Dear Sully

by Jill Cox

  “Be serious for a second here – what about your thesis? Won’t I be in your way while you’re trying to work?”

  “Are you kidding me? I need you now more than ever. Between the two of us, maybe we can finally make sense of my thesis topic.”

  “You’ve already chosen?”

  “Well, not exactly. My advisor chose for me: Gaston Bachelard’s La Psychanalyse de Feu and its influence on Jean-Paul Sartre’s Being and Nothingness.’”

  “The Psychoanalysis of Fire? What does that even mean?”

  I started to explain but your eyes actually glazed over, which made me laugh inside. Because PREACH. What does it even mean? Even now, three years later, I still don’t get that title.

  My mom used to say, “You may have deep feelings for someone, Peter, but it’s your choices together that make those feelings count.” I decided to include this story in our anniversary journal because that night, you gave me a voice in your decision. Maybe you didn’t know it at the time, but that meant more to me than Venice and the Juniper House Christmas combined. Because without saying a word, you’d asked me to be on your team.

  RELATED: We still don’t have a couple hashtag. Why, Sully? Why? #MerePete #Russivan #ButSeriouslyHelpMe

  Rome0 and Juliet

  You have an unusual disdain for Valentine’s Day, Miss Sullivan, and while I generally respect your opinions, there once was a time when my foolish heart vowed to change your mind. Because as everyone knows, I enjoy the corny side of life. So I needed you to get on board with Cupid’s holiday. Except I hit a roadblock along the way: I had no idea where to take you out.

  “Dude,” Dan said when I called him in desperation. “You’re in Paris! This is the no-brainer of the century. Look up the Palais Garnier website and see which ballet they’re running. Meredith’s a dancer. She loves beautiful stories. How have you not come up with this on your own?”

  Why hadn’t I thought of that on my own? No clue. But I marched myself over to the box office that very second and bought us the best tickets they had for Roméo et Juliette.

  Quick side note here: can you explain to me why everyone thinks Romeo and Juliet is romantic? They die. Not only that, their deaths were completely avoidable. Why does Western Civilization value this story so much? I have no freaking clue.

  Anyway, I was so psyched about our date. I shaved twice that afternoon and wore my light blue sweater, because you said it was your favorite. And when I got to Marie-France’s building, I nearly fainted when I saw you waiting in the lobby, because you looked like you stepped right out of a time machine from mid-century America.

  Your hair was pulled off your face in a bun, and you were wearing a black dress that could have been Grace Kelly’s. Most of the time you don’t wear high heels but this night, you were nearly my height and so completely gorgeous that I wanted time to stop, right then and there. Forever.

  While we waited for our Uber, I leaned in to kiss you, and you stepped backward a little. “Sorry,” you muttered, frowning as you laid a hand on my chest. “I’ve been coughing my head off all day. I don’t think it’s contagious, but since I’m never right on those things…”

  “What? You’re sick?” I lifted the back of my hand to your forehead. “Hey, you’re warm. And maybe a little bit clammy.”

  You swatted my hand away. “Stop that. You’d be clammy too if you had to navigate this dress. It has three different zippers.” Then the Uber pulled up, and off we drove into the night.

  My end-of-the-night plan that night was genius, if I do say so myself. The Palais Garnier is only a thirty-minute walk from your apartment, and guess what’s smack dab in the middle of said route? The Pont des Arts. So on the way home, I figured I’d casually steer you over the bridge and once we were there, I’d present you with the teeny, tiny padlock charm I’d bought for your bracelet to symbolize our padlock. You know, the one buried in silt at the bottom of the Seine.

  So sweet. So thoughtful. Soooo over the top.

  Except the ballet was a bust. By intermission, we were both ready to leave. So I took your hand as we left the main entrance and asked, “Hey, how are those heels treating you?”

  You glanced down at your feet, then back up at me. “Wh-what?”

  Your eyes were watery – not in the way they get when you’re feeling weepy, but… glazed, really. That’s the best way I can describe what I saw. Not to mention your teeth were chattering so loudly that even my head hurt.

  I slipped my jacket around your shoulders. “You are sick.”

  “No, I’m n-n-not,” you stammered. “Where to n-n-now?”

  I pressed my cold hands on either side of your face. Your cheeks flamed so hot against them that my skin immediately warmed against yours. “Nope, that’s it. We’re ordering an Uber to take us back to Marie-France’s right now.”

  “Pete, no –”

  “Yes. No fussing, okay? Let me take you home.” I took one step down and turned to reach for your hand… just as you puked all over me, my blue sweater, and yourself.

  Oh, man, Sully. You broke my heart when you started crying. But I managed to flag down an usher from inside to clean up the steps. And while we waited for our driver to arrive, we used the inside of my jacket to wipe ourselves down, which must be when that adorable padlock charm fell out of the pocket.

  R.I.P., Valentine’s Day.

  “Rue Guénégaud,” you mumbled when our driver arrived, and thirty minutes later, you were asleep in my bed, cuddled into my pillow. Which is not nearly as romantic as it might sound out of context, is it?

  As I pulled in an armchair from the living room to keep watch over you, I nearly woke you up church giggling like a teenage boy. Why? Oh, come on, bro. Imagine me traveling back in time machine to take such a picture back to Freshman Year Pete™.

  “Greetings, younger self! I bear news from the future. Number one: buy all the bitcoins you can, and number two: DUDE. This is Meredith Sullivan, your Valentine’s date when you’re twenty-five years old.”

  Maybe this is why they don’t allow time travel. You’d give your younger self cardiac arrest.

  More Than Yesterday

  The first Thursday of every month was my thesis advisory board meeting. Why did an entire board of professors need to discuss my work with me? Why not just one or two? I don’t have a clue, but you know I secretly loved it. And even though they required us to dress up, the meeting itself had quite a family feel. Plus, my advisors were next-level brilliant.

  So of course I always came to find you immediately afterward.

  The April meeting happened to fall on the type of Paris spring day that would inspire Gene Kelly to tap dance along the Seine, singing at the top of his lungs. I may have done a little bit of that myself on my way from the Centre Bellechasse to the Centre Lafayette that afternoon.

  When I crossed the threshold into the entry hallway, I spotted you immediately through the glass wall. You were hiding at the far end of the courtyard, reading under the shade of the giant oak trees, ponytail high, your trusty turquoise blue pen in your left hand.

  It was noon, and as always, the building was abuzz with kid energy. Guys and girls from probably every state in the Union scampered past me, speaking in the requisite French. I strolled down the familiar hallway past the Grande Salle to the coffee machine and ordered two cafés noirs – one for you, and one for me. And as I cut through the secret faculty passage to the back part of the courtyard, I could finally make out what book you held in your hands.

  It was Night and Day – the latest proof copy, judging by the pristine spine.

  “Hey,” I smiled as I settled down beside you, but you kept your eyes on the page. “Night and Day, huh? I heard that Luke guy is major swoon avec sigh.”

  “Shhhhh. Things just got interesting.”

  “Oh yeah? Did Allie just give Luke her sock to free him from his master’s creepy kitchen?”

  “Listen, Luke,” you said, placing the book by your left side as you took one of the coff
ees. “Sass me all you want, but I’ve got twenty-four hours to refresh my memory on my own book before I speak to some bookish podcaster who gets half a million downloads a month.”

  “Half a million? Whoa. Do you know what questions she might ask?”

  “Besides why I abuse ellipses and em-dashes? Yeah, no clue. So this should be fun.” You took a sip of your coffee. “You look nice. How’d your meeting go?”

  “Oh, you know. Too many ellipses and em-dashes, just like you.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” You sipped again, assessing me. And then your lips spread into a knowing smirk. “I can’t believe it. Your advisors didn’t find a single error, did they?”

  I lifted the plastic cup to my mouth to hide my smile, because no, Sully. They did not find any errors. In fact, the advisory board let me turn in my thesis a month early, which meant that I was done with my Master’s degree. But you knew that already, didn’t you? You’d read and reread my work so many times that you probably could have written your own hundred-page paper.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I lied, drinking the rest of my coffee before I crumpled it up and pitched it into the nearby trash can. “So what were Luke and Allie up to when I interrupted you?”

  “Hmm?” You sipped your coffee distractedly as your eyes tracked the two students ambling past us. “Oh, right. Well, I hadn’t gotten very far yet, but it was the first time Allie sees her chambre de bonne.”

  “Ooooooh. I like that chapter. Luke’s got game.”

  “You always say that.”

  “What? It’s true!” I took your (mostly) empty cup from your hand and chucked it next to mine in the bin. “You’re the storyteller, Sully. If you didn’t want Luke to resemble a super hero in that scene, you should have dialed it back a little.”

  “Okay, smarty pants. You tell me your version of Allie’s first moments in her new bedroom, and if you can do a better job than I did, I’ll rewrite that section.”

  In October, or November, or even December, I might have panicked when you threw down such a gauntlet. Back in the early days of our reunion, I was terrified that you might pull a Pete Russell and run away from me if I breathed the wrong way. But by April, we were a team – solid, steadfast, and headed in the same direction. Which meant I knew you actually wanted my side of the story.

  “Alrighty, if you insist,” I grinned, sliding my arm behind you on the bench. “But fair warning: in the real-life version of that scene, Luke was the opposite of cool. He was sweating so hard that he can’t believe you left the malodorous pit stains out of your description.”

  “Don’t talk about yourself in third person, Pete. You sound like a politician.”

  “Whatever, Sully. Now, listen, play nicely for a minute and close your eyes. I need you distraction-free while you imagine yourself back in your old bedroom.”

  “Old bedroom? It’s also my current bedroom.”

  “Details, details.” I lifted my free hand to your face and pretended to close your eyes. “Now then, think back with me to that day. Tell me what you remember.”

  You sat there obediently for a few seconds, then smiled, eyes still closed as I removed my hand. “Well, the first thing I remember is that you made a lot of racket stumbling into my room.”

  “Hey, now! That wasn’t me. It was the two-hundred year old floorboards! They were completely rotted, you know. Marie-France made me replace them last summer.”

  “Only you would blame ancient floors on your lack of stealth.” Your eyebrows drew together in a scowl, but you kept your eyes shut. “Okay, I remember that you shoved your hands into your pockets when you approached me, which I actually thought was pretty cute.”

  “Yeah? How come?”

  “I don’t know. You just seemed… intimidated, maybe? Surely not, though.”

  “Oh, I was definitely intimidated. You were standing there all brilliant and beautiful in the middle of the room, looking around like you owned the place.”

  “I did not.”

  “Uh, yes, Sully. You did. You looked like the queen of your own castle, and I might have bowed at your feet if I hadn’t been terrified that you might kick me in the skull.”

  “Yes, well, if I’d kicked you in the skull, it would have hurt. You’d just shaved off an entire helmet of curls and you had no buffer left.”

  “I know. Gigi made me go full Sampson just so I could impress you, Delilah.”

  “I know. You told me about it in your letters.” You opened your left eye, the right one still squinting. “Hey, how come you didn’t write me a letter about this day up in my brand new room?”

  “Good question. I didn’t leave it out on purpose. Maybe it didn’t occur to me last summer.”

  “Maybe.” You closed your left eye. “Keep telling me now, please. I want to hear this story.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Where were we?”

  “I was standing in my room, looking like a boss.”

  “Yes, you were.” I kissed you gently on the temple as I leaned in closer. “When I saw you there in the middle of your room, I wanted to wrap my arms around you and squeeze you tight because you’d made it, sis. After all that hard work, you’d finally made it to Paris.”

  You opened your eyes as your lips curled into a smile. “Thanks to you.”

  “No, thanks to yourself.” In one fell swoop, I got to my knees and slipped the ring box out of my front jacket pocket. “From the second I met you that day in Lincoln City, Meredith Sullivan, I have admired you. You are whip smart. You’re not impressed by money or fame or beauty or anything else the world values. All you care about is fighting for your dreams. And I want to spend the rest of my life making sure all of your dreams come true.”

  You do realize you didn’t actually let me ask you to marry me, right? You also never answered.

  Rude.

  Instead, you grabbed my face in between your palms and started that laughing-crying thing you always do when you’re so happy that the feels have nowhere else to go. Then you pulled me to standing and kissed me right there in front of every single kid you’d spent a semester bossing around.

  I can’t believe you’ve never accused me of high-def chicanery in the three years since I spontaneously proposed in the middle of the school day. What was I thinking, popping the question out of the blue like that on a Thursday? And it wasn’t just any old Thursday, either.

  Only a crazy person would propose on April Fool’s Day.

  District Six

  You’re not one to obsess over material things, Sully. It’s one of your best qualities. But one thing I’m particularly proud of is how you flipped out over your engagement ring. (In the best way possible.)

  As you know, I found a jeweler in Paris who made custom rings from heirlooms that had been damaged or flawed in some way. I brought him four items: my parents’ wedding bands, my grandparents’ bands, my mom’s engagement ring, and Gigi’s.

  A month (and one molten gold casting) later, he’d created the ring you never saw coming: Gigi’s diamond, my mom’s diamond, and a third one just for you because duh. You’re all about the threes.

  I’d been carrying it around with me for days looking for the right moment to drop to my knee. I knew the words I wanted to say, but I absolutely did not know when to say them.

  Not until that moment under the shady trees of the Centre Lafayette on April Fool’s Day.

  The Sunday evening after I proposed, you were hanging out in my apartment, just like every other Sunday that semester. Your dark clothes spun their way through the rinse cycle in my washing machine while I pulled ricotta-filled pasta shells from the oven and you filled out paperwork at my kitchen table.

  “That smells so good,” you sang in a falsetto, scribbling something onto the page. “What’s with the sudden interest in cooking, Russell? You think you can trick me into marrying you?”

  “Hey, no homework at the table, young lady. Those are Russell house rules.”

  “Oh, this isn’t homework,” you smiled to yourself. But you still wra
ngled your papers into their folder, setting them aside. When you joined me at the kitchen counter to pick up your plate, you kissed me. “Grazie, you beautiful genius. My fiancé is better than your fiancée.”

  Um, NO. He was not. But I made a mental note that carbs and cheese are the way to your heart.

  While we ate, you chatted away about the decision-making trick your office intern Julia – a Highgate student – had taught you earlier in the week. “I don’t know how it works, but it totally does. You distract someone with silly questions so their subconscious brain can tackle the real issue. Kathy wants to introduce Julia to the U.S. Congress. We’re both convinced she can help them get stuff done.”

  “Come on, Sully. You can’t distract someone that easily.”

  “Oh, but you can, Monsieur Russell. Julia’s tricked me every single day this week into making decisions I wasn’t ready to make.” You hopped up from your chair and bounded across the living room to your purse. “She recreated her method on some index cards so I could practice on you and Marie-France. You want to try?”

  “Uh, sure?” I answered dubiously. “But I don’t know what decisions I have to make.”

  “Oh, you have decisions, my friend.” You held those cards to your chest like an evil mastermind. “Now listen, you’re supposed to keep your mind occupied with a mindless task while you answer the questions. So, I don’t know. Maybe you could do the dishes? That’s pretty mindless.”

  “I thought the one who didn’t cook dinner had to do the dishes?”

  “Normally, yes. But this is for science.” You handed me your plate, and smiled. “Come on, chop, chop! This will only take a minute, I promise.”

  I obliged and headed to the kitchen sink, turning my back to you. As I kept the water pressure low, you cleared your throat.

  “Okay, Russell. No thinking! Just answer. Here’s your first question: blue or red?”