The Dreams He Stole

Livy's POV

The rain kept coming down, hitting the windows of our bedroom. My bedroom now, I guess. Gray had been dead for three weeks, and I still wasn't used to how quiet everything was.

I stood in front of the closet with cardboard boxes all around me. His clothes, his books, his whole life getting packed up piece by piece.

I reached for another one of his suit jackets and my hand knocked into something solid at the back of the top shelf.

A lockbox.

Small, metal, covered in dust. I pulled it down carefully, surprised by how heavy it was. Thirty years of marriage, and I'd never seen this thing before. Had Gray been hiding it? Or had I just never bothered to look up there?

I set it on the bed. There was a small keyhole on the front, no combination lock. I looked over at the nightstand where I'd put Gray's personal stuff, his wedding ring, his watch, a key ring with keys I didn't know what they opened.

The third key fit. The lock clicked.

Inside was a stack of letters tied together with a faded blue ribbon. The paper had gone yellow over the years, the edges soft like old fabric. I lifted them out and my heart started beating too fast.

The return address on the top envelope stopped me cold. Elysia Hunt, San Francisco, CA.

"Elysia Hunt."

Gray had mentioned her maybe three times in thirty years. "A friend from college." "Someone I knew at Stanford." "Just an old acquaintance." He never gave me details, and I never asked. We had our life here in Riverton, why would I care about people he knew in San Francisco?

But if she was just some old acquaintance, why were her letters locked in a box at the back of our closet?

I untied the ribbon and my hands were shaking so bad I almost dropped everything.

The first letter was dated September 1995. I would've been starting senior year of high school. Gray would've been twenty-five, working as a guidance counselor at Riverton High.

*Dear Gray,

I don't know how to ask this. I've written this letter five times already and thrown each one away. But I'm desperate, and you're the only person I can trust.

Dad's company declared bankruptcy last month. Mom's been on antidepressants since it happened. I need to get into a good college, Gray. Not just for me. For them. If I can get a scholarship to Stanford or Berkeley, if I can prove that our family hasn't completely failed, maybe Mom will...

I can't do it alone. My grades are good, but not exceptional. My extracurriculars are... fine. Nothing that stands out. I'm terrified my application will just disappear into the pile.

You said once that you'd always protect me. Did you mean it? Can you help me?

Please.

—Elysia*

I read it twice. Gray helping someone with college applications made sense, he was a guidance counselor. But this letter felt wrong. Too personal. You said you'd always protect me. That wasn't how you talked to your guidance counselor.

I put the first letter down and picked up the second one.

October 1995.

*Gray,

I got in. Early admission to Stanford...

...Gray, you know none of that is true. Not for me.

I feel guilty, I do. A little. But Gray, you saw my family. You know what my father's bankruptcy did to us. I need this. Livy doesn't. She's got the restaurant, she's got her mom, she belongs in that little town. She'll be fine there.

And honestly? This opportunity means everything to me. A little guilt is nothing compared to my future. Livy will never know, right? You said you'd make sure she never found out.

Thank you. I owe you everything.

—E*

The letter fell out of my hands.

That girl who lost her father at fifteen.

She was talking about me?

My father, Javier Martinez, died of a heart attack when I was fifteen years old. He'd been running La Estrella, our family's Mexican restaurant, since before I was born. When he died, we found out about all the debt he'd been hiding. Mom couldn't handle it by herself, so I took over, washing dishes, waiting tables, doing inventory, all while keeping my 4.0 GPA.

The ESL program was mine too. I started it when I was sixteen, teaching English to immigrant families in our community center's basement every Thursday night.

That was my story. My actual life. My pain and the one thing I was proud of.

And this woman Elysia Hunt had stolen all of it.

I couldn't breathe right. The room felt like it was tilting sideways.

I grabbed the third letter and I didn't care that I was crumpling the paper.

June 1998.

Gray,

I heard you're marrying Livy.

I have to admit, I'm surprised. You're really going to marry her just to make sure she never discovers the truth? Gray, that's... that's a huge sacrifice. Binding yourself to a small-town girl for the rest of your life when you could have so much more.

Is it worth it? Spending your whole life with someone you don't really love, just to keep our secret safe?

I'm doing well at Stanford, by the way. Good internships, recommendation letters from professors, job offers from Silicon Valley firms. I'm grateful. I really am.

But seeing what you're sacrificing for this...

Well. I suppose you have your reasons. Livy is your responsibility, the girl you saved. You have a sense of duty to her. I understand.

I'll make the most of this opportunity. I won't let your sacrifice be for nothing.

—E*

At the bottom of the page, in different ink, Gray had written a response. He must've added it later:

Elysia—For you, it's all worth it. I'll take care of Livy. She'll be happy. As long as you succeed, I can do anything. Love you always. —G

I crushed the paper in my fist.

For you, it's all worth it.

I don't really remember opening the next thing in the box. My eyes were blurry and I couldn't tell if I was crying or just in shock.

It was a photocopy of my college application from 1995. Right next to it was another application, Elysia's submission to Stanford.

Both personal statements said the exact same thing.

My story. Every single word.

I remembered writing that essay. I stayed up until 2 AM, crying while I typed because it hurt so much to put those years into words.

Gray had taken all of that. He'd photocopied my application and handed it to Elysia.

I grabbed my phone and typed "Elysia Hunt" into Google.

Her LinkedIn came up first.

Elysia Hunt

Chief Strategy Officer, TechVenture Capital

Education: Stanford University, Harvard Business School

Below that was a Forbes article from 2020: "From Immigrant Struggle to Silicon Valley Success: The Elysia Hunt Story."

I clicked on it.

The article talked about her "inspiring journey".

And Gray had made sure I never found out. He married me, kept me in Riverton, kept me away from anyone who might figure it out.

Everything started spinning. My chest hurt so bad I couldn't breathe.

He didn't love me. He never loved me.

I was just the problem he had to manage. The girl whose life he stole and gave to someone else like a present. The girl he married so I'd stay quiet, stay small, stay trapped in this town forever.

The pain in my chest got worse. I tried to yell for help but nothing came out.

I fell down next to the bed and the letters scattered everywhere. The last thing I saw was Gray's handwriting: Love you always.

He wasn't talking about me. He never was.

He stole thirty years of my life. He stole everything.

Everything went black.

I woke up gasping, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. There was no pain in my chest. No letters on the floor. I was in bed, tangled up in my sheets.

But the room was all wrong.

The walls had posters on them, bands I loved in high school, a Stanford pennant I bought with my first paycheck from La Estrella. My desk was covered in textbooks. I looked in the mirror and saw a face I hadn't seen in decades.

Eighteen. I was eighteen years old.

I practically fell out of bed trying to get to the calendar on my nightstand and almost knocked over my alarm clock.

September 6, 1995.

First week of senior year. Two months before college applications were due.

I'd just given all my application stuff to Gray so he could "help me look it over."