Mr. Knight/A Jordan Knight Fanfic ✔️

31

31. paradox

"I have something I need to confess to you."

I laugh at Claire's grave, worried tone. "Claire-bear, whatever it is, just tell me. Did you steal my favorite scarf when you left? I can't seem to find it—"

"I sent your letters to Knight."

My hand abruptly stops chopping lettuce, and the knife releases from my nerveless fingers. It clanks onto the counter, spins toward the edge, teeters, then cartwheels toward my feet. Even facing potential amputation, I can't move—at this moment, if I lost a toe I doubt I'd even feel it.

Luckily, the knife embeds itself in the wood an inch from my ankle. I take a breath and release it slowly.

"I'm sorry, I just stepped into a parallel universe where my best friend told me she sent those letters."

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. "It was a mistake. A moment's insanity. I just started thinking about you and Knight, and how you guys never really had a chance three years ago—"

"Holy hell, Claire McHenry!" I holler. "Are you insane? Do you have any idea what those letters say?"

"I read a few," she says meekly.

Feeling dizzy, I stumble to my kitchen table and sink into a chair. There isn't a word for what's going on inside me right now. It's a toxic combination of terror, shock, foreboding, humiliation, violation...

"I sent them four days ago to his office on campus," she says miserably. "Maybe you can intercept them?"

My mind races. "In a box?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a tracking number?"

"Um, I think so? Hold on, let me look."

I listen to her rummaging through papers, my anxiety spiking higher with every second. "I'm really mad at you, Claire. I don't—I can't even imagine what possessed you."

"I know," she moans. "If you never want to talk to me again, I'll understand. I'm so sorry!"

I sigh. "I know you are. Just find that fucking receipt."

"I got it! Yes!"

I grab a nearby pad of paper and pen. She recites the ridiculously long code, then I say it back to confirm.

"Darcy, I—"

"I know you meant well," I interject, "but let me try to avert this disaster before we talk through it, okay?"

"Okay," she whispers. I hang up. Every nerve in my body but one wants to throw the phone across the room, but my last nerve is the sane one. It reminds me that my laptop is in the bedroom, and I can use my phone to quickly look up the tracking info on the Box of Doom.

Fingers shaking, I manage to find the appropriate website and plug in the code. As the page loads, my feet pound a staccato rhythm on the floor.

Then I see them.

Two little words.

Delivered today.

I'm halfway to my car before I realize I'm not wearing shoes. Hissing in frustration, I rush back inside and grab the closet pair that will do—my slippers—then I'm out the door again and jumping into my car.

I hit every red light between my house and the university, because apparently the powers that be still have it in for me. The sick bastards.

Once on campus, I swerve into the lot closest to the English Department. It's the middle of the afternoon and naturally there are no spots. So I do what any well-adjusted grown woman in this situation would do—park illegally in the slanted white lines at the end of a row. If campus security tows my car, Claire will be paying to get it out of impound.