I’ve been staring at it off and on for the last hour, trying to decide if I want to open it. When Tori and I got done with the Anderson Wedding, I made a quick stop by the mailbox to grab the mail on the way back up. Everything was bills and junk mail, everything except this . . . this stupid, fancy envelope. I read my sister’s name for the twentieth time, feeling as if I’m caught in some kind of stupid nightmare. “Chrissy Reynolds . . .” I can’t believe I’m looking at this right now. It’s been two years since we have spoken. Two whole years and now here I am, sitting in front of her envelope, looking at it as if it’s going to bite me. The bad thing is, it probably will. “Open it, Calla.” Tori looks at me from her spot on the couch. “It’s just going to torture you if you don’t. Why put it off longer and let that whore bag win?” I nervously play with the end of my ponytail while staring angrily at the envelope. “Look at the envelope, Tori.” I pick it up and slam it back down onto the table.
