All Faculty Excerpts

Worse than Strangers

The following is an excerpt from the prologue of Kyleigh Leddy's novel, Worse than Strangers.

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Lottie

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.

“Are you coming to bed?” calls my husband, Charlie, from the other room.

He can’t know about this. “In a moment!” I strain to sound cheery.

I read the letter once more. I could tell Rose, but what good would that do now? Telling her would only appease my own guilt. She and her baby girl, Lily . . . only a year old. They are going through enough already. She doesn’t need this, too.

No, this secret is mine alone to carry.

“Lottie?” Charlie calls again.

The old, warped floorboards creak. I see my husband rounding the corner. I’m standing by our fireplace: The floor-to-ceiling bookcases he built for me years ago are to my left. In a rush of instinct, I take the letter and tuck it into a small, hidden compartment behind the shelf.

“What are you doing, honey?” my husband asks moments later, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Nothing.” I smile. “Just picking out a novel before bed.”

“Okay, dear,” he says, kissing my cheek. “Choose wisely.”

I wait until Charlie heads back to the bedroom before I settle down on an old armchair. Oh, Charlie. What would he think if he knew what I’d done?

The fire crackles. I look back at the bookshelf. I know the letter is tucked in there, but right now, it blends in like it never existed at all. Maybe that’s for the best. What’s done is done. All that’s left to do is live with the weight of my guilt and hope it doesn’t grow.

But then again, it’s easier to rationalize a regret when it’s not your life you ruined.