorm. The restaurant is closed tonight and probably tomorrow too, along with the catering kitchen since all the events scheduled to happen this week have been postponed due to weather.
I’m happy to enjoy the break, but I think Lennox really needs it.
My phone buzzes from my pocket and I pull it out to see a notification from the weather app warning of below-freezing temperatures and recommending that all pet owners make sure their animals are safe and protected indoors.
I glance over to see Toby back on the sofa, already snoring.
A beat of trepidation passes through me. I’m not nervous, exactly. But I do feel like hunkering down to wait out a snowstorm would be more fun if I had someone besides my dog for company.
I turn on the most recent Harry album—it always puts me in a good mood—and clean up my dinner dishes, then move to the tiny closet in my entryway to get the extra blankets I shoved onto the top shelf when I moved in. I reach up, my fingers grazing over the edge of the blanket, and I let out a groan. I’m notthatshort—a hair over five foot four—but it’s still short enough that most things on high shelves are just out of reach. I jump up and manage to wrap my fingers around the corner of one blanket, giving it a hard tug as I land back on my feet.
The blanket comes tumbling, followed by something else much less forgiving. A shoebox I’ve never seen before hits my head with a thunk, then tumbles to the ground, its contents spilling all over the floor of the entryway. It must have been left by whoever lived here last.
I crouch down to gather everything up, pausing when I pick up a picture of Lennox. I shift and sink onto my butt so I’m sitting on the floor, my legs extending toward the front door.
I study the picture closely. It’s definitely Lennox, but a much younger version of him. More like the Lennox I knew in culinary school. He’s got an arm around a woman I recognize but can’t quite place. She was in school with us for a little while, but I don’t remember her graduating with us. Kailey, maybe? Or something close to that. Regardless, the way she’s looking at him makes me think he definitely meant something to her.
I gather up a few more pictures. They areallof Lennox and the same woman. There are also ticket stubs, playbills, a random slip of paper that looks like some kind of dry-cleaning receipt.
So it’sthatkind of box.
The date on the receipt gives me a timeframe—our first year in culinary school.
I barely knew Lennox then. We didn’t really start clashing until our third year when our identical degree programs dropped us in most of the same classes. Southern Culinary Institute has multiple tracks and degree programs, but Lennox and I were in the same one, getting bachelor’s degrees in culinary arts and food science.
I look through the contents of the box, curiosity building, only pausing when I get to a couple of handwritten notes in a swirly, feminine hand. I drop the letters into the box like they’re on fire, suddenly uncomfortable with this weirdly personal window into Lennox’s life.
I shouldn’t be doing this, pawing through his old memories like they don’t matter.
But then . . . maybe they don’t. They wound uphere,after all.
I purse my lips to the side and stare at the box.
I would not want Lennox reading my old love letters.
Ican’tread them.
I shouldn’t.
But I really,reallywant to.
“I am not going to read these letters,” I say out loud, as if voicing my commitment to the universe will make me more accountable somehow.
But then I turn, checking to make sure I’ve picked up everything that fell out of the box, and I see a card lying open on the entryway rug.
I wouldn’t even have to unfold it to read it.
Curiosity too strong to ignore, I pick it up and glance at the name at the bottom.
Hailey.
Her last name immediately comes to me.Hailey Stanton.She lived a few doors down from me, but we didn’t talk much.My eyes rove over the card, catching on a few key words and phrases.
This is a breakup letter.
There must be ten differentI’m sorrysfilling the page. Along withI didn’t mean to hurt you, I hope you can forgive me,and, my personal favorite,It’s not you, it’s me.Not very original, but at least she didn’t send a text. A surge of protectiveness rises in my chest. Who did this woman think she was breaking up with Lennox like this? It was a long time ago, I know, but I still find myself wishing I could ease the hurt somehow, soothe whatever wound might be leftover.
Hailey didn’t come back after our first year. I remember that clearly now, though that’s not all that uncommon. A lot of people change majors or change degree programs or drop out of school all together. But now I’m wondering if her breakup with Lennox had something to do with her disappearing act.
