October 11, 1998—Nantucket Island

Regret isn’t passive. It’s not something you can stuff away, suppress deeper and deeper. The less you tend to it, the more it grows.

I know a thing or two about regret. Life has been as good to me as it could bear to be—better than most fared, surely—but I still have had my fair share of disappointments and mistakes, secret hopes dashed before they could get running.

None of that compares to what I feel right now.

The letter arrived this afternoon. The return address marked as from California, the postage stamp featuring the Golden Gate Bridge against a sparkling navy sky. The words are wobbly at times, as if the writer was rushed or emotional, but the message is clear as a bullet.

It’s too late.

“I appreciate your reaching out,” it begins. “And I deeply regret disappointing you.”

I thought that maybe if I contacted him now—if I confessed I was to blame for everything—there would still be a chance to make it all right side up again. I was wrong.

I read the letter again, three times, hoping the content will magically change. I can hear my husband stirring in the bedroom. It’s October and our small beach town—thirty miles out to sea—is in hibernation. Only the locals pocket the streets, occasionally bumping into the phantoms of summertime. I once read that paranormal activity increases around the coast. Something about the fog and the dense ocean air making energy linger.

I’m not sure I believe in any of that, but the past does feel ever present on this island, like multiple timelines are existing at once. We’re constantly stumbling into long-gone versions of ourselves.