For the next two months, Denise barely looked at me.
Honestly, that was fine.
Then one afternoon, I found an envelope in our mailbox.
No stamp. Just my name.
Inside was a short note.
Jenna,
“I know saying sorry doesn’t undo what I did. I kept telling myself I was borrowing or looking, but I knew better. You trusted me enough to complain to me about the missing packages, and I stood there pretending I wasn’t the reason.”
“I’m sorry.”
Denise
I read it twice. I didn’t respond.
But I kept it.
Not because I wanted a souvenir.
Because that sentence was the first time she had described what happened without making an excuse.
It’s been almost a year now.
We still live next door to each other.
We’re polite. That’s all.
Ryan and I keep the cameras on.
I also have most deliveries sent to a secure pickup point if they’re expensive.
And the pink dress?
I never wore it to the party.
I couldn’t.
Something about seeing Denise standing in it had ruined it for me.
I returned it and bought a black one instead.
A few months later, Denise and I crossed paths while bringing in our trash cans.
