Dear Sully

by Jill Cox

  Your arms hugged a Moleskine notebook to your chest, and in your left hand, you held a turquoise rolling ball pen. I wanted to check the bridge of your nose for freckles, but your face went blotchy as your gray eyes narrowed in my direction.

  I lowered my gaze to my textbook because… dude.

  I. Could. Not. Believe. My. Eyes.

  In what sick universe would the redheaded hostess from Sullivan’s Restaurant choose the same college as me? No wait – not just the same college. The same exact French course down to the same specific section, even though the catalog listed two other choices?

  But the very worst thing? It was clear you did not recognize me.

  And Sully, I’m gonna be honest: that hurt.

  A wave of confusion rushed through me in that moment as you sped past my desk without a second glance. After the accident, you’d become a bit of a saint in my mind. Yes, I found you attractive, but that’s not why I’d driven to Lincoln City twenty-four hours earlier.

  I went to Sullivan’s that Sunday because I’d convinced myself we had a metaphysical connection – you’d saved me, right? You. The redheaded hostess. And I believed with all my heart that if you ever laid eyes on me again, we’d have a moment.

  Except that moment didn’t happen. You simply walked past me and took the seat behind me.

  So I went rogue.

  “Lincoln City? Are you serious?” I scoffed, wheeling around to face you. “I freaking hate that dump.”

  The second your face crumpled, I knew I’d taken things too far. Was it your fault I’d concocted an elaborate cosmic backstory between us? Uh, no. You absolutely did not deserve my sarcasm.

  Luckily for both of us, Dan Thomas walked in a few seconds later, chiding me for letting him oversleep on the first day of school. After class, I took my sweet time gathering up all of my things, and by the time Dan and I finally exited the building, you were a couple hundred yards ahead of us on the sidewalk. And guess who was scurrying toward you like a little puppy? Drew Sutton, who skidded to a halt in front of you.

  In two seconds flat, he had you giggling. “Dude,” Dan chuckled. “We need to get Sutton to teach us his rock star ways. Did you see the way that ginger’s face lit up just now?”

  Yes, Daniel. I did. Thanks for the confirmation.

  I studied Sutton for a moment, then looked down at myself: grungy cargo pants, oversized Sigma Phi Beta jersey, FLIP FLOPS. And then I remembered my wild hair and scruffy cheeks.

  No wonder you blew me off that morning, Sully. As far as you knew, I was a yeti half-breed who slept in a backwoods yurt and ate a steady diet of goji berries and chia seed pudding.

  Don’t lie, sister. You know that was your first impression. You told me so yourself once upon a time.

  That evening, after our first official Sigma Phi chapter meeting, every recruit was sequestered in mandatory study hall. Sutton chose the seat next to me, and for the first hour, we scribbled dutifully side by side, like good little freshmen recruits.

  But I wasn’t studying, Sully. I was concocting a plan. Because despite my rudeness that morning – despite the left side of my brain insisting you were a stuck-up little goody two shoes – my inner detective couldn’t let it go. Especially once I saw you with Surf Boy Sutton on the quad.

  Just before eight o’clock, the study hall monitor stood up and announced we could take a five-minute break. I followed Sutton to the kitchen, and pounced.

  “How was orientation last week?” I asked nonchalantly. “Did I miss anything fun?”

  “Dude,” he replied with half a cookie in his mouth. “It was awesome. Too bad you got sick off those tacos.”

  “Yeah, too bad.” I filled a mug with decaf coffee, then filled one for him. “So, about that that hundred bucks you owe me…”

  He snorted. “Come on, man. You can’t be serious right now.”

  I took a slow sip of my coffee, my eyes locked on his. “A bet is a bet, Sutton. Especially among brothers.”

  “Whatever, Russell,” he snorted. “We both know that you flaked on the bet when you puked out the window of your own car. I don’t owe you a dime.”

  “Fine. If that’s how you want to play things, how about this option: give me the ginger’s number, and I’ll never mention the money again.”

  “Which ginger?”

  Which ginger? Who did he think he was, Sully? A British boy-bander?

  “Come on, man,” I laughed. “You know which ginger – the one you met at Hatley Hall today after French class.”

  “Meredith?” He frowned. “But how –”

  “Relax, bro.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s no big deal. Dan Thomas and I just want to get to know the smartest person in our French class a little better. Befriend the competition, level out the stakes. You know the drill.”

  And without another word, I walked back to study hall and resumed my work.

  I wish you could have seen your hometown buddy squirm the rest of that night. Even though I never lifted my eyes from my homework, I could feel the wheels turning inside his brain. What a shock, right? When Mister Perfect decided to join you at Highgate, I bet he never dreamed his favorite goldfish would break free and thrive in the big pond.

  A few minutes before nine, the study hall monitor stepped briefly out of the room. So I scribbled the following onto a ripped out page from my spiral and slapped it onto his history book.

  your money

  your ginger.

  your call

  Sutton sat there, face forward, for at least a minute – long enough for the monitor to return. Then he scribbled something down on the back of my note, dug into his pocket, and slipped a crisp hundred dollar bill inside the fold before he slammed it down on the table beside me.

  The ginger is off-limits.

  Period.

  Ginger Spice

  For the first month of school, Drew Sutton waited for you after French class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Sometimes he brought you coffee. Sometimes he took your messenger bag and carried it to your next class. But always – one hundred percent of the time – he brought a smile to your face that no one else could manage. Heart eyes for days. Le sigh.

  Hold up – make that le PUKE.

  When Sutton sent me his little warning that night in study hall, I just figured he wanted to remind me that in a fraternity, you never step in on a brother’s prospects. Even without that note, I could see that the two of you had a history. And if anyone understood the stakes of a lifelong male-female friendship, it was me. (Cough BROOKS. Cough DARBY.)

  But then, at the Panhellenic mixer in early October, I saw your boy Sutton making out with a buxom brunette. And a week later, I caught him pressed up against a tiny blonde in the library stacks. So when he showed up to French class the next day with the same starry eyes he’d used on those two ladies, I began to question whether his motive in protecting you had less to do with you and more to do with Sutton keeping every option available at all times.

  So I decided to call his bluff.

  You probably don’t remember this, but for several days in a row, right around mid-terms, you and I left French class together. I’d follow you out the door with questions about the previous day’s reading that I already knew the answer to, or I’d mention the study group Dan and I were organizing for the midterm – anything to keep you talking long enough for your boy Sutton to notice us together on our way out of Hatley Hall.

  That Saturday, I invited our mutual friend to shoot hoops over at the outdoor intramural court. The pair of us walked chummily across campus like we’d known each other for decades, and despite the chill in the air, Sutton was as cheerful as I’d ever seen him.

  After I let him win HORSE a couple of times, we switched off shooting free throws for a while. And once my so-called brother got nice and comfortable, I set my trap.

  “You’ve been busy this semester, Sutton,” I said, dribbling to set up my shot.

  “Busy?” He bounced the ball off the backboard,
then held it to his chest. “With school?”

  “With the ladies. I guess you’ve got a date lined up for the Halloween party?”

  “Still weighing the possibilities.” He stole the ball away from me and dunking a perfect shot. “You jealous, Russell?”

  “Wow. Can’t sneak anything past you, Andrew. You pegged me for sure.”

  Drew circled me, then slammed a rim shot. “Who are you taking next Saturday? That Alpha Chi who keeps texting you?”

  “Alpha Chi?”

  “Come on, man. Don’t play dumb. Dan said you’ve been chatting up some girl named Rebekah or something. No wait, Mary? Jezebel? I don’t know. Some biblical name.”

  There was no Alpha Chi texting me, Sully. But I kept up the ruse because Dan had obviously sold Sutton on this little white lie. This is one of my favorite Dan Thomas qualities: he always has my back while playing players at their own games.

  “Oh,” I fake chuckled. “You mean Rachel?”

  “Yes! Rachel! That’s the one.” He high-fived me right there in the middle of the court. “Nice one, Russell. You’re taking her to the party? Dude. That chick is smokin’.”

  Chick? Smokin’? Was he for real? Didn’t he realize we’d crossed into the twenty-first century?

  “Meh, I guess. If you’re into aspiring YouTube makeup tutorial wannabes,” I shrugged. “Actually, I’ve almost convinced Dan we should ask these two girls from our French class. Adrienne White and Meredith Sullivan. You know Meredith, right?”

  Dribble, dribble. Dribble, dribble. That was all I heard, because Sutton had just grabbed the ball from me and was now pounding the pavement with it. Then he turned on me, eyes blazing. “I told you Meredith was off-limits, Russell. That was only a few weeks ago. Don’t act like you’ve forgotten.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I laughed, lifting my hands in mock surrender. “Take it easy, Andrew. There’s no reason to give yourself an ulcer about it. We both know I’m a gentleman.”

  “I’m not fooling around, man. Don’t hit on my friend.”

  “Who said anything about hitting on her?” I leveled my best smirk at him. “I’m just a guy asking a girl to hang out on Halloween. What’s so scandalous about that?”

  Sutton glared at me for a full ten seconds. Then he scooped up the same ball he’d chunked at me and headed off toward the dorm. I followed behind him from a safe distance, because I knew I’d accomplished my goal. He couldn’t even stick to a straight path, he was so unhinged. And when we got within earshot of Peyton Hall, he wheeled around and sprinted back to meet me.

  “I paid you the hundred bucks,” he seethed. “We settled our bet, and you promised to stay away from her. You promised, Russell. No take-backs. A deal’s a deal.”

  “Take a breath, son.” I clapped him on the shoulder, then pretended to pick a piece of lint from his sleeve. “As I recall, you paid me off instead of giving me Meredith’s number, but I never agreed to any deal. This is college, bro. Ginger Spice can hang out with whomever she pleases.”

  He blinked at me for a long time. Maybe it was because I’d just used whomever correctly, but I choose to believe it was the first time ever someone had challenged Drew where you were concerned.

  I didn’t say another word. I just watched him watching me.

  Maybe I scared the Lincoln City out of him. Because with all his might, your boy Andrew chucked the basketball at my chest, then skulked off in the direction of the parking garage.

  Gilbert Blythe

  For six months, I was the epitome of fraternal loyalty. Right up until Tommy Harding threw his Famous Gingers and their Friends party.

  “Thanks for driving me all over Portland yesterday,” Adrienne White smiled at you in class one day that April. “I never realized thrift shops would still have so many Eighties clothes.”

  “I know, right?” You beamed. “I think you and Jacob will be the perfect Duckie and Andie. That auburn bob wig transforms you into Molly Ringwald’s twin.”

  “It’s amazing! But I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time finding costumes for you and Drew. Can’t you guys pick another couple? Anne and Gilbert are so old-fashioned.”

  You dug in your bag for a pen. “Yeah, well, this is one of those times it’s a liability to go on a date with someone who’s known you your whole life. Drew insists we dress up as Anne and Gilbert because they’re my favorite book characters. Besides, he wants to win the originality prize, and he doesn’t think anyone else has heard of them.”

  “Is he crazy?” Adrienne gaped. “Everyone knows who Anne and Gilbert are.”

  “I know. The books are huge all over the world. Not to mention the movies and the new TV show. In Japan, they even built a replica of Green Gables itself!”

  In Sutton’s defense, he was not entirely wrong about the general public’s lack of awareness re: your favorite couple. Until that day, I had never heard of Anne of Green Gables. So imagine my shock when I pulled out my phone to google “Anne and Gilbert,” and 43 million hits popped up on my screen.

  While you and Adrienne brainstormed where to find Drew some knickers, I downloaded L.M. Montgomery’s books to my Kindle app. That weekend, I read the entire series. Then I formulated a plan.

  Dan and I had volunteered to serve as sober drivers at Tommy’s party, because while it wasn’t an official Sigma Phi Beta event, the officers always made sure they were covered in case of liability. Therefore, neither of us had a date that night. But that didn’t stop us from dressing up.

  Dan went as Ed Sheeran. (Duh. They share that beautiful voice.)

  And I picked Gilbert Blythe.

  Yes, that’s right. I did copy Drew, but I had a good reason, Miss Shirley: did it ever occur to you that I actually am Gilbert Blythe?

  I’m older than the rest of our class.

  I may, from time to time, overdo it with the nicknames.

  I’m in love with the girl who broke a metaphorical slate over my head for my insulting behavior, in a classroom, on the first day of school.

  I even have curly brown hair.

  Are you freaking kidding me, Carrots? I’m the dude you’ve been looking for your whole life! So you can forgive me for trying to even the playing field with your charlatan of a best friend.

  That night at Tommy’s party, I was standing on the back porch when you followed a blundering Sutton down to the river dock. I knew he had feelings for you. Everyone in our pledge class knew. Scratch that – everyone at Highgate knew. So the second your feet hit the planks of that dock, forty brotherly heads turned toward the water. Like a herd of meerkats, we stood at attention, waiting for the predator to (finally) pounce.

  It was no surprise that liquid courage had emboldened our brother Sutton.

  The real plot twist was your response.

  Oh, man, Sully. You shoved Drew away so hard that I thought he might fly into the water. Your hand flew to your lips, and when you looked down at your fingers, you stared and stared, like they held physical proof of your broken heart.

  And then… Sutton puked.

  I asked Dan to drive you back to the dorms that night. Maybe I should have swooped in to save the day, but I didn’t want you associating me with whatever you felt after that disaster.

  You looked like you’d just lost your best friend.

  Now that I think about it, maybe you did. Because a couple of days later, I saw Drew making out with your roommate, Lindsay. Next thing I knew, he’d stopped meeting you after French class.

  So I watched, Sully. And I waited. And maybe I never said anything, but by the spring of freshman year, I had definitely caught a really bad case of the feels for you. Not just because you’re beautiful and quick-witted and hard-working and very, very kind.

  All of that is true. But the quality I love most? It’s your courage. When life snatches away someone you love, you never run for the hills. Someone like you would never hole up in a tiny cabin or stuff your face with Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby.

  No way. Not Meredith Sullivan!
When life goes haywire, you dig in. You take your pain and use it to fuel your dreams.

  Every. Single. Time.

  Which is why I’m sitting here, writing this letter, wondering how I ever let you go.

  The Sully Swagger

  It’s Wednesday now. I’ve been writing you these letters for, like, thirty-six hours. My hand keeps cramping up, and to be blunt, I’m ready to quit this nonsense. It’s not like you’ll ever read them, you know? Why am I doing this to myself?

  Oh, yeah. Because I promised Dr. Keating. So I forced myself to sit in the window of the upstairs loft in that oversized Starbucks on Boulevard Saint-Michel.

  That’s right – wrap me up in an American flag and call me basic.

  Don’t judge, okay? I need something to feel normal in my life. My first choice was a pint of Chubby Hubby, but apparently, it doesn’t exist in Paris (believe me, I’ve asked everywhere). So my next best coping mechanism is a Venti Samoa Frappuccino. Extra whip, extra mocha, extra caramel sauce, extra coconut chips.

  Merci, madame la barista. The name’s spelled P-I-E-R-R-E.

  Um, yes – Girl Scout cookie Frappuccinos do exist. Go ahead and fact-check me if you like. They’re on the secret menu.

  I may be a flake, but I would never lie about coffee.

  Now listen, this letter’s on the serious side, which probably explains my foul mood today. But I’m going to write it anyway, despite my crampy hand, because this story feels important. Why else would I have made an outline beforehand?

  What? I know how to outline papers. I learned it from you.

  Okay, you ready? Here we go.

  As you know, my Pops died suddenly that summer between our first and second year at Highgate. Maybe someday you and I can talk more about him, but for now, I’ll keep it short.

  My grandfather was the best guy I ever knew. He loved my grandmother with his whole heart, yet he somehow managed to love my mom, my dad, and me with his whole heart too.