Love Lettering

by Kate Clayborn

  The I, the love, the you. The stay.

  I feel him turn his head toward me. “I love things about it,” he says.

  I take a deep breath and tear my eyes away from the ceiling, from my imaginary letters. I look at him, and I remember what he told me that night in the bar, that he doesn’t always say what he means.

  But neither of us says it. Neither of us says what I hope we’re both thinking, what I hope is written on both of our hearts.

  “It’s soon,” I say instead.

  He nods again. “And I don’t know if I can stay.”

  We leave it at that for a while, the suburban quiet all around us, our hands still intertwined. I think I can feel Reid’s mind turning and turning. I think I can feel him tensing up, trying to solve this.

  Getting blocked.

  “Reid,” I whisper, tugging on his hand. “You want to play a game?”

  He looks over at me. He’s got a trace of the sad eyes, but he swoonshes anyway.

  “I already beat you twice at gin rummy,” he says.

  I scoot down the bed, standing at the foot of it. I pull on his hand and he doesn’t resist. He sits up, and now I’m facing him, looking down at him. I take a step back, pulling my shirt over my head, tossing it on the heap of discarded pajamas. Next, my bra.

  Reid’s breath catches as he watches me.

  “What are the rules?” he says, his voice rough.

  I undo the button on my jeans. “Sit,” I say, nodding toward the carpeted floor.

  He stands first, pulling off his shirt. I see the bulge in his jeans, and I wonder if he’s not going to play by the rules. I wonder if he’s going to walk forward, if he’s going to press me against the door at my back. Honestly, that would be fine, too—I’ve already learned, in the shower last week, that Reid does good work standing up—but I want to be in charge of this game.

  After a beat, he follows my directions.

  I slide my jeans and underwear down my legs.

  “The game is we stay quiet,” I whisper, stepping in the space between his stretched-out legs. “We don’t make a sound. We don’t say anything.”

  Anything like I love you.

  Anything like Stay.

  I lower myself onto him, straddling his lap, reaching between us to unbutton his jeans, to slide down his zipper. I watch him the whole time, and he’s clenched his mouth shut, the muscles on either side of his jaw ticking in concentration. He’s already playing.

  He won’t say a word.

  He lifts his hips and I lean forward, my hands going to the edge of the bed to steady myself while he shoves down his jeans, pulls a condom from his wallet. I take it from him, tearing it open and fitting it over his length, and he tips his head back, closing his eyes and clenching his fists when I stroke him once. When I release him, he moves his hands, one settling at my waist to keep me raised above him, one moving between my thighs to touch me in the way that gets me wet, that gets me close.

  But I stop him, pulling his hand away, keeping it locked with mine. I look down at him and shake my head. Then I move my other hand and stroke him again, once, before lowering myself onto him, a slow stretch that would’ve gone easier had I let him keep touching me. But I want it, this stretch, this patient accommodation my body has to make to his. I like how much work it takes to stay quiet; I like the silent signs we have to send each other—a hand I rest on his shoulder to tell him I need to go slow, a hand he moves to my lower back, urging me to tip forward for a better angle.

  When he’s fully inside of me, we breathe in sync, a warm relief between us, but at the first move of our bodies the bed protests again, this time a quiet thunk against the wall it’s pushed up against, and both of us still, our eyes locked. This time, we’re not stopping; I can tell by the way Reid looks at me, hot and focused and determined. His arm tightens low around my back, and he shifts us forward so his back isn’t against the bed.

  And with that move, everything is different, the first time we’ve ever had sex this way—no leverage at his back or mine, nothing to hold on to but each other. It’s an effort, more so because we’re playing by the rules, staying silent. We go slow—so, so slow—small pulses of his hips up to thrust into me, measured rocking of my hips in his lap to get the friction I need. I don’t know how long it takes, because neither of us is marking the time, keeping track. It feels like floating, like being untethered.

  Like writing without letters.

  Like counting without numbers.

  It feels like love.

  And even when it reaches its peak—when I breathe through my slow, shuddering climax against his neck, when he grips me tighter and stiffens through his, when we clutch at each other in the aftermath with some new, shocked awareness between us . . .

  Even then, neither of us breaks the rules.

  Chapter 17

  Lark is speechless.

  In the back of the shop, Lark sits with the planner I’ve finished for her open on the table, her eyes tracking over the pages she turns slowly, carefully. I’ve looked at what’s in those pages dozens of times myself over the last few days, so mostly I watch her face as she experiences it—the pastels I’ve chosen, mostly pinks and greens, the occasional rose gold accents. The small, wide-set, lowercase scripts that unfurl across the headers, and the narrow, close-set, all-caps sans serif that marks out the days. The delicate illustrations that dot the corners of some of the pages—a tiny splash of starbursts here, a single flower in a simple bud vase there. All of it is quiet, understated. Sweet and soft but also sturdy and sophisticated.

  “This is very . . .” she begins finally, touching her finger to the corner of one page. “This is so . . . me,” she finishes, a note of wonder in her voice.

  I smile, relieved. “I’m so glad. That’s what I was going for.”

  A few weeks ago, I might not have been able to design a planner that was this right for Lark. But since that day at my apartment, a lot has changed between us. Sure, she’s not yet up for coffee shop visits, but she will go on the occasional walk—half-planned tours through parts of Brooklyn that even I don’t get to all that often. Sometimes I tell her things about the neighborhoods, about clients I have in various spots around town; sometimes she tells me things about LA or about the actors she’s known and worked with. We talk occasionally about the job—the walls that she’s still not ready for me to start on—but mostly we simply get to know each other in the kind of tentative, non-heavy-topics way of a new friendship. For the most part, she avoids bringing up the living land mine that is Cameron, who’s been in and out of town on location shoots, but I notice the way her mood fluctuates according to his movements—she’s lighter, more talkative, more adventurous when he’s gone.

  It’s been good to have the company, because the relationship between me and Lark isn’t the only thing that’s changed since I got back from Maryland with Reid. First of all, Sibby’s gone, moved in to her new apartment with Elijah, her last day at home over a week ago now. When I’d come back that Sunday, flushed with all the feelings for Reid I was no longer ignoring, Sibby was home, waiting for me. And I could tell that she’d practiced, the same way I had. “Meggie,” she’d said, using her long-dormant nickname for me, “I didn’t mean what I said, bringing up your family that way.”

  “I know you didn’t,” I’d answered, and I’d meant it. I’d forgiven Sibby even before I’d gotten all the way across the Bridge that night we’d fought, but forgiveness didn’t really fix what was wrong between us. She may not have meant it, about my family, but she had meant everything else. And that meant the only kind of fighting I could do, the only kind of practice that would help her, was the kind where I gave her the time and space away from me that she’d wanted, until she was ready—really ready—to talk again. She’d seemed relieved, for those last few days of being my roommate, that we could play polite for the time being, that I was willing not to press it. On move-out day, I’d helped her carry the last few boxes down to the rental truck Elijah had wa
iting at the curb, and we’d hugged each other tight, both of us holding back tears.

  “It’ll be better, Meggie,” she’d said, and I’d nodded my chin against her shoulder, hoping she was right.

  I’d gone back upstairs to my echoing apartment, but only briefly. Maybe it would’ve been the braver thing, to stay there alone that first night, but instead I’d packed a bag and gone to Reid’s, using the key he’d given me. I’d stayed up late, working on my final Make It Happyn sketches while sitting on his terrible couch, hoping he might get home before eleven.

  Because that—Reid working with this fixed, flared intensity—that is the other thing that’s changed since Maryland. In some ways, it’s as if he and I are still playing by the rules I set that night in the basement. We don’t say anything about New York, about him staying. We don’t wonder aloud about whether it’s too soon, whether it’s even possible. But clearly, something has shifted for Reid, and it doesn’t matter that I see him less lately while he keeps these long hours.

  Because I know that this shift is, at least in part, about me. About us.

  “I have to see this through,” he tells me, late at night, holding me close. “And then . . .”

  But he always trails off, the game still in play. It’s just that now, the game seems more serious between us than ever.

  “Hey, ladies,” Lachelle says, coming into the back room and setting her bag on the chair next to me. That must mean it’s close to Lachelle’s four o’clock client meeting, and also close to when I need to get on the subway.

  “Look what Meg finished,” Lark says, turning the planner toward Lachelle. They’re kind of an odd pair, Lark and Lachelle, but each time Lark comes to the shop, Lachelle always gives her a warm, teasing welcome—calling her princess and asking her about her throwing arm.

  “Ooooh,” Lachelle says, leaning down. “This is so you!”

  “That’s what I said, too!” Lark says, delighted. “Meg, I want you to do one of these for my sister. She—”

  “Nuh-uh,” says Lachelle. She hooks a thumb at me as though she’s my first base coach. “This woman has a very important deadline in two days. Nothing until that’s over.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Lark says, because now she knows about my deadline, too. “Well, after—”

  “Actually,” I say proudly, “I’m finished. I scanned all the sketches this morning. They’re ready to go.”

  It’s so hard to believe my pitch is almost here. When I think about where I was this spring, how utterly blocked I was, how different things were—it’s a miracle I’ve actually got something to present. Something I’m so proud of. Like Reid, I’ve been working hard, too, more determined than ever to succeed at this pitch, as though getting it is somehow just as important for him, for us, to stay.

  “Cough ’em up,” says Lachelle, holding out a palm. “I want to see what you decided about the colors for the tree stuff.”

  I wave a hand. “They’re back at home. I want you to see it all together. We’re still on for the run-through tomorrow?”

  “For sure,” Lachelle says. “You should come, princess. Cecy and I are going to set it up back here like a conference room. Meg’s going to do the whole thing.”

  “Really?” Lark looks back and forth between us. “That would be okay?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, still struck by Lark’s insecurity, the way she’s always worried about her welcome somewhere. “The more the merrier.”

  “Bring your boyfriend,” Lachelle says, nudging my shoulder with her hip. “I’m dying to meet him. I’m definitely going to ask him about the marginal tax rate.”

  I laugh, but feel a thread of discomfort. I need to tell Cecelia and Lachelle about Reid, about how I met him. But I’ve been putting it off, and whether that’s because I’m still ashamed about what I’d done that had brought him back in here, or because I’m worried that Reid and I won’t make it past this summer—that’s a mystery that’s hidden even from me.

  “He’ll probably have to work.” And anyway, he’s seen them all already. When we’re together, I show him the latest. When we’re not, I snap photos and send them to his phone. No matter how busy he gets, he’s always interested.

  “Capitalism,” Lachelle says, shaking her head. Then she peeks out to the front of the store, spotting her clients talking with Cecelia. “All right, get out, you two. I have money to make.”

  Lark and I both laugh, scrambling dramatically to pick up our things. On our way out, I wave at Cecelia, who’s still chatting with Lachelle’s clients, but she pauses long enough to mouth, Tomorrow? at me, and she gives me a thumbs-up when I nod.

  “They’re so nice,” Lark says, when we’re out on the sidewalk. I open my mouth to agree, but she speaks again. “I’ve been wondering if I should think about going back to work, you know?”

  “Yeah?” I know my eyebrows are probably halfway up my head. Lark never talks about working as though it’s something she’s planning to do again. It’s always about past projects, past goals she’s set aside. Scripts Cameron doesn’t like for her.

  “I used to love being on set. I loved being around people.”

  “I think you should go back, too, if you want to. You’re so talented.”

  She gives me her closemouthed smile. “You think?”

  “Please. It wasn’t our favorite movie for nothing,” I say, ignoring the twinge I feel at having repeated Sibby’s words. “Why not call your agent?”

  “Maybe,” she says, but she looks unsure.

  On impulse, I reach a hand out, palm up, same as Lachelle. I look meaningfully at the planner Lark’s still holding against her chest. When she hands it over, I shove a hand in my bag, come up with one of the Microns littering the bottom. I flip open the cover, page to tomorrow’s spread. Call agent, I write, then hand it back to her.

  “Great,” she says, in that sarcastic way she sometimes has. “My handwriting is going to look like garbage in here now.”

  I snort a laugh, tucking my pen away.

  “You’re a good friend, Meg,” she says. And then she reaches out her arm and pulls me into a hug.

  For a second, my twinge becomes a full-fledged ache of sadness, thinking of Sibby—how we haven’t been such good friends to each other lately, and how much I still miss her.

  But Lark’s hug is a comfort, a hope, like a lot of things I have in my life these days. I squeeze her back.

  “Okay,” she says, when we pull away. “You’re going to meet your beau, yes?”

  “Yes,” I say, my face heating. “He works late, so we’re going to have a quick dinner break.”

  “Ugh,” Lark says genially. “You two.”

  I smile, my face flushing, liking the sound of that particular number.

  Hoping I can keep counting on it.

  I meet Reid at South Street Seaport, the same place he once ducked away to find a set of letters to photograph for me to tell me about his day. This time of year, when the whole city is thick with tourists, it’s probably more crowded than it was on that long-ago evening. It’s been a gorgeous day, too—not too warm, a breeze off the water, and the sun is still out—so there’s probably a higher-than-average turnout of city dwellers here, too.

  That long-ago evening and what Reid spelled out to me that night—TENSE—makes me expect to find him in the same state, especially given the crowds, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find that he’s not. When he finds me at our agreed-upon spot along one of the piers, he’s got his white shirtsleeves rolled up, his tie shoved messily in his pocket, and he leans down to give me a soft kiss on the mouth before pulling back and looking over my maxi dress.

  “Cute,” he says, setting his forefinger to one of the tiny peaches patterned across it, but really he’s looking at the expanse of skin—my shoulders, my chest—revealed by its thin straps.

  “Good day?” I say, as we head toward a taqueria nearby. Reid doesn’t seem to notice the clumps of people who occasionally get in our way; he moves us deftly thro
ugh them, our hands linked together. I try to suppress the kind of stirring optimism I seem to call up whenever I see Reid act this comfortable, unbothered way somewhere in the city. I look for signs in everything—signs he’s starting to do more than tolerate it, signs that he thinks of it as a possible home.

  “Busy,” he says mildly. “Still a lot to do.”

  “That sucks,” I say, but he only shrugs.

  “It may not be much longer until I can—well, until I finish up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” he says, looking down at me as we get into a long line. He clears his throat. “I think—well, they’re bringing in some new people. That ought to take some of the load off.”

  “Money people or math people?”

  He swoonshes. “Too soon to tell, I guess.” He opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it. “How’d it go with Lark?” he finally asks, when he speaks again.

  He’s done this a lot lately, these not-subtle shifts away from saying too much about this project he’s on, the one he’s trying so hard to finish up. It’d bother me, maybe, under any other circumstance, but I think Reid is trying, as best he can, to protect me. To not get my hopes up about this, about his future plans. About whether he’ll be able to stay.

  So I indulge him, hoping for the best. I tell him about the planner and about the new plan for her to come see my rehearsal pitch tomorrow. He looks full of regret when I tell him Lachelle invited him along, but I promise I’ll do the whole thing for him another time. We order food and find a spot outside to enjoy it, Reid still managing to eat with a napkin draped tidily over his lap, as though the breeze that keeps blowing mine away doesn’t even bother trying it with him. He shows me a picture on his phone that came through earlier, his brother Owen and his young daughter Rae at a Brownie event, and I make him, not for the first time, remind me about the names of all his nieces and nephews.