Page 143 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
We spend the day hiking, holding hands like teenagers. And I let myself pretend that this is real. I act like this is my life and push the rest of my thoughts away.
Chapter32
Juliet
I’m still floating from our weekend at the cabin when I find the package outside our door Sunday morning. It’s addressed to me, postmarked locally, but there’s no return address. My name is on the package, but I don’t recognize the handwriting.
Inside I find a handwritten note and a manila envelope that feels heavy with whatever’s inside.
The note makes my blood run cold.
Dear Miss Monroe,
I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Darla Huxley and I believe you know my son. I’ve been following your relationship with great interest. I think it’s time we had a conversation.
There are things about Hunter you should know. I could tell you stories that might help you understand why he is the way he is. My son always needs saving from himself.
I have some materials I think you’d find illuminating. Perhaps we could meet for coffee? I’m sure we have much to discuss regarding Hunter’s future.
A mother knows her son best, after all.
Sincerely,
Darla Huxley
My hands are shaking by the time I finish reading. I can’t believe any mother would do this to her own son. Would reach out to someone in his life to... what? Sabotage him? Control him?
The envelope contains photos, printouts, and what looks like documentation of every mistake Hunter’s ever made. There are a few legal papers from the money situation he told me about. Screenshots of old social media posts, too. Plus some photos from college parties that paint him in the worst possible light.
It’s blackmail material. Pure and simple.
There are notes in the margins, Darla’s handwriting pointing out details, spinning narratives, building a case against her own child. It’s methodical. Calculated. Devastating.
And it’s clearly meant to scare me away.
I don’t hesitate. I grab the envelope and march into the living room where Hunter is drinking coffee and scrolling through his phone.
“We need to talk,” I say, dropping the package on the coffee table in front of him.
He looks up, confused, then sees his mother’s handwriting on the note. For a moment, he doesn’t react at all. He stares at it like it’s a bomb that might go off.
I see it hit him. A flicker of shame crosses his face. His shoulders shift, curling inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller. I recognize that movement; it’s almost like looking in the mirror.
“Fuck. Juliet, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you got dragged into this. I never wanted her anywhere near you.”
I cut him off before he can keep apologizing. “Do you think I deserved it when Patrick said cruel things about me?”
He looks stunned. “What? No. Fuck no.”
“Then why would you think I want you to deal with this alone? I mean, it’s clearly bullshit.”
He stares at me, something shifting in his expression.
“I may not be your real fiancée,” I mumble. “But I’m your real something. Right?”
That’s the moment everything changes. I can see the way his walls crumble. He stops trying to protect me from this and starts letting me in.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “You’re my real something, Monroe.”
