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Luke
I hug Alyssa good-bye, doing my best not to hold her too tightly.
It takes all of my strength to shut the door behind her, to stay put instead of dragging her to bed and holding her all fucking day.
I flip through the pages of the notebook. Every one starts the same--Dear Luke. There must be two dozen letters in here.
My stomach flip flops. It's entirely possible every one of these letters come to the same conclusion--that they are all "fuck you, asshole," but I have to read them.
There's a message scribbled on the inside of the cover:
Here you go, Luke. Exactly what you asked for. This is every thought in my damn brain, the good, the bad, and the ugly. It's really, really damn ugly, but it's not like I've got anything to lose.
I pore over the pages. This is everything Alyssa's kept locked inside her for so long, and she's sharing it with me.
Dear Luke,
God, I don't know where to start. I don't know if I want to hit your or kiss you or take Laurie up on her offer to have you killed. I don't know which would be more painful--living without you in my life at all or watching you move on with someone else. I don't even know how I'm going to get through today.
I hate you so much right now. Haven't you ever heard the phrase "you have to be cruel to be kind"? A.K.A. you don't dump a girl in paradise then sweetly offer to make sure she's okay. That's a coward's way out.
I'm sure you meant that you want to be friends, but we both know what a shitty offer that is. Don't throw some piece of shit consolation prize at me and act like it's amazing.
It's awful.
Dear Luke,
Speaking of awful. Those last three months, huh? I'm still not sure what happened, why I
wasn't strong enough to reach out to you, what it is that made you give up on me. I know, you claim otherwise, but the evidence is clear.
Things were hard. We were far apart. I needed you, but you were done dealing with my bullshit. It's not like I blame you. I'd do the same thing in your place. I don't mean to be so distant, so difficult. I really want to let you in. Hell, this is some sad attempt to do that. It's really more of a promise than anything, proof that I'm willing to try.
I was sure you were going to end things in New York, that you were waiting until after my show. You're so polite in my head, aren't you?
I wasn't all that wrong. You ended things shortly after my show. Was that your plan all along? If so, maybe skip the romantic vacation next time. I'd appreciate that. Or some other woman will appreciate it. I can't stomach the thought.
Dear Luke,
Here's the truth. I wanted Ryan to be right. Part of me did. He came to me all apologetic, but he was still Ryan. You know how he is. He's in control to the point where you don't know what he's getting at, but you know it's something. I still don't know what he wanted out of that conversation. Maybe he did want to make amends. Maybe he wanted revenge. I did cheat on him and I did lie to him, and part of me still hates myself for it.
Part of me thinks we're better off starting over. I'm less broken than I was a year ago. Maybe you are too. Maybe it would be easier with other people.
But I don't want that. I don't want easy. I want you.
Ryan didn't even put the idea in my head. I was already thinking it, that you weren't willing to be patient with me, that you're too damn romantic to deal with the day-to-day bullshit of all my baggage. I should have talked to you about it a long time ago. I should have gotten back in therapy, stayed more vigilant about all my recovery work (don't worry. I haven't veered towards a relapse). I should have done a lot.
But it's better late than never.
I want to be with you, Luke. You make me happy. Maybe you don't see it, but you do. Sure, when things are off with us, I'm miserable. But I can't have the highs without the lows. Everyone gets mad. Every couple gets into fights.
I'm tired of running from it. I don't want to keep running from what I feel. Every time I make progress, I stumble backwards. But I can't have you living and dying by how well I'm functioning. If you don't want to be with me because you're sure I'm too much work, then fine. But don't bullshit me about how it's because I don't love you the way you love me.
That's a lie, and it's a cheap one. I love you so much. Like I've never loved anyone. You're better than a perfect cup of coffee and a "bullshit English major novel" on my Kindle. Hell, you're better than just about anything I can think of.
So fuck you for trying to squirm out of this breakup. But I forgive you for it.
Because I really do love you, and I really do want to marry you, and I really want to do whatever I can to make this work.
