Dear Sully

by Jill Cox

  “How do you know,” she asked frostily, “that our hostess isn’t headed to college herself?”

  “Mom, cut it out. Someone will hear you.”

  “No, I’d like an explanation, Pete. Are you under the impression that the only people who end up at college are those who attend twenty-thousand-dollar-a-year private schools?”

  “Of course not. I just meant –”

  “Surrender, Dorothy,” my dad whisper-shouted at me. “Mama Lizzie always wins.”

  I shifted in my seat, then looked my mom in the eye. “You’re right. Maybe that redhead’s Yale-bound, or maybe she’s America’s next top model. Either way, we’ve both got our whole lives ahead of us, probably on opposite sides of the country, so why should I talk to her?”

  My mom’s eyes narrowed. “Listen, honey, I know you think we’re old and out of touch. But in my experience, when a person makes your face light up like yours did just now, the very least you should do is find out that person’s phone number.”

  “Okay, you guys have officially lost your minds. What you call a lit-up face was actually a sign of hypoglycemia. I’m in need of greasy carbs, that’s all.”

  My parents turned to face each other, and for a split second, they looked sixteen instead of forty-six. Jim Russell slid his arm around the-artist-formerly-known-as Liz Beckett and pulled her closer to him. “You know I watched your mom from the sidelines for a year before I asked her out, right?”

  I dropped my head in my hands. “Not this story again.”

  “Hey, you kept us awake all night last night,” my dad said, tugging gently at my curls across the table. “If the worst punishment you receive for underage drinking is the story of how your parents fell in love, you should count your lucky stars.”

  “Fine.” I rubbed my eyes and propped my elbows on the table. “But can we fast forward through the part where you tell me someone as cool as Elizabeth Beckett would never go for you? Because she’s sitting right here, Dad, which makes your story revisionist history.”

  “Hey, if it weren’t for Scott and Becky and their matchmaking skills, you might not exist.”

  Scott and Becky are the Logans. Scott was my dad’s roommate, and Becky and my mom grew up down the street from each other. In fact, their son – the famous Shanghai James – is named after my dad. They’re family, you know? The people I turn to nowadays whenever I need a safe place to land.

  My mom laid a hand on my dad’s chest and smiled. “What your father is saying is if he’d simply asked for my number the first time we met instead of watching me from the sidelines all those months, he could have saved us all some time.”

  “But if he’d asked for your number, we wouldn’t have this charming anecdote to rehash over and over again, now would we?”

  My dad chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Sorry, Lizzie. Looks like our son inherited my chickenhearted genes.”

  After some serious maternal side-eye, we eventually moved on to the topic of what I’d actually learned during Stanford orientation. Phew. I thought I was in the clear… until we passed you again at the hostess’ desk on our way out of the restaurant.

  And I tripped over my own feet.

  Between the front door and the car, Liz and Jim Russell spiraled out of control, cackling at their only child and his total nincompoopery. So I buckled myself into the back seat of the SUV – something I rarely bothered to do – and buried my face in my pillow, hugging it tightly against me, like a fortress against the madmen at the helm.

  Which is why I didn’t see Alicia Baldwin’s car careening toward us as we turned south onto Highway 101. A few days later at the hospital, after I’d had time to settle into the news, a detective explained that I was the only one in the car whose body was relaxed on impact. He said if I hadn’t been hiding behind that pillow – if my eyes and brain had forced my body to react to the oncoming danger – well, I wouldn’t be alive today.

  So maybe this explains in part why I freaked out after your brother’s accident. I’m not a superstitious person, but when Ian died, the whole thing suddenly felt all Final Destination-ish, like Death skipped me that night of the accident, and four years later, he took your brother instead.

  I know that sounds ridiculous now, but it didn’t to me at the time. Because I shouldn’t have survived that car accident, Sully. I shouldn’t have, but I did. All because of you.

  Sigma Phi Sutton

  Within ninety minutes of the accident, a helicopter had medevac’d me to Portland.

  On impact, my dad’s seat hurtled backward, pinning my left leg and shattering it in three separate places. Somehow in the melee, I broke my right wrist and damaged my spleen. To complicate matters, I had a dozen cuts on my face and a goose-egg contusion on the left side of my skull from where my head hit the window as our car spun into oncoming traffic.

  I was a hot mess, Sully.

  For eight weeks, the only non-medical people I spoke to were my grandparents. By the time I was fully discharged, Labor Day had come and gone, and all my friends had started college without me. I moved in with my grandparents, did rehab for my arm and leg, and felt sorry for myself every second of every day.

  Which is why I ran away to Shanghai the first time. But you already know most of that story.

  So how about I fast-forward to the first few days at Highgate? I think you’ll like this letter, Sully. I’m about to blow your mind, because guess what?

  Your boy Andrew Sutton and I were almost best friends.

  Whaaaaat? I know, man. Mic. Drop.

  In the days leading up to freshman year, Pops convinced me to give fraternity life a shot. “You need structure, Peter,” he said. “The Greek system at Highgate seems healthy enough. And besides, everyone needs friends.”

  Which is how it came to pass that once upon a time, during the halcyon days of fraternity recruitment, I shared your favorable opinion of Andrew Sutton from Lincoln City, Oregon. I know this will shock you, and it would probably shock him as well, but here’s the truth: those first days of freshman year, I freaking loved that kid.

  I’m sure this goes without saying, but for dudes, Greek life is fairly low key. You hang out, play video games, shoot pool at the frat house… you know the drill. And yeah, okay. There are weekly meetings and charity commitments. But my point is that despite what you see on TV and in movies, fraternity life has very little to do with beer pong or keg stands.

  At least, not at the Sigma Phi Beta house. They’re the only dry house on campus.

  Highgate allowed freshmen recruits to move into the dorms early, and thanks to a potluck miracle, Dan Thomas became my roommate. All four days of recruitment, Dan and I attended every event together alongside your favorite housemates, Braden and Ben.

  You know who else tagged along? The one and only Drew Sutton.

  To keep the playing field level, recruits aren’t allowed to talk about their past during the festivities – not with the upperclassmen, and not with each other. We could talk about the future: our course schedules, our majors, career goals, et cetera, et cetera. This must have been a real challenge for everyone else, but man, Sully. It saved my hide. I didn’t have to answer questions about my family or why I was a twenty-year-old college freshman. Thanks to recruitment parameters, I was free to be whomever I pleased.

  Annnnnnd I’m just realizing that is the very reason such a rule exists. Wow.

  Is this what it was like for you to write your novel, Sully? Did you figure out all the things? Because that would definitely explain why you’re ahead of me in the wisdom game these days.

  On Friday night, Dan, Braden, Ben, Drew, and I listed Sigma Phi Beta as our house of preference. Turns out all five of us topped their list as well, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. For an only child – an orphaned only child – having ninety-nine new brothers was everything I never knew I wanted.

  Saturday – bid day – was one of the best days of my life thus far.r />
  You can feel the but coming, can’t you? Ah, Sully. You know me well.

  Fast-forward to Sunday morning when I woke up to an imaginary elephant sitting on my chest. My mind roared, skipping through possibilities. Starting Monday – the first day of freshman orientation – my past would become my currency, just like everybody else. But how could I talk about my past when I’d spent the greater part of the previous year running away from it all?

  By breakfast, I’d compartmentalized my fear long enough to plan a fun day with my new brothers. I chauffeured the guys all over Portland, then over to the Columbia River Gorge. We putzed around all day, hiking and whatnot, then somehow ended up at a local festival along the riverbank. Despite my nerves about Monday, I was having fun.

  Right up until I spotted a food truck.

  An eerie calm overtook me. Because when I saw that food truck, I remembered that my seventh-grade English teacher was absent for a week after she went to a food truck festival with a blind date. And yes, I know that telling students about your love life is a no-no in the teacherly world, but you’re missing my point, Sully: Miss Freiburg was siiiiiiiiiick. Like green at the gills even after she survived two ER visits and a week hugging the porcelain throne.

  Hallelujah! A faux case of food-truck-itis was my ticket out of Highgate’s orientation.

  “Dudes,” I chuckled, backhanding Dan on the arm. “I bet you twenty bucks each that I can eat six of those tacos.”

  Dan craned his neck, eyeing the workers inside the truck. “They’re not even wearing gloves, Russell. What if you get e coli or Hepatitis C? Or both? You’d miss orientation.”

  Why yes, Daniel. I would.

  Braden grunted in agreement, but Drew’s eyes got that look – like he’d just learned a secret hack for mining bitcoins. Next stop: the Ferrari dealership (or whatever materialistic nonsense one buys with bitcoins).

  “Fifty bucks says you can’t eat more than three,” he blurted. “No wait. A hundred bucks.”

  If I’d known then what I know now – that Sutton’s mom had died way too young, that he’d worked for years at your restaurant to build up his savings and earned a full-ride academic scholarship so his grandparents didn’t have to carry his burden – I never would’ve taken that bet. But he was watching me so smugly in that moment that I had to take him down.

  So I ate four tacos, enough to wipe the smug off Sutton’s face. A couple of bites into the third one, I started to set the scene – a little show of discomfort here, a little bit of pushing-through-to-win-this-bet-but-man-something-is-off-with-this-food there. I could see in Sutton’s face that he was both disgusted and impressed that he’d just lost a hundred bucks on such an easy bet while also realizing that something had definitely gone wrong.

  Braden was the first to speak up. “Cut that out, Russell,” he said as I swallowed a mouthful of the fourth taco. “You’ve already cleaned out Sutton’s wallet. Now let’s get out of here before your lunch comes back up to say hello.”

  “Sutton never quantified that I had to keep them down,” I smirked, holding my side as I shot Sutton a triumphant grin. “Hand over the Benjamin, bro.”

  “I don’t have the money with me,” he pouted. “It’s back at the dorm.”

  “Well, then.” I belched really loudly, frowned at the taco truck, then belched again. “I suggest we head back to campus right now, because I intend to collect on my winnings before our next stop: the play-all-day-for-ten-bucks arcade. My treat.”

  “An arcade?” Ben asked. “Where?”

  “Five minutes from campus. Come on, I’ll show you.” I fake-winced, which didn’t escape anyone’s notice, and then took off toward the car, the other four trailing nervously behind.

  When we reached the parking lot, I sort of punched Dan on the arm while the other three were busy joking around, and handed him my keys. Dan’s eyes widened a bit, but he nodded. When we were settled inside, Sutton asked the obvious question.

  “What the… Russell, you’re letting him drive your new car?”

  Dan looked over his shoulder. “Sorry, bro. I can’t help that I’m the superior friend.”

  “You guys are idiots,” he grunted, the pout in his voice loud and clear.

  “Ah.” Dan breathed in deeply, dragging the gear into reverse. “Gotta love that scent: fresh Eau de Charcoal Gray Range Rover.”

  “It’s not gonna be so fresh if we don’t get Russell back to the dorms,” Ben said, sniffing the air, then leaning toward me to sniff a second time. “Dude, is there a sewer around here, or is that coming from Russell’s backside?”

  I’ll spare you the next thirty minutes of post-adolescent potty humor, because I respect you, Sully. But suffice it to say that while your buddy Sutton hyperbolized the number of gastric explosions he heard coming from the seat in front of him, the scene was set for what came next.

  Namely this well-kept secret: I know how to puke on demand.

  Hatley Hall

  It’s Tuesday afternoon as I write this letter. Just a little over twenty-four hours after I started this exercise, and you know what? I do feel slightly better. Color me shocked, but I really dig telling you stories. I sort of wish I’d told them to you before now.

  I wonder if “cognitive exercise” is just a synonym for “dealing with your old baggage?” Hmm. That Keating fella’s a trickster.

  One of my favorite qualities about the twenty-first century is that with a little ingenuity, you can convince anyone that you are where they think you are. Before I left the dorm Sunday night, I told Dan I’d be at Gigi’s. When I got in my car, I called Gigi to tell her Sigma Phi Beta was taking us on a brothers’ retreat. Her response? “Have fun, Peter. And be safe.”

  Oh, I was safe. Safe and sound, tucked away inside a tiny beachfront cabin in Oceanside.

  You’ve seen those cabins, right – thirty-ish miles north of Lincoln City, by the haystack rocks? For a thousand bucks cash, you can hide out there for a week without anyone asking your business. No maid service. No internet. No cell phone signal.

  Bonus: the Pacific Ocean is just outside your front door.

  The sky dumped buckets that week, so I lay on the floor of the cabin listening to the rain patter against the roof, letting minutes and hours pass me by.

  I didn’t read. There was no Wi-Fi to distract me. If the rain stopped, I would stand up, open the door, and walk across the sand to the surf. But the second the sky opened up again, I returned to my spot on the floor and stared up again at the ceiling, emptying my mind of everything but the steady thunk, thunk, thunk all around me.

  On Sunday morning, I drove back to Portland via Lincoln City. My mission: to follow through on my mom’s request and ask the Sullivan’s hostess for her number.

  (Surprised? Yeah, I bet. I flat out lied to you when I claimed I’d only visited Lincoln City three times. I just couldn’t admit the fourth.)

  Sunday brunch at Sullivan’s Restaurant was remarkably chaotic that day. I sat there for a couple of hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tall girl with the auburn hair. I finally struck up the courage to ask my waitress if she knew where you were. “Sorry,” she said, chomping her gum. “Just started here yesterday, and the owners are up in Seattle this weekend. But if you come back tomorrow, you can ask them yourself.”

  Um, no thanks, Violet Beauregarde. Don’t let that gum turn you into a giant blueberry.

  Despite my mission failure, I headed back to campus that afternoon with a week’s worth of stubble on my face and a renewed sense of purpose. I may not have tracked down the leggy hostess, but it didn’t matter. When I walked in the dorm room, Dan gave me a rundown of everything I missed at orientation, and by that night, my weeklong freak-out felt like fake news.

  The next morning, I zoomed to French Composition 3301 half an hour in advance. Why? Because you and I both know wherever you sit on the first day of college determines your success for the next four years. Too far back? Slacker. Too close? Well, in that case, you’re a different kind
of loser – the kind who shows off what they think they know without realizing everything they don’t. But hey, I don’t need to sell you on the merits of that optimal middle seat, do I?

  Because thirty seconds after I’d settled into my desk, you walked through that door with stars in your eyes and your jaw set for victory.

  Right up until you spotted me in the exact seat you’d been dreaming about all summer.

  I couldn’t believe it when I lifted my eyes, Sully. It was you. The Sullivan’s hostess. The very redhead I’d driven to Lincoln City to find less than twenty-four hours prior.

  “Um, pardon?” you asked demurely. “C’est le cours de composition 3301?”

  Okay, so I’m going to brag on you here a little bit, missy. You always talk about my accent and my grammar like I’m some sort of academic genius, but in my opinion, none of those skills reflect upon me. I simply lived in France during the age range where kids’ brains are developing their language center.

  It’s science, Sully. Look it up.

  But you? Dude, you started French as a teenager. Your pronunciation skills were perfected by sheer tenacity and discipline, not to mention how hard you rock French grammar and spelling. Everything I know, I learned by proxy – Liz Russell practiced her best classroom materials on me back in the day. You didn’t live with a French teacher, therefore you and your work ethic deserve full credit for your success.

  Okay, bragging rant over. Let’s get back to the story.

  On our first day of college, when you walked into Hatley Hall 207, you were wearing a green Sullivan’s shirt – possibly the one you wore the night of our car accident. Only this time, instead of shorts, you had on a jean mini-skirt. And instead of a ponytail, your hair was straight, long, and glossy. Like you were headed to Milan to walk the Dolce & Gabbana runway.