Dear Sully

by Jill Cox

“I said gargantuan American loser. And in my defense, you never told me your minor was Mandarin until a couple years later.”

  “Hold the phone, ladies and gents – I think the queen just tipped her crown.”

  “Hey, I’m no queen and there’s no crown. But I do need all my luck nowadays, so I’ve given up mocking noble concepts.”

  “Right.” I rubbed my fingers over my t-shirt sleeve, tugging it downward. “See, the thing is, I was nineteen when I got that mercy tattoo in Shanghai. My Mandarin wasn’t very strong, so I had to trust the English translation at the tattoo parlor.”

  You covered your mouth in horror. “Don’t tell me it actually say gargantuan American loser?”

  “No, it did not. It said panda.”

  You actually gasped, Sully. And then you covered your face with both hands, because I am completely ridiculous. And the two of us laughed the rest of the way to my house.

  When we got inside my apartment, I watched you puttering around, checking out all the changes inside. You looked confused, like you couldn’t decide if a designer had made choices on my behalf, or if the gray walls and contemporary furniture were manifestations from my own mind.

  Both, actually. In my mind, the renovation symbolized freedom.

  But I wasn’t free, and neither were you.

  I knew it was wrong to daydream as I watched you salute the photo of Lucky playing mahjong. Or when you trailed your finger along the dots on my China map. Or when your eyes lit up at my secret stash of Epiphany gnomes.

  I knew it was wrong, because every time I tried to pretend you were mine, I’d catch a glimpse of that silver Claddagh ring on your right hand. And every time, my daydream went all hazy.

  I was still in love with you, Sully. But you belonged to Jack.

  So I threw a metaphorical three-pointer from center court. I gave you the silver charm with Fee written in Ian’s handwriting that I’d commissioned for your twenty-second birthday.

  Your eyes, Sully – the second I handed you that box, I could have sworn something shifted between us, because when you looked back up at me, your eyes made me believe you’d give me another shot, if only I’d ask.

  But then Brooks called on the landline, and that look in your eyes disappeared. So I hurried into my bedroom to defuse the ticking time bomb on the other end of the line.

  How long did you listen before you ran away? Fifteen seconds? Thirty? An entire minute?

  However long you waited, I applaud you. I didn’t do enough that day to convince you to stay.

  Two days later, I started therapy. I had finally hit rock bottom.

  Dan (is still) the Man

  Remember where this journal began? With my (literal) cliffhanger of a trip to Ireland in July?

  Well, here we are again. Let’s pick up where we left off: a week after you left my apartment.

  Once upon a time, Grand Duke Pyotr Petrovich embarked upon a very impulsive trip to search for Fee, the Fairy Queen of Dún Aonghasa. However, upon arrival (and much to his chagrin) Pyotr discovered his beloved in the arms of an enchanting bard named Jack.

  Sigh, Sully. Sigh. That was a dark day for poor Pyotr.

  As you already know, I lost my mind in Dr. Keating’s office the following day. And as you also know, Dr. Keating suggested I return home and clean up my mess. Which I did.

  Except I didn’t start with Brooks. I started with Dan.

  That Sunday was July 8th, the sixth anniversary of the accident. I picked Dan up at his apartment sometime after nine that morning, and as we drove to Lincoln City, I didn’t waste time on small talk. Instead, I told him the full story of the accident, including Sullivan’s, you, and the thousand ways our lives have intersected over the years.

  I explained why four Highgate delegates spent junior year in Paris instead of three. Why I freaked out after Ian died. Why I ran.

  I talked about therapy and my ill-fated trip to Dún Aonghasa.

  When we reached Highway 101 in Lincoln City, I turned south to Sullivan’s. And there, in a booth at your parents’ old restaurant, Dan resumed his role as the voice of reason in my life.

  “So,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “If I’ve read correctly between the lines today, you’ve finally realized you’re an idiot. Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. One hundred percent.”

  “So now what?”

  “What do you mean? Now nothing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Did you not hear me, man? I flew to Ireland with my heart on my sleeve last weekend and found our favorite redhead tangled up with some hipster dude. If that image isn’t disturbing enough, imagine two lanky supermodels with arms and legs akimbo doing their best impression of a lovey-dovey spider. Game over.”

  Dan took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, Russell, but the so-called lanky hipster is no Drew Sutton. His name is Jack, and he isn’t some player trying to mess up your game. He was really good to Meredith, and they were happy together – so happy that I sort of assumed she’d end up with his last name.”

  Whoa. I concentrated hard on pulling in oxygen, because what? The artist-formerly-known-as-MY-best-friend was all of a sudden #TeamJack? How dare he, Sully? He didn’t even try to mask his betrayal. He just sat there watching me for a long moment, one eyebrow raised as if to say you reap what you sow, buttercup.

  But then a light bulb switched on. “Hold on a minute,” I gasped. “You said you assumed they’d get married. That Jack was good to Meredith. That they were happy. All past tense.”

  “Hey, look who’s actively listening for once in his life? Therapy looks good on you, bro.” Dan’s smirk was brutal, but his eyes were dancing behind those glasses. “For the record, Meredith called me a couple of days ago. She and Jack broke up, and from the wobble in her voice, I’d say they’re officially over.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Even if she did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s none of your business, Pete. You’re with Brooks.”

  “Are you in cahoots with Dr. Keating or something?”

  Dan narrowed his eyes. “Listen, I can see that you’re eager to fix all your problems and get your life back on track, but even if you and Brooks break up, you couldn’t possibly fix things with Meredith overnight. You really hurt her, man. A bunch of times, actually.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? Because a week ago, you flew to Ireland without an invitation, and now you’re mad at Jack, Dr. Keating, me… even Meredith for daring to love another man after you broke up with her.”

  “Didn’t you hear me, bro? We had a moment when I gave her that silver charm with her brother’s handwriting. I could see it in Meredith’s eyes! She misses me.”

  “So what if she does? Your job right now is to mind your own business. End things with Brooks, keep seeing your therapist, and focus on your life. If you’re lucky, when the time is right, a giant heart-shaped clue will drop in your lap that Meredith’s forgiven you.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like you think I should give up.”

  “Just trust me,” he smiled from across the booth. “Have I ever let you down?”

  Book report

  After I dropped Dan off at his apartment later that afternoon, I went to Darby Manor to speak to Vick. I explained all the reasons we needed to part ways, and like a pro, he gave me the business card of an American estate attorney in Paris. “I’m proud of you, son,” Vick said, squeezing my shoulder. “Your parents would be proud too.”

  It was the single most adult conversation I’ve ever had in my life.

  When Brooks opened the door to her apartment fifteen minutes later, Waffles nearly knocked me over. Aw. Sadly, all the puppy love in the world couldn’t save me from facing the proverbial music.

  “Welcome back, stranger.” Brooks shut the door behind me and wrangled Waffles away from me, nudging her aside. “Good thing my dad texted to
give me a heads-up that you’re back in town. Otherwise I might’ve keeled over from the shock.”

  Past Pete would’ve bolted straight out the door at the tone in her voice. He would have hopped on the first rocket ship headed toward the Milky Way, never to visit this galaxy again.

  But I was evolving, Sully. So I cooled my heels and gave Brooks a polite smile.

  “Do you have a couple of minutes?” I asked, gesturing toward her living room. “I’d like to talk to you, if that’s okay.”

  She eyed me suspiciously for a moment, then motioned me inside. At some point, Waffles wriggled free from Brooks’ grasp, zooming around the living room, attempting to bury me in toys as her owner and I settled on opposite sides of the couch in silence.

  “Listen,” I finally managed. “I never should have left for Paris last month without saying goodbye. I know we kept chatting and texting and pretending everything was fine, but you’re smart, Brooksie. I know you’re smart. Which is why I should have admitted the truth instead of disappearing again.”

  Her face shuffled through a series of expressions: surprise, anger, annoyance. A million little things. But one thing’s certain about Brooks Darby: she knows exactly how to distract me.

  “What is your favorite French novel?” She suddenly asked, a propos of nothing.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Come on, Pete. You’re starting graduate school, which means you obviously know your way around a literary deep dive. But I realized the other day we’ve never talked about why French Lit is your thing. So I’ll ask again: what is your favorite French novel and why?”

  “Uh… well, I have a lot of favorites, I guess. But if I had to pick one, I’d pick this one called L’Envers de L’Histoire Contemporaine by Honoré de Balzac. I think the English title is The Seamy Side of History, or maybe The Wrong Side of Paris? I don’t know. They never quite get the English titles right. Have you heard of it?”

  “I believe I can say with absolute certainty, no. Definitely not.”

  “Huh. Well, I guess that doesn’t surprise me. It’s not one of Balzac’s most famous works.”

  “Considering I’ve never heard of this Balzac person either, that’s sort of a moot point.” She scratched Waffles behind the ears. “The Steamy Side of History, huh? You’re into sordid romance novels?”

  “What? No. Just ignore the English title.” My ears burned. “Look, it’s not a romance. It’s about this grown-up orphan who squanders his family fortune trying to meet society’s expectations on his life. A fancy job, the right wife… you know the drill.”

  “I think I’m vaguely familiar with the concept, yes.”

  “Well, the next thing you know, the rich orphan’s a cautionary tale: penniless, jobless, loveless, and in need of a cheap place to live.”

  “Hmm. Where have I heard that before?” She pretended to tap her lip. “Oh, yeah. Sounds like this Balzac guy ripped off Dickens.”

  I gaped. “No, no, no, you are missing the point. See, when this orphan dude moves into his new digs somewhere near Notre Dame, he finds himself tangled up with a covert charitable society, and... hold on, I don’t want to spoil the ending if you’re gonna read it.”

  “Oh, I promise you won’t spoil a thing.” Her lips quirked upward. “But you still haven’t answered why it’s your favorite.”

  “I don’t know, really. Half the time, you feel like you’re walking down the street in nineteenth-century Paris, and the other half, you’re chasing Balzac down a tangent in the middle of his own story. But I guess I love this story in particular because you just can’t help rooting for that Godefroid kid. Despite his goofy name, he’s got moxie.”

  She smiled wistfully. “You’re never coming back to Portland again, are you?”

  Leave it to Brooks to put such a fine point on things. A long moment stretched between us where I couldn’t answer – at first because I didn’t know how to answer, and then because I did.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t say never,” I finally admitted. “I definitely won’t be coming back anytime soon, but never is a word I hate to use these days. You just don’t know where life will take you. You could be minding your own business one minute and standing in front of a long-lost friend the next.”

  The muscles in Brooks’ forehead relaxed. “Fair enough, Russell. Fair enough.”

  I reached across the empty space between us and squeezed her right hand. “If you ever find yourself standing in front of me again someday, no matter where we are, promise you’ll look me in the eye, okay? Because you matter to me, Brooks Darby. You always will.”

  She didn’t reply – not really. She just sort of smiled halfway and gave me a brief nod. The not-so-tiny puppy hopped up between us on the sofa and the three of us sat there together for a few more moments, with me scratching Waffles’ belly and Brooks scratching her ears. Twenty minutes later, I gave Duchess Waffles Von Wartburg one final pat on the head, then I walked out the door.

  This might sound weird to you, but on the plane home to Paris, I typed up a transcript of the above conversation specifically with you in mind. Maybe you don’t care how things ended with Brooks; I wouldn’t blame you for that. But the fact that you might care was enough of a reason to get the details right.

  Because the thing is, Sully, I wrote these letters in part to answer a question you’ve never asked me. Yes, Brooks and I have known each other our entire lives, and yes, we once had a connection. But I’m hoping, now that I’ve filled in the blanks, that you’ll see the difference between Brooks and you. Flying sparks are nice, but they’ve never been enough.

  Not for me, at least.

  For example, you never would have asked why I love L’Envers de L’Histoire Contemporaine. You were there with me in Promenade Parisienne the semester I first read it.

  You walked beside me the Friday we explored the rue Chanoinesse, where Balzac set the novel, right around the corner from Notre Dame. And you were the one who convinced Monsieur Salinger to join us for lunch after class so we could learn more about Balzac’s Comédie Humaine, just for funsies.

  I can’t think of anyone in the world who understands me better than you do. And now that I’ve read your novel, I know you feel the same way about me.

  I’ve got room in this notebook for one more letter. Hopefully, I saved the best letter for last.

  Night and Day

  For the next six weeks after I returned home, I visited Dr. Keating every single day. Who knew I had so much to talk about? Not me, my friend. But talk I did. And Dr. Keating listened.

  Paris emptied out in August. The whole world seemed to be on vacation except for Dr. Keating and me. When I wasn’t in his office, I explored different neighborhoods of this city I’d always loved. Don’t ask me to name a favorite. I have too many now.

  School started in September. It was weird to be in class in Paris without you and Dan and the Addison girls. Luckily, the Centre Bellechasse is right by the Musée d’Orsay, which has given me a good excuse to brush up on the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists every day after class.

  Caillebotte is still my favorite. Van Gogh, too. And sometimes Toulouse-Lautrec.

  The leaves began to change all over town before I noticed. The autumn air was crisp and smelled like… well, pollution, but the very best pollution you ever smelled in your life.

  On Sunday, October 8th, I was tying my tennis shoes to head out for a midmorning run in the Luxembourg Gardens when a FedEx delivery guy rang the buzzer downstairs.

  Who gets FedEx packages on Sundays?

  Well, me apparently. And inside, I found a book-shaped package from Dan Thomas, wrapped like a present in what looked like the remains of a paper grocery bag, with this Post-It note attached:

  Remember that giant heart-shaped clue I predicted?

  Consider it dropped, old man. The author of this book will be

  at the Centre Lafayette on Tuesday, October 16th, 11 a.m.

  Make it count, okay? I believe in you.

  -D.
T.

  I stripped the brown paper away. Inside, I found a guy and a girl twirling off the front cover of a book, the Pont des Arts in the distance behind them as twinkle lights snaked up the bare limbs of two gigantic trees framing the couple on either side.

  Night and Day. By Meredith Sullivan.

  I don’t know how long I stood there staring at your book, Sully. An hour? It took me a while to breathe. But at some point, my newly-tied tennis shoes carried me to our bridge, where I sat for a few hours reading Luke and Allie’s tale. By midafternoon, I’d relocated to our chairs in the Tuileries. And by dusk, I’d read the last line of your acknowledgements:

  And finally, to P.B.R. – thank you for giving me Paris.

  This story’s for you.

  I don’t know a lot about publishing, but what I do know is that you must have written that last line before your publisher created the advance copies they send out to bloggers or whatever. Which meant you wrote me that message before you and Jack called it quits. Why did you do that, Sully? Why would you risk everything like that?

  Maybe because Night and Day is a love letter to me.

  And now you’ve read all my love letters back to you.

  The Centre Lafayette anniversary shindig is tomorrow afternoon. Real talk: I’m scared out of my mind right now. When I walked away from you after Ian died, I never dreamed our paths would continue to cross. But Gigi was right – there are no coincidences. Maybe it’s time we figure out how to walk through this life together instead of time zones apart. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.

  Love,

  Pete

  Sunday, October 22, 3:03 am

  Dear Pete,

  Or should I call you Ellie Whitman?

  I know I’m not supposed to laugh at you when you’re being all angst-y and emo, but this second set of letters is hilariously adorable. And you, my charming friend, are adorably clueless.