by Ace Gray
Copyright © 2019 Ace Gray
Except the original material written by the author, all songs, song lyrics, and song titles contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders. The author concedes to the trademarked status and trademark owners of the products mentioned in this fiction novel and recognizes that they have been used without permission. The use and publication of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Book Cover Kingdom
Cover Photography by Courtney Hellen Photography
Editing by Payne Proof
Interior Design/Formatting by Champagne Book Design
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
Intro
November 7th, 2017
November 15th, 2017
December 5th, 2017
December 21st, 2017
January 2nd, 2018
January 4th, 2018
January 16th, 2018
January 25th, 2018
January 26th, 2018
February 4th, 2018
February 12th, 2018
February 24th, 2018
March 3rd, 2018
March 6th, 2018
March 10th, 2018
March 11th, 2018
March 13th, 2018
March 15th, 2018
March 17th, 2018
March 21st, 2018
March 22nd, 2018
March 30th, 2018
April 5th, 2018
Part Two
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
About the Author
Follow Ace
For anyone who’s bled for love, for anyone who knows how badly it hurts.
For Courtney & Mandy for getting me through
For Dyllan, Harloe and Jill for getting me here
Three years ago, I fell in love. So deeply in love it rearranged my heart and soul. The only catch? I was engaged. To someone else.
These are the letters I wrote to James Larrabee as I fell. Then more from when that fall became a bit more literal…and I got smashed to smithereens.
November 7th, 2017
Dear Beautiful Boy,
It’s funny that I don’t remember the day I met you. Wasn’t it some random day in the brewery? All I remember was that party where you stood in the corner of the yard, sipping your beer, and looking uncomfortable. I mean, that was the day you stuck with me. And how could you have NOT stuck with me the first day? Maybe it was just that look of sad and lost and stuck—I always was a bleeding heart, even if I never knew how much I would bleed in the end. I don’t remember much of what we talked about, and it took me months to realize that you don’t remember it at all. I didn’t register with you. Sometimes I still wonder if I do.
But you…
We all talked about you. About how gorgeous you were. About how we wanted to know you and who wanted to sleep with you. I don’t remember if the claws ripped at my chest then like they do now. Does it matter if they did in that very moment? Does it matter if all these feelings welled up and crashed on me? Or if they slowly seeped in and I just didn’t realize until I was in too deep? Honestly, I don’t really think so. They drowned me in the end all the same.
November 15th, 2017
Dear Mr. Who Are You,
I think about a do-over all the time. About a different job, a different fiancé, a different life. I want to disappear. I’ve decided Argentina. Friendly. Spanish speaking, which I do okay with. Mountains. Snow. Seasons.
Far the fuck away from here.
Part of me wants to go because I feel inadequate. Part of me wants to go because my surroundings make me feel inadequate.
Where does that leave us?
Well, there is no us, so… but maybe in Argentina there could be. Where no one knows me, and no one asks me “Where’s Tanner?” before they ask me how I am. Maybe in Argentina I’ll believe I deserve that. Deserve you.
But are you someone that sees past my inadequacy, or are you the one that tears open my chest so I look closely at it? Are you someone worth running toward? Or just another reason to run far, far away? Most days you’re both. You make me want to be better. I drag my ass to the gym and eat the salad because I want to be worthy. I want you to want to go with me. But that version of me sucks. She sucks because she’s not strong. And guilty ALL THE TIME. She sucks because she doesn’t deserve you.
Why do I want to give you my forwarding address anyway?
December 5th, 2017
To the man that I crave,
How can today be the best day. A frantic day at work that’s punctuated by you. You choosing to hang out with me when I usually have to shove myself in your face. Maybe it was hat shopping, but you lingered. You smiled. And then you teased me on the receipt. “Poor service :(…” The sentimental part of me wanted to keep it. To keep the proof that you WANT to joke with me.
And then inviting me to get beer with you after work…? Well, it wasn’t even an invite, just an assumption that we’d go together.
I guess the best part was that I felt wanted. And by you. By the person who lights me up with a simple look or a husky word. My soul did a somersault I didn’t know it still could. In that moment, I realized that you, and what we were slowly becoming together, was something I’d craved my entire life.
I try not to think about how it’s something I’ll never get to taste.
December 21st, 2017
To the home I found in your arms,
You hugged me yesterday. I know that�
��s not a real important sentence to other people but to me… You’ve hugged me before—when I gave you a hard time about not liking hugs, when my laptop got stolen—but they weren’t like this. They weren’t ones that you initiated, that you held me when you pulled me in tight. They weren’t ones that felt like you wanted me there.
I’m sitting here 24 hours later trying to etch each detail of you pulling me across my console and into your chest. And in my delusional world, I’m pairing that with little things you did and little things you said—like waiting for me. The way you phrased it to Chris made my heart stop.
Somedays I can convince myself that I matter to you. That your thoughts drift to me at times without my prompting. Sometimes I can convince myself you’d want me too.
That’s of course when the guilt sets in. The guilt and the depression and the overcompensation. I want to tell you those days. I want to tell you not to mind me. Not to pay attention to me. To forget I exist.
Then I think about that hug. That real fucking hug. And I want to say those things to you so that you tell me that’s not possible.
January 2nd, 2018
Dear Worth Your Weight in Gold,
I would buy you the sun and the moon, ya know. The constellations too. I’d buy them and hand them over like they mattered not at all. Well, none of them besides Gemini. That set of stars is something for me to keep. Something more precious than gold or money. That constellation is something made of memory. Precious, perfect, and pure.
Money can’t buy THAT. I can’t put a dollar amount on the moments, the heart beats between us. And I wish I could make you see. Make you feel how little the money matters and how much YOU do. Because, holy fuck, you do. Beers don’t, coffee doesn’t, burritos either. Oysters, paella, bottles of kriek… they are a small price to pay for YOU!
You are worth bronze, silver, paper, and gold. You are worth the words I write or carve into my heart.
Today I watched your lips as you spoke. Word after word after word. Syllable after syllable that formed all these magnificent shapes. You’re left side is so full, you’re right so thin. Together they are bewitching in their alphabet. In in their shapes. I would pay for that shape. For that memory. For you.
But that’s not the way currency works. Instead I’m the one whose coffer, purse, cup is full. Full of the coins in the shape of your mouth. Full of the reward that is your words. Full of the feeling they both give me, and the fantasy of taking those lips between mine and kissing you as if you are my poverty and my fortune all at once.
January 4th, 2018
To the man I love,
Do they know what they get if they get you? I set up your Tinder profile today and there were a few things I couldn’t believe. I can’t believe they don’t see you. See how beautiful and wonderful you are. It’s your quiet strength, your sharp intellect. It’s also those moments when you really smile, when you let your wall down. It’s the voice and the face and every perfect imperfection.
I want to scream at them.
I want to keep you for myself.
Instead I rub my temples, take a deep breath, and keep my reason for texting you. Like the horoscopes. I don’t trust that just me is enough. Why would I be? I’m not the pretty one. I’m not the smart one. I mean that’s how the coffee started right?
January 16th, 2018
Dear Not Mine, Not Really,
Why does every neutral negate the positive with us? Why do I see you, feel you, love you so intensely one day and then the next…? I mean, my feelings don’t really wax or wane, but when you don’t act like I want you to—or rather read: when you don’t think of me the way I think of you—somehow all the beautiful goes away.
Somehow the night when I told you everything—what I wanted to be when I grew up, how my mom is sick, who I want to be—is suddenly nullified. And it shouldn’t be. The rational part of me KNOWS it shouldn’t be. That night was special. Us together was special. The way you made me feel was special.
How can I lose that? Those HOURS where you sit across from me and spill your guts then scoop mine up? What is wrong with me?
I mean you left with her. You hung out with them. You did cocaine and didn’t answer my texts until 1:27pm, and Jesus fuck that stings. Well, stings is a nice way of saying I spiral and I lose my mind. And for the record, I hate the chick that loses her mind.
I blame it on not knowing where I stand, but that’s a lie. Where I stand is simple. I’m engaged. To someone who is not you. But my heart…
Fuck I hate that thing.
That thing that waits for you. That drips off your texts and clings to The Office because it’s something we can share. That remembers you begging to vacation in Vermont and literally carved the itinerary on myself with deep, weeping letters.
That thing that wants to write you a letter about who you are to me. How special you are to me. How you should never forget it. The thing that fantasizes of the love we’d share. The sex we’d have. The happy ever after we might have.
That thing that won’t survive without you. That knows I’ll bottle it up, shove it down, and text you your horoscope every day until eternity because a small drip drip is better than nothing at all. With nothing at all, my heart becomes the Mojave. Shrivels up, dies, and becomes the hours of nothing between us but far more permanent. It becomes you leaving with her and partying with them and refusing to text me back FOREVER. And that’s the only forever I can’t stand with you.
January 25th, 2018
Dear Dreams,
I saw a photo today of Shinjuku, Japan. NatGeo captured the energy of the city. Thousands of people walking down the street beneath neon signs slashed with Japanese lettering. It was vibrant and alive even in the rain.
I craved a moment there. A moment of getting lost there.
Before I even realized it, I imagined the crowd parting and seeing you in your dirty orange and rust Mountain Hardware jacket, new black hat, and your ever present Carhart’s. The colors fit into the background but your downturned profile, the lines of your face that are becoming etched on the backs of my eyelids and are forging the shape of my dreams stood out.
Of course, you’d stand out in the crowd of a thousand.
I saw your face and the moment, the trip, the future all built themselves in my mind. You’re doing that thing you do where you research, google, read, know EVERYTHING in a quiet and unassuming way. You know where we’re going and what all those signs say but you let me bumble along and get lost and make suggestions all the same with nothing but that slow stretching, crooked smile that has become my favorite thing, judging me. But you don’t really judge me, do you?
It’s that—all of who you are, all of who we could be together, the possibility, the adventure, that smile—that is a stark difference to him. It’s exciting, true electricity in my veins. It’s a future that I crave. With each fiber of my being and the entirety of my soul.
January 26th, 2018
Dear Reality,
You didn’t text me back this morning. You didn’t text me back this morning and it hurt. It hurt and it reminded me that I have no business hanging the moon and the stars from your long fingers. I have no business hanging my puppet strings from them either.
But I have.
I have and it hurt.
Yes, I know you were at work. Yes, I know you can be busy back there. The rational part of me knows so very well.
But I’m not rational when it comes to you.
Not anymore.
I’d made up my mind not to text you. Not to talk to you. Not to do anything when it came to you. And for a little while it worked. I didn’t go to the brewhouse to find you. I didn’t stop by the break room. I worked hard. Harder than I needed to. But it helped the hurt fade. It helped me find my balance.
When you got up to get your things to leave and didn’t stop, I was okay. I rubbed the necklace you had fixed for me and told myself that this detachment was good. This indifference would get us past this place of guilt and pain.
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But then you stopped.
And I knew just by your body language you were waiting for me. To talk to me. The wave of want and anticipation that is tied to that moon I left on your ring finger surged back up inside me. My mood, my day, my insides sprung to life.
When I looked you full in the face you were maybe the most beautiful I’d ever seen you. Nothing special and the entire universe all at once. That same black hat, that orange and rust Mountain Hardware jacket, and that smile. That smile and those bright stormy eyes. Wholly fixed on me.
Your skin looks so soft that my fingers crave to whisper across it. Your lips so plump that I taste the shape between mine. I would smooth the deep lines that show me what you’re thinking. I would kiss away all your cares.
I would but I can’t.
So, I’ll settle on thinking of that moment. You waiting to talk to me. Imposing and beautiful as you stand above me. I’ll think of your skin and your lips and your smile and the deep lines of your face. I’ll think of how you looked right then.
I’ll think of being with you even if I never will.
I also think all I’ll ever get to say out loud is I’ll think of you.
February 4th, 2018
To the boy I’ll miss,
All day it was pins and needles. Eggshells. I walked as gently as I could but heard the crunch beneath my feet all the same. Every moment, every look, every message had an echo for me.
I’m leaving you.
I’m leaving you and today is the day I have to tell you.
For so long it’s been an abstract. I haven’t had to admit that in three months, you won’t be in my life. Not with stolen looks, crooked smiles, and that voice that has become my internal one anyway. I haven’t had to look inside myself at the hole that you’ll leave. That chasm. I feel like it gets a little wider every day. Somedays I wonder if I’ll survive the fall into it. I know for damn sure I’ll cry all the way to Boise, Idaho. I have a feeling I’ll drown in that leftover pool. And without you, I don’t know if I really want to breathe fresh air anyway…
