Page 36 of Sending Love Letters to Animals

“Because I’m a good friend.” He shrugged.

“The best, man. The absolute best.”

Davud beamed at me.

On Monday, I was standing at Chris’ locker twenty minutes before first bell, my stomach doing flip-flops as I waited for him to show up. When I first walked into school, the halls were relatively empty, other than for the overachievers who always showed up early and the teachers getting ready for a brand-new week. As the seconds ticked by, more and more students were milling about, getting their supplies from their lockers and socializing.

I ignored everything around me as I clutched the folded piece of paper in my hand.

Jules and I had watched movies on Friday night—after she told me all about the “weird” meet-up with Connor at Starbucks. They’d spent two hours sitting across from each other at a small café table, sipping mochas, and exchanging text messages and showing each other personal pictures on their phones. They had abided by the “no speaking” rule. Jules seemed confused by the whole situation, but also had a gleam in her eye that told me she had been intrigued by the entire thing.

Saturday, I spent the whole day in my pajamas, playing my PS5 in the den, watching Netflix, and eating everything in the fridge that didn’t require much effort to prepare. I even went to bed early that night. When I crawled out of bed on Sunday, sometime after noon, I showered and did my homework. Dad and I hung out for a few hours, mostly watching boring history shows on Netflix that he loved.

A few hours were dedicated to homework after that. As the sun set and bedtime grew close, I had nothing else to do but consider Davud’s advice about Chris. Apologizing and proving how sorry I felt was the only appropriate response. He had been right about texts and emails not being the right course of action. A real heartfelt apology had to be personal. It had to be something that really showed how I knew how badly I had messed up.

Though I’d pushed it out of my brain since freshman year of high school, one idea came to mind.

After freshman year of high school had started, and Chris had transferred to Whitmer after moving, I hadn’t been brave enough to try and apologize or explain myself to him. I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone, and I definitely was too spineless to go to his house and look him in the eyes. Instead, I had pulled my mom’s old typewriter out of the attic and written him an apology.

However, I never could figure out how to deliver it to Chris. I’d put it in an old shoe box and stuffed the box in the back of my closet. After a few weeks, I realized there was no way I could give the note to Chris. Instead, I started writing a letter every now and then, explaining what was going on in my life, in my journey towards coming out. They all got added to the shoebox, which kept getting shoved to the back of my closet.

Out of sight; out of mind.

Once I came out to Mom and Dad, Juno, and all of my friends, and it was apparent that no one really gave a crap that I was gay, the typewriter went back up to the attic. The shoebox never left the back of my closet. Chris was pushed to the back of my mind. Apologizing was forgotten. And I moved on with my life.

Now that Chris had reappeared, my brain remembered the shoebox’s existence.

Sunday night, a few minutes before bedtime, I dug the shoebox out of the back of my closet. All of the letters I’d typed out were in chronological order. I’d even dated them in the upper righthand corner when I’d written them, so I didn’t have to do any guess work. I pulled the first one off of the stack—the most important one, and read it to myself.

Chris,

I’m sorry. I’m the worst friend ever. I’m scared. I know you hate me and I don’t blame you. I want you to know that I hate me, too. And I’ll always be sorry for being a chicken. I hope you like your new school and everyone knows what a great guy you are. Because you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.

Sorry.

Ryan

It wasn’t the most eloquent letter, but when I’d written the letter, it was exactly how I felt. Not having Chris as a friend anymore had been devastating—and I hated myself for it.

Hopefully, when I gave the letter to Chris—even though it was four years late—he would see that I had felt bad then. That I still felt bad years later. Maybe he’d forgive me? Or maybe he wouldn’t. But at least I’d tried to make amends for abandoning him when he would have needed me most.

However, when I finally spotted Chris walking down the hall towards his locker, I almost chickened out again. He was looking down at his phone when I first spotted him, but then he slipped his phone into his pocket and looked up. His eyes landed on me and his face went blank. That look reminded me that I never wanted someone to look at me like that ever again. Not if I could help it. So, I straightened my back, and kept my eyes on his until he was standing in front of me. Since I was blocking his locker, he had no choice but to give me his attention.

Taking a deep breath, I held the paper out to him. It was folded in half so he couldn’t see what it was, but he took it from me wordlessly.

“I wrote that,” I said. “Four years ago. I thought you should have it. Finally.”

He said nothing. His expression didn’t even change.

So, I said nothing back.

I walked away. It was probably my imagination, but I felt Chris’ eyes on me as I walked down the hallway away from his locker. Even when I turned the corner, putting a barrier between us, I felt his gaze.

All day long, but especially in English when he refused to look at me, my stomach was churning. What would he think of the letter? Would he show it to other people? Start rumors? Make fun of me? Tell people what I had done to him at the end of junior high? Would anyone even care? Did I care?

All I wanted was for Chris to know how sorry I had been and how sorry I still was for what I’d done. Even if he didn’t forgive me and continued to refuse to work with me on the English project, I wanted to know that he knew I was sorry. I wanted him to know that if I was able to take it back, I would. Nothing else besides that mattered.

Lunch with my friends had been the worst part of the day. Jules, and everyone else, had tried to talk to me throughout, but I was too preoccupied. All I could do was try to make my stomach accept food in between glances at Chris sitting across the cafeteria. His focus was on the handful of friends he’d managed to make in his first few weeks at A.M. Whitemane.