Sweet Filthy Boy by Christina Lauren

minute and explain it all. They had to.
    But they didn’t, and the morning I was discharged and faced with the reality of life without dancing . . . there wasn’t enough morphine in the world to insulate me from the truth. My left leg was ruined—and with it, the future I’d worked toward my entire life. The stutter I’d struggled with for most of my childhood had returned, and my father—who spent more time researching the odds of my dancing career being lucrative than he did attending my recitals—was home, pretending not to be inwardly celebrating.
    For six months I barely spoke. I did what I had to: I carried on. I healed on the outside while Lola and Harlow watched over me, never treating me like I was held together with a fake smile and staples.
    Ansel leads me to the same corner I took him to last night. It’s decidedly less dark this morning, less private, but I barely notice with my eyes boring into the envelope he’s placed in my hand. He has no idea the significance of this, that the last time I wrote myself a letter was the day I decided to start talking again, the day I told myself it was okay to mourn the things I’d lost but it was time to move on. I sat down, wrote all the things I was afraid to say out loud, and slowly began to accept my new life. Instead of moving to Chicago like I’d always planned, I enrolled at UC San Diego and finally did something my father deemed worthy: graduating with honors and applying to the most prestigious business schools in the country. In the end I had my pick of programs. I’ve always wondered if subconsciously I was trying to get as far away as I could, from both him and the accident.
    The envelope is wrinkled and worn, creased where it’s been folded and probably pulled in and out of his pocket over and over, and reminds me so much of the letter I’ve read and reread over the years that I have a flash of déjà vu. Something’s been spilled on one corner, there’s a red smudge of my lipstick on the opposite side, but the flap is still perfectly sealed, the edges not pulling away even a little bit. He didn’t try to open it, though judging by his anxious expression he’s most definitely considered it.
    “You said to give that to you today,” he says quietly. “I didn’t read it.”
    The envelope is thick in my hand, heavy, and stuffed with what feels like a hundred pages. But when I tear it open and look, I realize it’s because my handwriting is so huge and slanted and drunk, I could only fit maybe twenty words on each narrow page of hotel stationery. I’d spilled something on it, and a few of the pages are torn slightly as if I could barely fold them correctly before giving up and shoving them in a messy pile inside.
    Ansel watches me as I sort them and begin to read. I can practically feel his curiosity where his eyes are fixed on my face.
    Dear Mia self.Miaself.Myself it starts. I bite back a grin. I remember tiny ticks of this moment, sitting on the toilet lid and struggling to focus on the pen and paper.
    You’re sitting on the toilet writing a letter to yourself to read later because you’re drunk enough to know you’ll forget a lot tomorrow but not so drunk that you can’t write. But I know you because you’re me and we both know that you’re a terrible drinker and forget everything that happens when you’ve had gin. So let me tell you:
    he’s ansel.
    you kissed him
    he tasted like lemon and scotch
    you put his hand in your underwear and then
    you talked for hours. yes, you talked. i talked. we talked. we told him everything about the accident and our leg your leg my leg.
    this is confusing.
    I’d forgotten this. I look up at Ansel, a prickling blush rising beneath the skin of my cheeks. I can feel my lips flush, too, and he notices, his eyes smoothing over them.
    “I was so drunk when I wrote this,” I whisper.
    He only nods at me, and then nods at the paper, as if he doesn’t want me to be interrupted, even by myself.
    you told