by Lori L. Otto
Dressing up in my gown and seeing you in a tux that most guys at my own prom couldn’t afford made me feel like a queen. I became someone else that night, as if I was acting in a play or something. I felt myself stand taller. When we danced, I imagined us in a cavernous castle instead of the small ballroom we were actually in. When I remember back to that night, all of my memories are distorted and exaggerated. You couldn’t convince me today that we didn’t take a magical carriage to and from the prom. I’m certain we did.
You couldn’t convince me today that you and I weren’t the only people in the world that night. I’m certain we were.
Thank you for making me feel special.
We aren’t finished.
Princess
To me, it’s strange to see the letter end like that, as if she’s signing her name as Princess. It’s just her normal painted theme of the letter though… not a signature.
But still, she was never my princess, no matter how much she looked like one that night. I don’t want to remember that night, but allowing my brain to linger for just two seconds on the way her hairstyle brought out the beautiful curve of her neck, there’s no going back.
I close my eyes–part of my strategy for closing myself off from the room, the world–and remember every perfect detail of my perfect date on that perfect night.
No, it didn’t end as I’d planned, but it was still perfect.
Her dress was floor-length–modest, and yet sexy at the same time. It was fitted around her torso, showing off her beautiful hourglass figure. Her ample breasts held the strapless gown easily, and with poise that mimicked her father’s, she made it look easy to wear. Other girls who had on strapless dresses–not similar to Liv’s, because there were none like hers among the girls of my high school–fidgeted with their outfits all night, hoisting their dresses up in a very unseemly manor, as if they didn’t belong in their clothes.
Olivia didn’t have that problem. It was as if her dress was made for her. I suspect it was.
While we were dancing, and colored spotlights raced around the room, her necklace sparkled and shone in such prismatic ways that I knew the stones she wore were real diamonds. It wasn’t a flashy necklace, by any means–until we stepped out on the dance floor. If I trusted any of the guys I went to school with–and really, there were few–I became leery of everyone after that. Livvy would never understand desperation to the depths that poorer people do. While a diamond necklace might be standard attire at her private school’s prom, I was sure few had ever graced the necks of any girls from my public school.
And of course, none could wear them like she could.
She also shimmered around her midsection, a tiny crystal belt highlighting her slender waist. My eyes danced back and forth from her neck to her waist to her feet, which were also adorned with rhinestones, and which I could see peek out from her dress every so often.
But then, there was the tiara placed neatly on her head, securing her long hair away from her face. The chastity belt. I laugh a little to myself, remembering. It was likely the main reason she wouldn’t go back to the hotel with me that night. I should have been cursing that one beautiful adornment, that accessory, that gift from her father, but because I could tell it made her feel like the princess she was to him, I could do nothing but admire it. She radiated happiness, confidence, and love. Love that may have initially been for her father, but I had worked hard to earn her love, and it was obvious she loved me that night. Even though over the weeks leading up to prom, I’d had moments of clarity where I thought we had been rushing things, as she danced with her head on my chest, I accepted that I wanted to be the next one to buy her a sparkling jewel. I wanted her to wear something that said she was mine.
The promise ring wasn’t enough. It was all I could do then, and it would have to do for the time being. Last summer, I started researching diamonds for her. It was not a long-lived pursuit, simply because I knew it would be awhile before I could buy something that suited her. She deserved an engagement ring befitting of her own beauty. I learned about color and clarity and knew exactly what grade to look for when the time came.
But one year ago seems like eons ago. I’m grateful I never bought her anything. She deserves nothing from me now. Someone else can have that burden of finding a ring large enough for her presumptuous ego…
…her beautifully stunning, I’ll-never-find-anyone-quite-like-her, presumptuous ego.
I leave my family, telling them good night as I head to my room to read. Before I do that, though, I turn on my computer and look at one of the tabloid sites that had often featured pictures of Olivia. I’m saddened to see her on the home page. In one of the candids, the stress of the situation peeks through the hair she uses to shield her face from the photographers. She still is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Damn it, Liv. Why did you do this to us?
WAITING…
After thirty minutes of internet stalking, I’ve seen all I can stand of Olivia. Of course I stumbled across the video of her kiss with Finn. In high-definition, too. That was it. It was enough to make me shut down the computer, but with the image of her from my prom night still fresh in my mind, I decide to go ahead and read the other letter I received this week. A compulsion makes me read it. Saving them up for one night did allow my attention to focus elsewhere during the week. I think it was a good idea, and I’ll try to do it again next week. I should have other things to focus on, too, with my date with Audrey coming up next weekend.
I peek at the subject at the bottom first.
Waiting…
If you’re waiting for a response from me, it’s not coming.
I couldn’t mail the letter I’d already written to her. It was too honest, and I was too angry. I could anticipate her reaction, and it made my heart hurt. Remembering her ‘Intervention’ letter, I wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle it. Until I can stand to own up to pain that I cause her–knowing she’ll hurt because of something I said–I can’t send that letter. She’ll have to keep waiting for it. Maybe it’ll never come. Maybe I’ll move quickly from pain to indifference, and never have to worry about sending that letter or composing a new one.
I love you, Jon.
I can’t stop thinking about prom. From the time I wrote my last letter, it’s still the only thing on my mind.
I’m glad we waited, and didn’t have sex on your prom night. Looking back, it was the perfect evening to me, and I wouldn’t have wanted any one thing to mar the night. Maybe nothing would have happened to cause any negative feelings, but it’s a chance I’m glad we didn’t take.
I didn’t need the extra time, though, to prepare myself for being with you. I think that–from the first time we said we loved each other–I knew that I wanted to be with you.
Maybe even earlier than that. I’d had a crush on you for awhile. I think, a few years earlier, I wanted us to be married. Sex really hadn’t crossed my mind yet, but the end result was the same.
You and I would be together in some spiritual way that would bind us for life.
I put the letter aside for a second and think about that statement. I’m not sure she understands the concept of being bound to another person. Maybe she does, though, because I can see that there will always be a connection to Livvy Holland. No matter how much she’s hurt me, there will always be something that draws me to her. I will spend my life deciding whether or not to go with it or to fight it. She’s captivating. She’s prepossessing. She’s all-consuming sometimes.
I still have a choice to make. It’s the same choice I’d already made, but I’m faced with the decision once more. I chose her to be my love, my life. I did that once. Could I do it a second time, knowing that her reciprocal choice may not be binding this time either?
She’s bound to me. I’m bound to her already. The choice now would be to break those ties that bind us.
The decision to be with you wasn’t really conscious, I don’t think. It’s not like I ever made a lis
t that showed all the pros and cons of choosing you as my first. Maybe I should have.
Maybe I should now.
Pros: I love you. (That’s a given.) You are respectful. You’re incredibly smart. You have more ambition than the entire island of Manhattan. You’re creative and inventive. You’re patient. I’ll never forget how you walked me home to ask my dad if you could go out on a date with me. You confessed you’d asked him a year earlier, and he told you no. You’re persistent. You are literally the most attractive guy I’ve ever met… and I honestly think that even if you were physically unattractive to the rest of the world, I would still be so drawn to you that all of your traits would be the exact ones I was searching for.
Wow. She’s good.
You’re nice to just about everyone. And when you see others not doing that, you call them on it. You’re brave. You defend me.
You were forgiving.
I catch the change in her verb tense. Past tense: were.
I’m not sure you are anymore, though. It’s not fair for me to ask you to be, but it’s what I want. It’s what I need.
Forgiveness starts with an apology, Liv! Have you lost your mind?
You love me. Please tell me you still do. Or please tell me that you will again.
Cons: n/a
I feel uncomfortable now. She still holds me up on some pedestal. I am far from perfect. My flaws may not be as numerous as hers, but I have flaws.
Regardless, I’m thankful she’s not listing them here. If she did, though, maybe it would make it easier for me to move on.
I gave you all any woman can give to the man she loves, Jon. While the decision wasn’t conscious to me, my soul delivered me to you. It thought you were right for me–that you would be the one to give this woman all that a man can give to her.
It still believes that.
So do I.
We aren’t finished.
Waiting…
Maybe we should have waited longer. After living through the past few months, I wonder if she was old enough to make the decision–conscious or not. She doesn’t mention she regrets anything. I know I don’t. But a year from now, after we’ve both moved on, will that change? Maybe she’ll meet the one guy she can be faithful to, and wish she had saved herself for him.
Maybe the next woman I end up with will wish I hadn’t been with–now–three other women. It’s doubtful, but… it could happen. I just don’t want to be that guy who was with ten or 20 other women before finding the one to commit his life to. Every girl I sleep with until I find her could be an entry on a list, a list of my history that grows every time I make a misstep, a list that I would be ashamed of bringing into the next relationship.
She was supposed to be it for me. I was okay with my short list of two girls. I can explain them away with grief, loneliness and curiosity.
Could I ever explain away Olivia Holland?
Can I?
INDEPENDENCE
The following Friday, I stare at the only letter that came this week. I’m disappointed there aren’t more, and remaining determined to save all the ones I received to read at once–determined to only devote one evening to Livvy–I’d honestly wanted to read more from her. I’d wanted to give her more than the two minutes it would take to read the short note and the hour it would take me to digest the memory, think about how she’s doing, and get over the lingering sadness.
My work week had flown by, though, anticipating my date with Audrey. I’m nervous. It’s scary, looking ahead to spending time with someone I really don’t know. I knew Olivia so well. She was comfortable and safe. There are so many unknowns about this new girl.
We’d talked on the phone twice during the week, so I’d learned a few things. She’s a senior in high school. She’s a self-proclaimed geek who apparently likes nerdy guys. She’s been forthcoming with compliments, telling me she was immediately interested in me when I walked into her store with my messenger bag; more so when I sat down and began reading letters; and she had no doubts she had to do more than sell me glasses when she saw me in the pair we picked out together.
She was quick to explain that I didn’t fit her typical nerdy guy expectation. “Your physique says jock,” she had told me. “Your confidence says class president. The interaction with your brothers says boy next door.”
I assured her that she was dead-on if her initial assessment of me was that I was nerdy. I went on to brag about my scholarships, about the books I’ve been reading this summer, and about my need to know something about everything.
Her favorite subject in school is history. Any type. She loves the past and thinks she was supposed to be born decades ago. “I should have been a flapper,” she said. I could see it, too, when I remember what she looked like. Her shoulder-length hair fell in neat waves, framing her soft features and fair skin. She had been wearing apple red lipstick, but even still, nothing could take the attention away from her incredible eyes.
I decide to read Livvy’s letter before calling Audrey to confirm our plans. Settling against firm pillows on my bed, I kick off my shoes and get comfortable.
I love you, Jon.
I got choked up when you addressed your fellow students as the valedictorian of your class. It was partly my mother’s fault.
But–honestly–likely all my mother’s fault.
You talked about finally being free of so many societal constraints. There was no more micromanaging. No more bells to warn you where you need to be at what time. No more parents to scold you for bad grades, or for coming home after curfew. You were now responsible for doing everything on your own, and that was exciting to you. That’s what you said.
I remember that part of the speech, and I remember seeing my brothers and uncle and Livvy and Jack and Emi and Trey all seated together. There was also an empty seat next to Will. It had been empty for the entire ceremony. I’d been watching Livvy’s mother, who had maintained eye contact with me and made it easier to address the swelling crowd in the hot gymnasium. After expressing my feelings of freedom, Emi looked down the aisle at that empty seat. She first squeezed Livvy’s hand and looked into her daughter’s eyes. Then she blinked and fixed her gaze back on mine. These pale green eyes were watering, but she smiled at me encouragingly. I saw her pity, though. For three seconds, I forgot what was next in my speech and had to refer to the notecard I had crumpled in my left hand.
How could my mother not come to my graduation? To this day, she still hasn’t apologized. I haven’t yet taken the opportunity to address all of her shortcomings in my life. I know there’s a step in her program that requires her to make amends. I think it’s step nine… and I don’t guess she’s there yet.
At some point, my expectations of my mother lowered to such a point that she was rarely a disappointment. I think this lessened feelings of resentment. I realized that I didn’t need her. I knew I was self-sufficient. That being said, I also knew how much my brothers did need her, did rely on her. Of all of her children, I think Will is the one she needs to make amends with first. He rarely speaks to her. He treats her disrespectfully.
Max is too young to know of her downfall and still thinks she’s the best mom in the world.
I’m too old to need her motherly guidance anymore.
You took your own experience out of the equation for your speech, didn’t you? You never needed bells to remind you to get to class. You knew the importance of school. You never had the watchful eye of a parent to make sure you were behaving like you should, studying like you should, staying out of trouble.
You’ve always been free of the societal constraints. You’ve always been independent. But now the rest of the world could accept those traits in you. Now the rest of the world was forced to accept that you were the adult your mom forced you to be years earlier.
My dad was forced to accept it, too, and I think he did. Begrudgingly, but he did. I’m not sure we ever had the opportunity to know the child in you, Jon. You were always too responsible, too careful, too smart. May
be I shouldn’t say “too much.” You were just more than you ever should have had to be at your age.
When Mom looked at me as you stood on that stage, I realized all that you never had, and I started to cry. It wasn’t just the material things, the ones that I took for granted. Your mom probably never stood at your door telling you to get out of bed after snoozing your alarm too many times. She never told you to pick up your things, and clean your room, did she? Did she ever sit with you and feed you soup when you were sick? Did she even take you to the doctor?
Damn it, Liv. My eyes swell with tears, something they should have done at my graduation, but I fought them with all the strength I had that day. I remained strong, wearing a mask I’d been forced to put on the first time my mother let us all down. I always tried to cover for her in front of Will and Max. I tried to make up for the things she didn’t do. I tried to give my brothers what she couldn’t.
Does it feel different to be free because you choose to be, and not because you have to be?
It absolutely does.
Because I hate being free because I have to be. I’ve never had to feel that until now.
I know she’s talking about me. I never should have been a constraint to her anyway. I never wanted to be the thing that held her back. Does she not see that’s what I’d become? Is she not even trying to find herself in this time I’ve given her?
And to be completely honest, I didn’t choose this freedom right now. I feel just as forced into it as she does. It’s your fault, Livvy. You did choose this for us. I’m just upholding your wishes–the wishes that came out in your actions the day you graduated. The wishes that came out when you kissed someone other than me.
We aren’t finished.
Independence
Speaking of independence… I fold the letter back up and place it safely in the drawer where all her other letters reside.
I am free of her. I have options. I call Audrey, not allowing myself the time to dwell on the feelings of anger and resentment I now feel for the two women in my life who’ve let me down.
