by Elle Maxwell
I think about writing you every day. This isn’t the first letter I’ve written, and just like the others I probably won’t ever send it. At what point am I no longer writing to you and only writing to an imaginary friend? If a letter falls in the forest and no one reads it, does the girl who wrote it even exist?
I feel very alone. I am very alone. Anyone willing to listen stopped being patient months ago. Mom and Dad don’t get it. So, with them, and at school, I pretend I’m okay. “Yes, all healed up, fine now!” And everyone buys it because that’s what they expect.
I can tell they don’t take it seriously. I mean, we’re just teenagers. It’s only a high school relationship. It’s not the end of the world. It couldn’t possibly be real love! I see it in their faces when I slip and forget to act like I’m happy. It’s impatience, like they’re all thinking, “What a drama queen. Is she really still milking this Graham thing?”
But you and I know they’re wrong. We know that our love is as real as it gets, no matter what age we are. So, I let them look at me and assume I’m just infatuated with the hot quarterback, a “high school sweethearts” thing. They don’t understand what it’s like. How when I look at you, I see my future, the other half of my soul. Our love is the thing people spend lifetimes looking for, you know? It is the kind of love that inspires epic poetry and the greatest of love songs.
Or … was. Our love is a was now, Graham. And it’s all your fault.
Why did you do that? Why haven’t you written to me? Do you just think I’m a huge naïve idiot because I thought we were in this together, while you had a whole secret life on the side without me?
Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? You could have. You could have told me anything. Why didn’t you trust me? Was there ever a second, a minute we spent together where you felt anything less than one hundred percent confident in my love for you? No, it’s just not possible. You couldn’t have failed to feel my love, because I gave you everything, let you inside my body and every part of my heart and handed you so much of myself that I have nothing remaining now that you’re gone. I’m empty because you have all the best parts of me and you left without giving them back.
What the hell, Graham? How can you not get how lost I am without you? Or do you know and you just don’t care? Are you really just the manipulative thug my parents want me to believe you are?
As I walked through the halls at school, I used to be astonished that no one noticed the bright glow of love I felt shining around me. Now I can’t believe they don’t all stop and stare, call an ambulance or something, because I’m bleeding out slowly right in front of them, the way you would if you were cut in two. It hurts so much sometimes I can’t breathe. And the only person I want—to hold me and talk to me and make it all better—is the very one who is making me hurt.
XXX
I wrote all that a while ago. I’m doing a lot better dealing with all of this now. I’m not crying every day anymore, which is something. I’ve decided it’s pathetic that I’m writing these things to you, that I’m still holding on to the idea of you as my person, my safe place. Because you’re not, are you?
So, this is the last time I’m going to write. But there are a few more things I need to say, even though you’ll never read them.
I tell everyone I’m okay, and sometimes I even feel okay. But most of the time I physically ache from missing you. I looked it up online, and I am totally suffering from phantom limb syndrome—of the soul.
I hate you for making me feel this way. I want to shake you and scream at you. (I want to kiss you and hold you.) I want some closure, to clearly sever ties so I can be free. (I want the hope of becoming entwined tighter together.) I am conflicted.
My heart desperately wants you to be my future, although my brain tells me that you are in my past. And my parents, and everyone else in Westwood … they’re saying terrible things, and I have no choice but to believe them because you haven’t said anything to the contrary. You haven’t said anything at all.
It’s time for me to grow up, to try and start figuring out what it means to survive without you (the way a person can live with only one kidney.) I just have to learn to look at the world differently. Because Mom is right—that boy who was my great love and future? You’re not him. Maybe you were never him.
Where did he go? What did you do with him? Where is the boy I loved, the person who was my best friend, who I cherished with my whole heart? You can’t be him. He wouldn’t be in prison on a murder charge. He never would have been at that gas station in the middle of the night with drug dealers. He said he’d never leave me.
This is where I get to be the one who walks away.
Goodbye.
Mackenzie
* * *
“What’s that?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at Mackenzie’s voice right behind me.
I’ve been sitting on her bed reading the letter over and over while she showered. The drive back to her place was silent, and every one of the quiet tears I watched trail down her face seemed to land in my soul like burning acid.
I haven’t decided yet how to bring this up to her, but she takes the choice out of my hands the way she swipes the letter from me with deft fingers. I watch her face go through a cycle of recognition, confusion, and anger as she recognizes what she’s looking at.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your dad.”
“My dad? How does he even have this? Wait—does that mean he read it!?”
Her whole face is bright red with a combination of anger and embarrassment.
“He said he found it in your trash. Kenz … we need to talk about that letter.”
Her eyes pool again with unshed tears.
“No. You were never meant to see this. No one was. Why did my dad even have it with him? Why did he give it to you?”
“You meant everything in there?” I ask with a nod toward the letter, ignoring her words for now.
“Yes.” One rogue tear escapes her eye.
I drop my head down to rest on my hands. That letter. I feel gutted, on the verge of tears myself.
“I knew it was bad, but … fuck, Kenz. Maybe your dad is right.”
“What are you saying?”
“Maybe I am a murderer because I killed your spirit. You deserve so much better. Maybe I should walk away now before I do more damage.”
23. MARTYR MOVE
Mackenzie
“No.”
“...No?” Graham asks slowly.
His face is haunted, overcome by the same darkness that often casts shadows at the edges of his eyes. I won’t let that sorrowful look distract me from my current frustration. I don’t know what my dad said to Graham that brought all of his self-loathing and guilt to the surface, but I’m pissed off at both of them right now.
This morning was hard. I knew my parents wouldn’t be happy when I first told them I’d reconnected with Graham, but of all the ways I could imagine it going, this was pretty much the worst scenario possible. I was always a good kid; I got in trouble with my parents sometimes but nothing big, and I certainly never did anything that made them speak to me the way they did this morning. I’ve also never outright defied them before. I’m drained after that confrontation, and I could really use some time doing something comforting, like watching TV in Graham’s arms … not this.
“Just … no. You are not pulling this ‘I’m leaving you to save you from me’ bullshit. If you don’t want to be with me anymore, we’ll end things … at some point in the future, because if you try to claim that right now, I will call you on that bullshit too.”
I scan the page now permanently creased along the fold lines. I don’t need to read the whole thing because I remember well enough to recognize that this piece of paper is an X-Ray image of my soul, a vivid snapshot of my insides at the time I wrote it.
I can’t believe my father had this letter on him. It’s something I’ll need a lot more time to process and wrap my mind around, be
cause it brings into question the way I’ve always thought my parents trivialized everything I went through after Graham was arrested.
All of this passes through my mind rapidly in the brief moment that I allow myself for reflection. Then I return my attention to Graham.
“This?” I wave the paper around emphatically. The motion creates a flapping sound that seems to accentuate my ire. “This is not a reason to try and pull a martyr move. You already did enough of that in the five years you didn’t write or call. I’m guessing you had some noble intention of ‘denying yourself’ because you didn’t ‘deserve’ me. Well, I hate to break it to you, but your concept of selflessness is flawed. In trying to punish yourself, you made me suffer the consequences too, and while supposedly shielding me from hurt, you caused me more pain than you can imagine.”
I glance back down at the letter in my hand, filled with handwriting I can easily recognize—though my penmanship has changed over the years. The words my eyes skim over are so familiar and yet foreign. This letter is from another life, a completely different version of me.
“The girl who wrote this? This girl doesn’t need you to protect her. You’re five years too late. She doesn’t exist anymore—she grew up and learned how to save herself. So, babe, I love you, but please stop trying to save me. I don’t want a hero. I want a partner. I want you. Every day I make the choice to be with you, complete with all of our past baggage. I need you to do the same, so we can carry it together.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. My whole body is suddenly heavy with exhaustion. “Do you get it? Because if you don’t … I’m tired, and I can’t do any more of this today. So, if you’re planning to say more of that nonsense, I’m going to have to ask you in advance to just … not. In fact, you’re banned from speaking unless it’s to say, ‘Yes, Kenz, you’re right. I’m a goddamn idiot and I’m so lucky to have you back in my life.’”
I’m certain my whole face is red from how worked up I just got. I’ve created new lines in the paper from how my grip on it tightened as I spoke. It felt good to say all that, though. Because I remember the seventeen-year-old who wrote this letter, even if I’m not her anymore, and I want to do her justice.
Graham is quiet for long moments, and I watch his face carefully. That face used to be as familiar to me as my own, maybe even more so. Even now, those features are much the same as the ones I once memorized, despite the changes the years have wrought. Along with the scruffy beard, there is a new strain to his features—the difference between a teenager who has never known tragedy and a man who has seen the dark depths of grief and lived among the sinister side of humanity.
He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, hiding whatever thought or emotion he finally settled on, then opens them and walks to me. He wraps his arms around me but stays far enough away that he can still look me in the face.
Then he speaks with dead seriousness, eyes and voice so full of sincerity I would swear the words are spontaneously coming from his own brain.
“Yes, Kenz, you’re right. I’m a goddamn idiot and I’m so lucky to have you back in my life.”
24. ALL THE WOMB THROBBING
Mackenzie
“Well, I think I’ve reached a new low,” Marisa declares. “Perving on hot man candy at a six-year-old’s birthday party. Not to mention those are two incredibly taken pieces of ass.”
Marisa, Shaina, and I are seated facing the little group that’s here to celebrate Layla’s sixth birthday—though honestly, we’re mostly looking at Graham and Griff.
“We can hardly blame you. Our men are one hundred percent fine. Look all you want,” Shaina assures her.
It’s a beautiful sunny day in May, perfect for hanging out at Layla’s favorite park. The party required very little setup; Griff and Shaina took over a couple of tables right next to the playground earlier, covered them with bright purple tablecloths, then set out pizza and juice boxes for the kids, and of course the cake. Besides us, Layla invited five friends from school (three little girls and two boys). After they were finished with the “official” birthday party business of cake and presents, the kids all ran off to play with Griff and Graham, and the three of us dragged our folding chairs over to this side of the park (well, Griff carried Shaina’s despite her adamant protests that it isn’t even heavy). We’ve been camped out ever since in our primo spot under a shady tree where we can watch them playing but have enough distance to discuss things that might not be suitable for the ears of five and six-year-olds. And, of course, we have a perfect view of the two huge attractive men currently putting themselves at the mercy of six children.
“You’re not the only one perving. I think Kenz is fixing to drag Graham off for a car quickie any second now,” Shaina adds, and they both laugh.
You’d never guess I only introduced them a couple of weeks ago; Marisa and Shaina hit it off instantly, and the three of us have been hanging out whenever we can manage it. We’ve already started counting down the days until we can go out drinking together once Shaina’s son is born.
I give my friends a shrug and my best impression of a Graham smirk. I can’t argue with Marisa’s assessment of the view, and I have no defense for Shaina. I have been very distracted by the “man candy.” Though while I suppose Griff is hot, I only have eyes for a certain dirty blond with hazel eyes. Even now I can only tear my gaze away for a moment before locking back onto him. And yes, I am more than a little hot and bothered.
Today Graham is wearing an outfit we picked out together last weekend, when I finally took him shopping to get clothes that fit (I admit I’ll miss those tight shirts he was wearing, but he kept complaining he could barely move his arms so I took pity on him). Those new jeans do things for his ass that should be illegal, and the olive shirt he has rolled up to the elbows makes the green in his eyes stand out beautifully. But it’s not his physical appearance that has me legitimately considering Shaina’s “car quickie” suggestion—it’s watching him with Layla and her friends. At the moment, Graham is lying flat on his back in the grass, letting Layla and her little squad attack him with foam swords. I think he’s supposed to be a dragon and they’re slaying him. It’s hard to tell what he’s going for with the dramatic “dying” sounds we can hear from all the way over here, but the kids are eating it up. Occasionally the sound of their high-pitched giggling travels over to us in addition to Graham’s wailing.
The thing about Graham is that he is six feet of pure contradiction. He is as manly as they come: ruggedly unshaven, muscled, athletic, and prone to caveman tendencies. But he is also the man I’m captivated by right now, able to put aside all sense of ego and sacrifice his dignity for the children’s happiness (he never looked even a tiny bit embarrassed wearing the crown Layla put on him earlier). They have his full attention, and he’s not half-assing anything. I can tell even from this distance that he’s putting his whole heart into playing with them.
Seriously, who knew watching Graham with kids would turn me on this much? I’ve spent plenty of time around kids over the years, and even had chances to witness a couple of my ex-boyfriends with them, but it never once inspired any urgent yearning and certainly no sexual arousal. Until today. I’m only twenty-three, so there’s no biological clock ticking here … It’s just Graham. The idea of having his babies is too potent, and I am helpless to fight my body’s primal reaction. My womb is sending every possible code red, SOS, and smoke signal to the rest of my body with the message to get Graham over here, stat, so we can start with the baby making.
“So, should we expect a mini Graham any time soon?” Shaina asks, hand resting on her belly. I swear it’s twice the size as the last time I saw her, and I have absolutely no idea how she’s lugging that thing around with her otherwise tiny body. Not to mention she still has a few months left! It seems cosmically unfair that such a small woman should be carrying a giant’s spawn.
“Oh, no,” I respond immediately. Do I want to jump his bones right now? Hell yes. But as for actual procreation
, I’m definitely not ready. “We’re not there yet. Don’t listen to Graham’s ‘eight year’ theory about how we ‘never broke up.’ We’ve only been back together for four months. It’s way too soon to even think about kids. Plus, I have an IUD that’s got a few years to go.”
I've never been so glad I went for that IUD at the end of undergrad. Considering the way my ovaries are screaming watching Graham give Layla a piggyback ride, I doubt I’d be able to stay strong if he started campaigning for a baby. Not to mention the serious likelihood of an “oopsie” caused by getting caught up in the moment and forgetting a condom. We’d be parents in no time.
“I don’t know,” Marisa says with a quirked eyebrow. “If we’re talking a battle between modern science and Graham’s sperm, I think I’d put my money on him. If anyone could fuck a baby into you through sheer force of will—and by will I actually mean hard and repeated penetration—it’s that man.”
