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As I tried to get back in the routine of being home, I continued to be haunted by Griffin’s letter.
You suck.
You suck.
You suck.
He was never one to mince words, but after all this time—that was harsh.
It felt like I should want to cry over this, but I couldn’t actually cry anymore. In fact, Doc and I often joked about the fact that I was incapable of shedding tears. He’d urged me to try to cry, to let everything out, but I never could—not since the accident. Not even when my father died.
Venturing down to my basement, I went in search of the plastic-covered container that I’d put Griffin’s old letters in—I’d kept them all.
Maybe if I could somehow reconnect with him by rereading one or two, that would help me decide whether or not I should write him back. Responding to his abrasive letter could be opening a massive can of worms. It might be better to let sleeping dogs lie, to let my memories of him remain mostly positive. I supposed responding could also bring me some much-needed closure, even if he never wrote me back again.
Opening the container, I closed my eyes while selecting one. I didn’t want to manipulate fate by choosing a particular letter to read. I just picked one at random.
Upon recognition of the date, I realized it was one of the older ones, from when we were probably about ten.Dear Luca,
How have you been?
I feel sad because my mum and dad told me that they are getting a divorce. They said it’s not my fault.
How was your dance recital? Did you get flowers after, like you wanted? I would send you some if I had money. It costs a lot to send things to America.
I wrote you a song. It starts like this:Luca. Luca. Luca.
I want to buy you a bazooka.
I’m not done yet. Looking for more words that rhyme with Luca.Later, gator,
GriffClutching the letter to my chest, I thought about the image of him I had in my head. Somewhere in the box was the one picture of himself he’d ever sent me. When we were around twelve, we broke the unofficial “rules” and finally exchanged photos. I’d chosen one where I was dressed up for a dance competition, wearing makeup and with tap shoes on. He’d sent me a photo of himself standing in front of some building in London. At that age, I was just starting to be boy crazy. It definitely surprised me to learn that Griffin, with his big brown eyes and dark hair, was quite the cutie.
I’ll never forget what he’d written back to me after receiving my photo.
Turn this letter around for my reaction to your photo on the back.
And then when I did, it said:
Wow, Luca. You’re really pretty!
I don’t think I had ever blushed so much in my life. That was the first moment it hit me that maybe my feelings for Griffin could be more than just platonic. Of course, I’d kept that thought deep inside because it wasn’t like anything could have happened given the distance between us. Neither of us had the money to fly to see each other. The distance only made it easier, though, for us to open up to each other.
Remembering the words of that sweet young version of Griffin and comparing them to the harsh ones I’d received a week ago was a tough pill to swallow. Still no clearer on whether to contact him, I pulled out another letter.
This one, according to the date, was from when we were probably around fifteen or sixteen.Dear Luca,
I’m gonna tell you a secret. Don’t trust boys. Like ever. We’ll tell you anything to get into your pants. And then when we do, we’ll blow it—literally—in like two seconds.
Okay . . . you can trust me, but no other guys. (And that’s only because I’m far away and can’t try anything anyway, otherwise I might not trust me, either.)
Anyway . . . I had sex. I guess maybe you figured that out already.
It was good, but not as great as I thought it was going to be. It was a little awkward, really. Mostly fast. You haven’t done it yet, right? I hope the answer is no. It better be no, Luca. If it’s yes, don’t tell me. I couldn’t handle knowing. (Actually, no, I do want you to tell me. I just might need to steal some of my father’s scotch first before you do.)
My mum is doing better. Thank you for asking. They said the cancer hasn’t spread beyond her ovaries. So that is good. (That’s good, right?) Do you know anything about ovarian cancer? I need you to tell me it’s going to be okay. I would trust that if it came from you. I guess I just need to hear it. Because I can’t lose my mum.
