Page 118 of The Good Girl Effect
As Bea watches cartoons and eats her breakfast, I slip out of the room in search of some paper and a pen. It’s been a while since Camille and I wrote each other a letter, and I’m desperate to express what I’m feeling in this moment.
Instead of waking Camille, I creep into her room. I want to do this while she’s still sleeping. Last time, I found the pen and paper in her desk drawer, so I assume that’s where she keeps it.
When I pull open the drawer, I smile down at the collection of letters I’ve written to her over the past few weeks. I pick them up and reminisce at how far we’ve come in such a short time. Or rather how farI’vecome.
The letters started filthy, then disciplined, then hopeful, and eventually downright romantic.
As I sift through them, I can hardly believe the transformation I’ve seen in myself. But then I come to one in the back that catches me by surprise.
It’s not a letter I wrote to Camille. It’s a letter I wrote to…Emmaline.
I’m frozen in place, staring down at the envelope, remembering the moment I addressed it and stamped it and placed it in a mailbox over seven years ago.
My skin grows hot and my heart hammers wildly in my chest as I reach into the envelope and pull out the letter. Between the folded pages is a photo.
I nearly gasp at the sight of it. Em and I huddled together in front of the Sacré-Cœur just a day before she left Paris. I sent it to her only a week later, begging her to come back, professing my love for her, asking her to marry me. And she said yes.
The love of my life.
I stare at the photo and suddenly feel sick.What am I doing?
How could I move on so easily and so soon? How could I do this to her?
My eyes sting as I stare at the photo. Then I flip open the letter as if the answers to my questions will be hiding inside.
But I can’t even skim through the words I wrote because my attention is stolen by a drawing at the bottom in black pen. A style of drawing I’ve seen over a hundred times in my home over the past two months.
My hands start to shake. Nothing makes sense.
“Jack?” Camille whispers from behind me.
I spin around, holding the letter, photo, and envelope. She glances down at it, and I see the moment fear registers in her expression.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
Her chest is moving quickly as she stares at the things in my hands. She won’t look me in the eye.Why won’t she look me in the eye?
“I found it,” she whispers.
“Found it where? When?” I ask, a familiar rage growing inside me.
Finally, she glances up at my face and into my eyes, but it’s not the same. She can’t see inside my soul like she normally can. Instead, she starts to cry.
“At a bookstore in Giverny. I was bringing them to you. I was returning them so you had this reminder of her, but…”
My brows furrow. None of this makes any sense. “But what?”
“But…Phoenix thought I was here to apply for the nanny position.”
There is remorse in her tone, but it’s foreign to me. I can’t seem to hear it as I crumple the paper in my hand. She flinches, reaching for the letter like it’s somehow more precious to her than it is to me.
“You mean…youlied. You took this position. You…took care of mydaughter, and this whole time…”
She takes a step toward me, reaching for my hands, but I am too blindsided to make sense of any of it. How did I let this happen? I hired someone from off the street to be a nanny for my little girl. Someone who wasn’t qualified at all…and for what?
“Were you stalking us?” I ask. When I look at Camille, it’s like I don’t even know her suddenly.
She drops her hands and straightens her spine. “Of course I was not stalking you,” she argues. “It’s not my fault you hired someone without any experience. It’s true I didn’t know I was coming here to apply for a job, but I applied for it anyway,” she snaps. “It’s notmyfault you hired me!”
