“Open it,” he said.
I opened it.
It was full of things. A stack of papers. A folded-up note on pink paper. A ziplock bag of cookies, still sealed, gone stale. The chemistry history book, still in the bookstore bag with the receipt. A bottle of wine, unopened. A printout of text messages.
“Every single thing she’s given me,” Irvin said quietly. “Every note. Every gift. I didn’t eat the cookies. I didn’t drink the wine. I didn’t read the book.” He pointed at the printout. “And those are her texts. I printed them out. I didn’t answer most of them. The ones I did answer, I said thank you and that was it.”
I picked up the pink note. It said, in loopy handwriting, For my favorite neighbor. You deserve someone who appreciates you. — V. With a heart.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
