Dear Sully

by Jill Cox

  “What do you mean?”

  He steepled his fingers. “On our first meeting, you told me that Meredith fled your apartment last Saturday. If I remember correctly, you were on the phone with Brooks at the time. You also mentioned that Meredith flew home to Ireland immediately, even though she was meant to spend the weekend here with friends she hadn’t seen in ages. Why do you think she took such extreme measures?”

  “Um, because things got weird?”

  “Weird, or confusing?” His eyebrow hitched up even further. “Tell me, son – did it ever occur to you that Meredith knows your game better than anyone? That maybe she noticed you pulling the same disappearing act on another woman that you pulled on her? That it hurt Meredith to see you treating Brooks with the same flippant disregard that you’d shown her in the past?”

  If he’d called me a malignant narcissist, it might have stung less. Was he right, Sully? Is that why you left Paris that day in June? I don’t want to believe him, but I have a sneaky feeling that I’m not the only person Dr. Keating understands in this world.

  The above conversation took place on July 3rd. Today is October 8th. Three whole months have passed, and I still haven’t found the courage to contact you. Every time I look up your number in my contacts, I nearly pass out from my blood pressure spiking.

  But then Dan overnighted me his copy of Night and Day. And as I read your words, I couldn’t help but notice how mysterious your Luke Jameson character reads, especially when it comes to his past. So this time, I decided to fill up a second notebook with everything I’m terrified to tell you. Everything you probably wonder but you’re too proud (or afraid) to ask.

  I’ve got eight days to write you the rest of the story. And this time, you might be the one who runs away. Because this time, the stories I write might change your mind about me forever.

  Meredith Sullivan, I present to you the updated history of my past six years. Once more with feeling, bad decisions and all.

  Ruby’s Diner

  After our accident in Lincoln City that summer, I never stepped foot in my family’s house in Sherwood again. Vick Darby handled the sale while neighbors and friends packed up our things and put them in a storage unit. By late September, our gray-with-black-trim cottage was under contract, and by Halloween, another family occupied our white-picket-fence life in the ‘burbs.

  Good-hearted people executed the tiny details on my behalf, and I let them. Because I couldn’t do it, Sully. I couldn’t face my own life.

  So Pops and Gigi set up camp for me in their ground floor guest room. It was much less practical than the upstairs bedroom you saw.

  Big fluffy white bed. Plush towels. A full-sized fridge, a microwave, plus its own private entrance from the garage.

  Kind of like the hotel I lived in this past year. Treat that heartbroken kid like a king, right? Make all his troubles disappear.

  In the months following the accident, my life consisted of three things: physical therapy, food, and sleep. No TV. No video games. No mindless hours scrolling social media.

  Are you kidding me? The very last thing I needed was a reminder of the life I’d never have.

  One afternoon in early November, on our way home from physical therapy, Gigi pulled into Ruby’s Diner right across the street from the Highgate campus.

  Yes, that’s right. The diner you and Sutton used to visit every Friday morning.

  While I fiddled with the jukebox, Gigi ordered cheese fries and two sodas, which the server delivered minutes later. The two of us sat there in chummy silence, filling our guts with junk food and bobbing our heads in unison to Gloria Gaynor. By that point, my leg was out of its cast. My stitches were scars. My bruises had faded.

  All the physical bruises, at least.

  “Your grandfather spoke to Stanford’s dean of admissions this week,” Gigi said quietly, folding her hands primly in her lap. “Dr. Urbanek told him she’d spoken to you sometime last month. That you’d requested deferred matriculation. Is that true, Peter? Did you speak to her without telling us?”

  “Uh…” I took a sip of my soda and willed my insides to calm the heck down. “I mean, yeah. She told me deferred matriculation is standard protocol under the circumstances.”

  “Mmmhmm.” Gigi’s eyes flickered back and forth between mine. “Listen, Peter – Pops and I are not your parents, and we don’t want to treat you like a child.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Yes, well, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying here, young man. As much as we’ve loved having you as our guest, I’m afraid you can’t hide out in our house forever.”

  “I know that.” I pulled the straw out of my drink, gnawing on the ends as I looked anywhere but her face. “Look, Geeg, I don’t want to sound like a complete brat here, but I’m not sure I really want to go to Stanford. Nothing against the school itself, you know? It’s just…”

  Tears pricked at my eyes in that moment, and even though it wouldn’t have been the first time I devolved into a sniveling mess in front of my grandmother that fall, I’d grown tired of the way those feelings always smacked me right in the face when I wasn’t looking. I threw my straw down and dropped my head into my hands. A couple of seconds later, I felt Gigi’s fingers pressing gently against my curls.

  “I know, darling. Stanford reminds you of Liz and Jim,” she murmured, her voice crackling with grief. “It represents an entire timeline of memories that will never come to pass. I understand. So you don’t have to go to Stanford. Not next semester. Not ever.”

  I lifted my head. “I don’t?”

  “No, Peter. You don’t even have to go to college. But you do have to live. It’s what your mom and dad would want you to do.”

  I looked into her eyes – really looked. Gigi was always straight with me, and something about her words felt like she’d just unlocked a prison cell from which I never believed I’d escape. So I stared at her hard, letting the truth sink in. Gigi meant what she was saying. I didn’t have to pick up the pieces of my old life and cobble together some shabby existence just to keep up appearances. Instead, my future was mine alone to choose.

  I pushed myself upright so fast that my head sort of spun, because man, Sully. The wheels of change were upon me, and just like that, I had a plan.

  “So, Geeg, you know how James Logan calls me every Sunday night?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Of course I do. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, the last time he called, James mentioned that traffic always picks up at the Restoration Initiative during the winter months. Dropping temperatures plus a lack of food, water, and shelter means more people in need. Makes sense, right?”

  “Of course. Even in Portland, the homeless shelters are filled to capacity during the winter months. With China’s population, I imagine the situation is dire.”

  “Exactly.” I clasped my hands in front of me on the table. “So what if I spent a few months in Shanghai after Christmas? Assuming I can get a visa and the doctors think I’m ready, of course.”

  Gigi’s eyes blazed all of a sudden. “Oh, Peter. I don’t think that’s a wise decision.”

  “But I’d be making a difference in other people’s lives! That must be a hundred times wiser than staring at the ceiling all day. Besides, I thought you loved James.”

  “This isn’t about James, darling. I know you want to skip the hard part of losing your parents, but if you don’t face down your grief, it will grow and grow until one day, it will cripple you when you least expect it. You can trust me on this. I know from experience.”

  “But how am I supposed to heal here? I can’t walk five feet inside your house without seeing a picture of my parents. We drive past St. Francis Prep ninety times a day. Dude, my tear ducts exploded in the cereal aisle at the grocery store last week. Who does that?”

  She stifled a grin. “I’d bet a lot of people cry in the cereal aisle. High fructose corn syrup wields a very powerful magic.”

  “Come on, Geeg. Be ser
ious.” I took a deep breath, then released it. “I need a change of scenery. Just for a little while. You’ve already admitted you get that, so why the resistance?”

  “Billions of people process their grief perfectly well in their own hometown, Peter. You’re acting rather privileged at the moment.”

  “Fine.” I lifted my hands in surrender. “I’m willing to admit that’s true. I’m the brattiest of all the spoiled brats on the planet. So how about I use my privilege to make a difference in someone else’s life? Isn’t that the point? If I went to live at the Initiative, not only would I have to do laundry and clean, I’d learn some carpentry skills. It’s a win-win: I could serve others and get my body back in shape.”

  “Yes, but –”

  “But nothing, Geeg – you know it’s a brilliant idea! And I bet James would let me teach the guys English in a formal classroom setting. How cool would that look on my résumé?”

  “Oh, Peter.” Gigi’s eyes looked weary. “We both know you will set yourself back if you move to China. Your mind will be too busy taking in new stimuli and adjusting to a new language and culture to deal with anything real. How many times must I tell you? The road must be walked.”

  She was right, Sully. I knew she was right. But in that moment, I just didn’t want to listen. So I rubbed my fists against my eye sockets and took another deep breath.

  “I have to get out of here, Gigi. I don’t care where you send me, just get out of your guest room, okay? Because I’ve already read every novel on the bookshelves, and if I turn on the TV, I’ll start watching the home improvement channel, and then the zombie apocalypse will happen, and –”

  “Rewind just a moment,” she said, spiraling a finger in the air. “What was that about home improvement?”

  “Uh… that I don’t want to start down that dark path to hell?” I watched her eyes brighten. “Oh, no, Gigi. Please don’t tell me you have plans to redecorate the dining room in some godawful brocade.”

  “My dining room? No. Absolutely not. It doesn’t get enough light for brocade,” she winked. “But maybe I could persuade your grandfather to let you spearhead the Guénégaud apartment renovations.”

  “But… I don’t know anything about decorating.”

  “I know you don’t. But Brooks Darby does, and you know French. You’d be the perfect team for this project.”

  Oh, Sully. My grandmother appeared so kind and gentle, didn’t she? Yeah, well, she was also shrewd and conniving, and without my realizing it, she’d just dangled the one carrot guaranteed to wreak havoc on all my Shanghai dreams.

  Because earlier that fall, unbeknownst to me, Gigi had offered Brooks a rent-free gig at our Paris apartment while she learned to make marzipan and macarons at some fancy Left Bank pâtisserie school run by an American blogger. In return, young Brooks would update the apartment to modern standards. But as my grandmother filled me in on her plans, the only detail my nineteen-year-old boy brain absorbed was Brooks, Brooks, Brooks.

  I know, Sully. I’ve always been your worst nightmare come true. I just tricked you temporarily with all of that lindy-hopping back in the day.

  Caveau de la Huchette

  By early December, Gigi was so thrilled with my seven college applications across the United States that she allowed me leave for Paris on New Year’s Day, one whole week earlier than Brooks. She thought I might need time to sort through my feelings once I’d settled back into our family’s flat. So many memories, so much to haunt me.

  The silver lining? I’d get to buy a galette des rois (or four) before Epiphany on January 6th.

  See, the bakery down the street from the Guénégaud apartment has these awesome ceramic garden gnome fèves that they bake inside their cakes. If you’re the only one eating the cake, you have a one hundred percent chance of finding that super cool gnome collectible.

  You saw my collection of mini gnomes the day you were up in my apartment in June. You just didn’t realize at the time just how dorky that collection makes me.

  Garden gnomes notwithstanding, wise old Gigi was correct: staying in that apartment those first few days was trippy. Despite the passage of time, everything still felt the same. I kept expecting my mom to burst through the door with a baguette under one arm or my dad to walk into the kitchen with his glasses propped on top of his head, asking me for the billionth time what the country code was for the United States.

  But then my guest arrived, and everything felt new again. According to Brooks, our first job was to move any outdated furniture to the living room. By the next morning, when the charity truck came, every room but the kitchen was empty. We painted every wall, then applied one more coat for good measure, and while our brains were high on paint fumes, we pulled out Gigi’s credit card, went online, and restocked the whole apartment, right down to the coffee table coasters.

  All day that Friday, delivery trucks dropped by with new furniture and accessories. By six p.m., the apartment looked like an Anthropologie catalog. Which was sort of the point, wasn’t it? How else was Gigi going to attract the junior-year-abroad renters of the world?

  That evening, Brooks suggested we walk over to the Latin Quarter to grab crêpes and explore. As we strolled, we found a place called Caveau de la Huchette just a stone’s throw from Shakespeare and Company.

  Why yes, that is the place you asked me to take you swing dancing about a million times after we started dating.

  Guess what, Sully? You’re about to learn why I refused.

  It was late by the time we walked inside the Caveau. People were decked out from head to toe in their best forties gear: women in bright red dresses that hugged their curves, men in doo-wop shoes with their hair slicked back. The atmosphere was electric.

  And don’t forget, Brooks was the captain of the Ducky Shincrackers her senior year. Two former swing dance team captains in a place like that? We boogied our hearts out for at least an hour, even though I was still healing from the car accident. Pffft. You think that stopped me? Please. I was a nineteen-year-old dude. I laughed in the face of pain. Especially when there was a girl involved.

  When the band finally took a break, Brooks dragged me to a table back in the darkest corner of the room. She ordered lemon drop shots and a carafe of water, but when the waiter returned, he’d brought six shots instead of two – “from the band,” he said, “for the lovely American couple.”

  “Look at you, Captain Fancy Pants,” Brooks grinned, clinking her shot glass against mine. “Even with that bum leg, you still looked better than half the professionals on that dance floor.”

  I didn’t respond. I just tipped my head back and swallowed the first shot whole.

  This was before I’d quit drinking, of course, and the hour spent dancing had creaked its way into my bones. So I took a second shot, just to speed the pain relief along. Which only sent Brooks into hysterics.

  “Well, this should be interesting,” she muttered under her breath. Then she took two shots herself.

  Vodka snaked its way through my veins, my heart thumping so wildly I thought it might burst out of my chest. So I poured us both some water. Then I fixed Brooks with a knowing smirk. “How’s that loser Charlie you used to date?”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” she said flatly, taking a small sip from her water glass. “Last time I saw him, the day before finals, he’d moved on to his fifth new girl of the semester.”

  “Classy.” I watched her over the rim of my water glass. “Do you miss him?”

  Brooks didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up both of our third shots and slid a little closer to me on the banquette, her eyes suddenly glued to my lips. “To the future, Russell.”

  “To the future,” I repeated, clinking my glass to hers. And down the hatch those lemon drops slid.

  Listen, I know you’ve never experienced my intoxicated inner frat boy, but let’s get real – no one makes wise choices after three shots in ten minutes. And sadly for me, I’ve never been one to black out, so I remember every second of wha
t happened next.

  I slid my arm behind her along the back of the banquette, and to my surprise, Brooks didn’t flinch. In fact, a couple of seconds later, she took up residence in the space between my chest and my bicep. When she finally lifted her eyes to mine, I could see something was… well, different. At least on her end, it was. Except with that much vodka in my system, all I could do was laugh.

  “Come on, Brooksie. You can’t mess with me. We’ve known each other too long to bother playing games.”

  She shot me a sexy grin. “You don’t like games?”

  “Well, I suppose that depends.” I tilted my head down until our eyes were level. “What’d you have in mind?”

  And just like that, she grabbed my shirt and tugged me toward her. We might have morphed into a jumble of legs and fingers in hair… except the waiter picked that instant to return and plunked down a bill for all six shots.

  “Sorry,” he said in heavily accented French. “I’m afraid ze lemon drop shots were meant for a different American couple.”

  Well, that killed the mood.

  At first, Brooks tried to sweet-talk him out of the charges, and judging by the cool expression plastered across her face, I could tell this wasn’t the first time she’d used her beauty to her own advantage. Now that I think about it, it wasn’t even the first time that night.

  But the serveur wasn’t having it. In hoity-toity, aristocratic French (not English this time), he backtracked, admitting that he’d only brought us those shots to capture Brooks’ attention. “But if you prefer wasting your time with an infant like this boy, I don’t see why I should foot the bill. Besides,” he added. “You have big teeth, mademoiselle. Very straight, but enormous. Like a horse.”

  Dear waiters of the world: this is why you should never assume Americans only speak English. Because some of us understand you fluently. Especially when you call us a bébé.