Dirty Letters

I picked up the framed photo on my nightstand, the one I’d taken out of my drawer a few days ago, and ran my finger along Isabella’s face.

“Hey, Izzy. I’m sorry I put you away for so long. It’s not that I didn’t want to see you. Trust me. I love your smiling face. It’s just . . . it’s hard, you know? Remember when you went out with Tommy Nystrom our sophomore year? You guys were so cute together. Then his dad got relocated for work, and he moved to Arizona. You had pictures of you two together all over your room. And you were so sad for months after he left. I talked you into taking them down and within two weeks you met Andrew Harding. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Tommy anymore—he just wasn’t there, and the constant reminder was making you sad. Well, that’s sort of like why I had to put away your pictures. I didn’t put them away so that I can meet a new best friend, just the same as you didn’t put Tommy’s photo away looking for a new boyfriend. But sometimes we need to stop living in the past to allow ourselves to be happy.”

I didn’t realize tears had been rolling down my face until one hit the glass of the frame in my hand. Wiping them away, I set the photo back onto my nightstand. The last week had been brutal. When we first got back home from Chicago, I was okay. Sad because I didn’t think Griffin and I would make it, but the situation I’d experienced with the fire alarm really hadn’t hit me. Until it did. A few days later, I woke up in the middle of the night hyperventilating. I’d heard fire alarms blaring so vividly that I ran out of the house in a panic at two in the morning. It took a solid twenty minutes to talk myself into going back inside, even after I realized that no alarm had really gone off. Things started to spiral out of control after that—a meltdown in the pet store, profuse sweating while trying to write, and a constant feeling that something bad was looming. On top of that, fear of having another vivid nightmare had turned me into an insomniac.

Doc said my delayed physiological response was a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. We spent a few days talking about the night of the concert, something we hadn’t actually done in a few years. Yesterday he’d had me write down the details of what happened that night. The process was supposed to help examine the way I thought about the trauma so that we could come up with a new way to live with it. Basically, I’d taken a step back in my therapy—and it felt about three years back in time.

The one good thing was that writing about the events of the fire made me want to remember the good times with Izzy, too. So today I’d dug out my storage box from the attic and gone through some of my keepsakes. There were birthday cards, photos, videos of us acting silly together, and even a sketch of a tattoo that Isabella had wanted us both to get of the sun, moon, and stars.

I took my yearbook out from the box and turned the pages until I got to her photo. She was so pretty and smiling so brightly. The universe hadn’t given her an inkling of what was coming when that photo was taken. I was just about to put the book back into the box when it slipped from my hands and landed upside down with the inside cover open. Isabella’s handwriting was splashed all over the pages. I’d forgotten about the long letter she’d written inside my yearbook.

Dear Luca,

They say your two best friends are supposed to write inside the front and back covers of your yearbooks. I want you to know that my back cover will remain blank. Because I only have one very best friend in the world and that’s you, Luca Vinetti.

It feels like yesterday that it was the first day of kindergarten and we met. I stood at the bus stop waiting for the school bus to come. Man, was I shitting a pickle. I mean, what if everyone hated me? What if I couldn’t make any friends? What if everyone thought I was a weirdo?

Now, granted, that summer I’d been very frustrated with the big cowlick that always stuck up on the right side of the front of my hair, and I’d had the bright idea that if I cut it off at the base of the roots, no one would notice. So I was waiting for that bus while missing a good chunk of hair on one side of my head. Basically, I was a weirdo, so any of our classmates would have had a damn good reason to keep away.

Anyway, I got on that bus wearing a big cowboy hat, thinking no one would notice my hair if I rocked my cool new style. The only problem was, cowboy hats were totally uncool and all the kids started making fun of me. Telling them my father was a farmer—in Manhattan—didn’t exactly help my situation. But you got up from your seat and walked over and sat down next to me. You told me to ignore them, though I couldn’t. That day was absolutely horrible, and I dreaded going back on Tuesday. Until I got on the bus and saw you sitting there with an ear-to-ear smile—wearing a big old cowboy hat. That’s when I realized that I was a weirdo, but my new best friend loved me anyway.

Yearbooks are supposed to be about reminding people of all the good times you’ve shared. Since there aren’t enough pages in this book to begin to put a dent in our memories, I’m going to tell you the reasons I love you, instead.

You always laugh at my bad jokes.

You’re the kindest person I know.

You taught me to follow my dreams by watching you chase your own down.

You can’t wait to wake up tomorrow to experience life.

You always have a smile on your face.

You’re fearless.

The last twelve years were a blast, but it’s only the beginning for us. You’re going to conquer the world, Luca Vinetti. We may be going off to college a thousand miles apart, but no matter how much distance life puts between us, I’ll always be rooting for you.

Your BF Forever,

Izzy

Griffin: Morning, my beautiful girl. Why did the sperm cross the road?

A few seconds later, a second text came in.

Griffin: Because I put on the wrong sock this morning.

I don’t know why, but the joke sent me into a fit of laughter. Maybe it was maniacal, I’m not sure, but it felt like I needed it. Griffin had been texting me twice daily over the last week, since I’d been avoiding him. Each morning he’d send me a joke, and each evening he’d let me know the various ways he’d thought of me throughout the day. I sometimes texted back, but it was nothing more than a gratuitous thank-you or lame smiley face. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to have contact with him; it was because I didn’t know what to say. I was ashamed of how I’d spiraled into a dark place, and I also didn’t know how to talk to him about us—where we were. So I’d done the immature thing and pulled away without explanation.

I reread his text and couldn’t help but laugh at the joke a second time. In my head, I pictured him actually putting on a crusty sock. Then I remembered Izzy’s letter from the yearbook that I’d read yesterday.

You always laugh at my bad jokes.

I did have a penchant for really bad jokes. She was right about that. But the rest of the stuff, I wasn’t so sure.

You’re fearless.

God, had I really been fearless once? Because I couldn’t remember a time when I lived without fear.

You can’t wait to wake up tomorrow to experience life.

Experience life. I’d created a world that was just about as far away from real life as it could be. I lived in the middle of nowhere, wrote about characters who were figments of my imagination, and often the only person I spoke to during the day was Hortencia.

We may be going off to college a thousand miles apart, but no matter how much distance life puts between us, I’ll always be rooting for you.

She couldn’t possibly have known just how much distance would wind up between us, but for some reason, today I felt like she was rooting for me. I felt her presence more than ever, only today, it gave me a little courage. So I decided to type back to Griff.

Luca: What do tofu and a dildo have in common?

He responded two seconds later.

Griffin: What?

Luca: They’re both meat substitutes.

Griffin: LOL. What do you call a twenty-five-year-old rock star who doesn’t masturbate when he hasn’t seen his girl for two full weeks?

Luca: What?

Griffin: A liar.

I laughed out loud again.

Luca: What do you call a truck full of dildos?

Griffin: What?

Luca: Toys for Twats.

Griffin: Okay, that one just made me spit water through my nose.

It was the first time I’d had a smile on my face in two weeks. I looked over at the photo still on my nightstand. “Thanks, Izzy.”

Taking a deep breath, I moved my finger up over Griffin’s name and hit “Call” instead of texting him.

He answered on the first ring.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Are you busy? I needed to hear your voice.”

“I’m never too busy for you, love.”