by Jill Cox
So what you took as serendipity that morning was simply my evil plan to remind you of where we left off in the fall. Cupid can always use a bit of organizational help.
Brussels was magical, wasn’t it? You indulged my inner twelve-year-old and took a selfie with me at the Mannekin-Pis. You made me split a gaufre with you (like anyone needs cajoling to eat a waffle smothered in Nutella). You proved you’d paid attention in your art history class when you played tour guide in the Musée des Beaux-Arts. I’ve never found Flemish art so fascinating in my entire life.
You are amazing, Meredith Sullivan. And the most amazing part about you is that you have no freaking idea how amazing you are.
We found a dinky little tourist shop that had about ten silver charms, and when I insisted you let me buy every one that would make you remember this day, you let me. The second we walked outside, you slid your fingers into my hair. “You’re my favorite, Pete Russell. I hope you know that.”
Oh, man. I did not know that. And the second you said it, my heart filled with dread that you might change your mind if you ever knew the real me.
Dr. Keating and I have spent a lot of time this week talking about fear. He claims that losing my family has created a trust vacuum in my heart. That ever since an event beyond my control claimed my parents’ lives, I try to control all the things. Like the way I’d choreographed the whole day trip to Brussels so that you’d think I was spontaneous and whimsical when in reality, I’d scheduled every minute to showcase what I hoped were my best qualities.
But taking you First Class on the fancy train didn’t impress you whatsoever. The following Monday at lunch when you told our friends about our “spontaneous” trip to Brussels, you never mentioned the fancy leather seats or the waitress who served us café au lait in porcelain tea cups.
Nah. You were too busy gushing over the three-euro-apiece dinky silver charms I bought.
For whatever reason, you find my sentimental side adorable. In fact, I bet if I asked you to make a list of my best qualities, not one thing on that list would be something I control.
Write me that list someday, Sully. Because if there’s one thing this notebook is teaching me, it’s that the only Pete I respect is the Pete you love.
Ennistymon
It’s six in the morning on Saturday now, and I’m sitting in my living room staring at the muted light outside my apartment’s wall of windows. The rue Guénégaud is always so quiet, despite its proximity to the river, and most days, that’s a selling point for this apartment.
Today, it’s a liability.
I woke up early this morning, which is not my usual habit on a Saturday, but nothing about today is normal. Two years ago today, on June 30th, we flew home from Ireland with Ian, and even before my eyes opened, I knew I would hate every minute of the day ahead of me. It’s an anniversary I managed to ignore last year, but this year, I don’t have that luxury.
I loved your brother, Sully. I’ve never met anyone with a bigger heart than Ian Sullivan, and from the second I met him, I believed we’d be best friends someday. Some people suck the life from a room, but Ian? He was like sunshine personified. And watching you lose him was the last nail in my broken heart’s coffin.
I’ve never told you about the following conversation – not because I had something to hide, but because I never thought anyone (including you) would believe me. But when I woke up today, I knew I needed to write this story down for you. Because when Ian died, he took a lot of unfulfilled dreams with him. And if I feel that way, I know you must feel it too.
Remember my twenty-third birthday? We’d just spent two weeks with your brother and Kate in your Nana’s tiny cottage in Doolin, and it wasn’t going well. At least not when the four of us were together. Kate drove me crazy, mostly because she drove you crazy. So when Ian asked me to help him drive your Nana’s things to some charity shop, I hopped at the chance for a break.
The two of us loaded up the Irish equivalent of a U-Haul truck and headed south down the tiny coastal highway. Somewhere near that hub town called Ennistymon, we got stuck behind a herd of sheep with no shepherd in sight. Your brother cursed in Gaelic (!!) and promptly shut off the ignition. It was so postcard-worthy and stereotypically Irish that I couldn’t help but grin.
But it didn’t take long to realize Ian wasn’t grinning with me. He was just staring ahead, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, like his soul had left the vehicle. Then he turned to me, eyes still unfocused. “Sorry, mate. Did you say something?”
“Dude, are you okay?” I punched him on the arm. “Do we need to stop and get you some food or something? You look a little pale.”
“Oh.” He huffed out a joyless laugh. “No. I’m just… thinking.”
“About?”
He glanced my way one more time, then shook his head. “It’s nothing, really. I just have so few memories of living here when I was a lad. I mean, I know I was only six when we moved to the States, but isn’t six old enough to have a solid anchor to this place?”
If I’d known your brother better, I probably would’ve figured out a way to make him laugh. You know how skittish I get when things get dicey, but in that moment, I couldn’t think of anything to make him snap out of his weirdness.
The herd of sheep started to walk off to the side of the road, loping their way along the rushing stream beside us. One by one, they hoofed it off the roadway, and as Ian turned the key in the ignition, he asked, “Did Meredith ever show you photos from when we lived here before?”
“Not yet. Actually, now that you mention it, she hasn’t told me much at all about the past.”
“Don’t take it personally.” Ian’s eyes narrowed a bit as he put the truck in gear. “Meredith doesn’t like to make a fuss – she’s been this way her whole life, even in the womb. Mum used to let me lay my head against her pregnant belly, and I would talk at Meredith until finally, she’d kick the spot right next to my face. Like she’d heard enough, and I needed to stop messing about.”
“I bet she rolled her eyes at you, too. You just couldn’t see her.”
“Exactly. My dad always says the first time he held her, she gave him major side-eye, like he’d forced her to make an appearance three days early. He insists that she frowned, like, ‘Hey, mister! The doctor said I’m due December sixteenth. Just like Jane Austen. Why aren’t you following orders?’”
We both laughed that time, because seriously, Sully – that is so you. Stubborn to the core. Always on time. My favorite little rule follower. “If she did that to your dad, what’d she do when she saw you? Kick you for real?”
“No. She just looked up at me with those strange baby eyes and I could not stop staring. The first thing I did was touch her hair to see if it was real, because I’d never seen anything like it. She was born with a full head of dark copper hair. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Well, she was. I should have known then it was just the fire in her soul making itself visible, daring the world to mess with Meredith Fiona Sullivan.”
Oh, man, Sully. Ian had you pegged.
“Here’s some trivia for you, Mr. Russell. Did you know that red hair and gray eyes is the rarest combination in human genetics?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s true, apparently. Meredith did a research project on it in high school biology.”
“I believe it. She’s the only person I know with that combo.”
“Me too. And I’ve been around.” Ian glanced across the truck’s cab at me. “Suffice it to say, my sister is different. She always has been, which is why I never understood her fascination with Drew Sutton, because Drew is… well, I believe the word kids say nowadays is basic.”
If anyone else had called Sutton ‘basic,’ I might have laughed. But when it came from Ian, it didn’t sound funny; it sounded a lot like disappointment. I could see clear as day that Ian loved Drew, that your family’s connection with the Suttons went way deeper than I’d ever dreamed. And something about
that revelation made my stomach flip.
But just as my thoughts began to spiral downward, Ian did something I will never forget: he reached across the truck and clapped me on the shoulder, then squeezed. It lasted less than half a second, and on a different day, I might have found it borderline weird. But for whatever reason, in that moment, I read between the lines and understood.
Yes, Ian loved Sutton like a brother. But that day, when it was just the two of us alone in the truck cab, your brother’s gesture made me believe he had room in his heart for me as well. The note he gave me in the Portland airport a few days later confirmed it.
You see the best in Fee, which makes me think you’re alright.
When Dr. Keating asked me to write letters in this journal, I figured I’d humor him for a couple of days. Shrinks are always asking people to jump through one hoop or another, you know? How else would they get us to pay them a hundred euros an hour, over and over again?
But now, six days and a hundred handwritten pages later, I can see Dr. Keating’s exercise has worked. I’ve just read back through my own words, and guess what I learned?
You and I are not over.
Not by a long shot.
If these letters have taught me anything, it’s that I have a million things left to say to you. Except now, it’s time to move past the pages of this notebook.
Now I need to say them to your face.
Gotta go, Sully. I’ve got a bag to pack and a couple of planes to catch if I want to make it to Dún Aonghasa by tomorrow morning.
I’m ninety-nine percent certain that’s where you’ll be.
Saturday, October 21, 10:33 pm
Dear Pete,
I’m ignoring your instructions – that we’re only allowed to communicate by snail mail about these letters – by texting you a picture of this note. That’s right, I am breaking a rule, but only because your rule is insane. What were you thinking? Why would you ask to wait an entire week for my response to these letters just so you could get some snail mail?
You’ve lost your mind completely. And according to these letters, you’ve severely underestimated my appreciation for your beautiful soul.
As requested, here are a few of my favorite Pete Russell things:
The way your eyes twinkle;
Your curls – thanks for growing them back out for me;
Your laugh, especially the one from your belly that makes your eyes water;
Your sentimental side;
Dr. Keating’s right – your handwriting is the actual coolest;
The way you are better than me at E V E R Y T H I N G but you don’t even know it;
The way you hug me so long that the world fades away;
When you love someone, you love them big… which probably explains all that running away you do when your heart gets broken;
Your butt in jeans (don’t even try to pretend you didn’t know);
The way you wrote me twenty letters in a journal without even knowing if I would read it. But please tell me you’ll explain what happened at Dún Aonghasa this summer in the so-called October journal (which, by the way, was sitting on my parents’ kitchen counter when I got home this evening). HELLO, CLIFFHANGER. (!!)
You really are Gilbert Blythe. Like, WHOA. Now that I’ve seen it, I can never un-see it. I guess this is why you’re the academic and I’m just a storyteller. (For the record, you’d look hot in a newsboy cap. Let’s buy you one soon.)
Love,
Sully
PS – Don’t worry, I’ll mail you the original of this list. I expect to see it up on your fridge the next time I’m in Paris.
PSS – Ian loved you too. And you would have been best friends.
OCTOBER
Tuesday, October 16th
Dear Sully,
As promised, here’s my second journal full of letters for you. I filled this one up last week after I read Night and Day, and this morning on my way to the Centre Lafayette, I plan to mail it to the Juniper house before I chicken out.
It won’t take you long to See why I thought you should read this one at home instead of on a plane (you know, just in case you need to throw it at something).
Love,
Pete
Take Two
I bet you’re wondering if I made it to Ireland in July.
Why, YES, I did. I landed in Shannon late on June 30th, and on the morning of July 1st, I boarded the tiniest plane known to mankind and flew to Inishmore, where I took a shuttle out to Dún Aonghasa.
Guess what I found there? The girl I love sitting on the edge of the world, tangled up in the arms of some hipster I seriously hope was Jack.
That was Jack, right? Because even though my rational brain tells me that the jumble of his arms plus your legs was just your final goodbye, my heart’s a little terrified that you’ve fallen for a second swoony Irishman. One who is ridiculously good-looking, by the way.
Even now, three months later, I’m still not certain.
Anyway, after my eyes blew out of their sockets that Sunday morning, I somehow made it back to Paris in one piece by noon on Monday. But instead of going home to wallow in a pint of ice cream, I took the train from Charles de Gaulle airport and walked straight to Dr. Keating’s office – with my luggage, by the way – and waited outside his office until he had an opening.
I waited four hours. Here’s a sampling of the accusations I lobbed his way that afternoon:
You’re a hack.
I made an idiot of myself this weekend and it’s all your fault.
Where exactly did you study, and why don’t you have any diplomas on your walls?
Why yes, I am a gem. Thank you for noticing.
To his credit, Dr. Keating listened to me without interrupting, and when I finished ranting about all the ways he had failed me, do you know what he did? He came to stand beside me, and with something even worse than sadness in his eyes, he laid one hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” he said with a gentle, paternal squeeze. “I should have warned you not to speak to Meredith yet. We still have a lot to do before you’re ready for that step. So please don’t disappear on me, lad. It would be a shame to undo all the hard work you’ve done this past week. And if it will make you feel better, I’ll put up my diplomas first thing tomorrow morning.”
Tears were already spilling down my cheeks by the time he uttered my name, but that last statement made me laugh. And then, because I am a complete wackadoodle, I hugged him like he was family, which I’m pretty sure violates several doctor-patient laws.
But he hugged me back, Sully. And when I left his office that afternoon, I promised to come back again the following day.
“Tell me,” he said the next afternoon once we’d settled into our respective chairs. “Why did you buy a one-way ticket when you came to Paris this summer?”
“Who told you I did that?”
He simply smiled. “If your goal is to understand the motivation behind your behavior, you might as well be honest with me. Isn’t that the point of our visits? For us to suss out the truth?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Well, I guess the official reason I came to Paris on a one-way ticket is that I needed to update my apartment, and there was no way to guess how long it might take.”
“Mmm hmm. And the unofficial reason?”
I rolled my eyes. “Are you seriously going to make me say this out loud?”
“Yes. I am.”
Even though I was seated, I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Look, I’m not a jerk, Dr. Keating. I know I left my quote/unquote relationship in limbo when I jetted off to Paris without warning. But if Brooks were here, she’d assure you my disappearing act came as zero surprise. I’ve done this same thing plenty of times before.”
“I know that, Peter. I’ve been listening to every word this past week. But weren’t you and Brooks friends for years before she became your partner?”
“Partner?” I scoffed. “I’m not even sure Brooks would cal
l herself my girlfriend, sir. Labels like that are so… I don’t know. High school, I guess. The last few weeks I was home, we barely even hung out. We weren’t planning a future together or anything. We’re both too busy with our respective lives.”
“I see. So when you found Meredith in the arms of another man this weekend in Ireland, what label did your mind produce? Neighbors? Leprechauns? Please enlighten me. I’m dying to know.”
Dude. He totally called me out. I would have knocked knuckles with him on any other day, because touché, Keating. The guy knew his way around my double-speak. But I was too busy trying to hide underneath my own chair to congratulate him on clenching the championship round.
“Here’s your next challenge, Peter: why don’t you fly home to Portland for a few days? Make eye contact with Brooks. Give her a proper goodbye, and while you’re at it, a proper apology.”
“But I don’t have to fly home to do either of those things, sir. Wouldn’t it be easier to break up with her over the phone?”
“Of course it would be easier. But just because something’s easy doesn’t make it the better choice. It would be easier for you to keep running away from your inner pain for the rest of your life, but you’re trying to curb that behavior, are you not?”
“I am.” My stomach flipped as I shifted once again in my chair. “But isn’t the point of therapy to learn from our own mistakes? I already know I’ve hurt Brooks, and not just by running away. She must know she’s played second fiddle to Meredith this whole time. I don’t want to rub it in her face with an apology just to accomplish a therapeutic leap on my end.”
Oh, man. The scowl. “You can be certain Brooks knows exactly how you feel about her, with or without your apology. And you are wise to recognize that it will hurt both of you to admit out loud what you’ve done. But it’s important to end things properly, and not just for Brooks.”