Dear Sully

by Jill Cox

  “Blue.”

  “France or Finland?”

  “Hello! France.”

  “Tacos or burritos?”

  “Duh. Tacos for the win, forever and always.”

  The first lightning round went on for about a minute, and after ten or eleven questions, I was no longer actively thinking about anything. Then you shifted gears a bit.

  “Live off-grid or live in a mansion?”

  “Off-grid,” I answered, then laughed. “Hey! I didn’t know that about myself.”

  “I did. Break your left arm or your right?”

  “Right.”

  “Shipwrecked on an island for the rest of your life or locked in a magical castle?”

  “Island, one hundred percent. Magical castles are creepy. Plus I look better with a tan.”

  Completely fascinating, Sully. How did Julia the Intern come up with these questions? Did she find them on Pinterest? Was Julia an only child who had no friends, and therefore had time to come up with value-based questions that had no bearing in real life?

  No bearing, that is, until you asked, “Traditional wedding or elope to city hall?”

  “City hall,” I blurted. And then the apartment went as silent as the eye of a storm.

  At least it did for a couple of seconds. And then I felt your arms wrap around my waist from behind. “City hall was my answer, too.”

  Here’s the deal, Sully: I did not believe you. Everything about you screams traditional, from your good girl, rule-following vibe to the way you love your parents and school and everything in between. So when you claimed you wanted to elope, I smelled a rat.

  I turned around and pulled you toward me. “Are you just saying that because I’m a guy and you think I’m not down to plan the wedding of your dreams? Or are you telling the truth?”

  “Option B,” you answered. And when I looked in your eyes, I knew it was true.

  You grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the sofa, grabbing your little folder along the way. “I know we just got engaged,” you said as we sat down. “But I am a planner, Pete.”

  “You say that like I’m not one hundred percent aware.”

  Your cheek quirked up in a half-smile. “Yes, well, as a planner, I am also an information gatherer. Which means when I haven’t been hanging out with you, I’ve started to compile some research.”

  “I would expect nothing less.” I grabbed the folder from your hands. “Is that what you were doing earlier? You were taking notes on your research?”

  “Not exactly,” you smiled. “See, I knew that if your subconscious brain could vote, he would admit that he wanted to take the simpler route. The only question we need to answer now is when. And for the record, I’m up for it whenever you are. Well, after you fill out your part of the paperwork and we wait the mandatory forty-five days. Rules are rules, after all.”

  “But Sully, what about your mom and dad? You’re their only child now. Won’t your mom want to go dress shopping with you? And doesn’t Jamie want to walk you down the aisle?”

  Something flickered across your expression, and just like that, I understood why your traditional heart couldn’t bear the thought of planning some big ceremony. Because no, actually. You already knew that your mom and dad did not look forward to an enormous ceremony on the hillside behind the Juniper House. There would always be an Ian-shaped hole in your family, which had changed all your family plans forevermore. And as I read your expression in that moment, I realized the three of you must have talked through all the possibilities a long time before I put a ring on it.

  See, this is one of the pitfalls of navigating the world by yourself, without older and wiser parents to guide you into adulthood. I had never considered how it would feel to stand in front of two hundred guests without a single member of my family sitting nearby. How was it possible after all those months working through my stuff that I hadn’t imagined such an important moment without them?

  You must have read my thoughts, because you took the folder back, then you wrapped your fingers around mine. “You and me forever,” you smiled. “We can wait forty-five days or forty-five years. I don’t care how long it takes. Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.”

  According to Google Maps, the sixth arrondissement town hall is only ninety meters from Marie-France’s front door. Which made it pretty convenient to walk down there with you thirty-five days later.

  Yes, that is correct, Mrs. Peter Beckett Russell – thanks to your immaculate paperwork, we shaved ten days off the mandatory forty-five day waiting period. Between your dual citizenship and my family’s longstanding tax record on the rue Guénégaud, the District Six paper pushers could find no reason to postpone a mariage civile between the cutest American lovebirds that Paris had ever seen.

  A couple of hours later, right at sunset, we got married again on the Pont des Arts – just you, me, and that young priest Marie-France knows from Saint-Sulpice church.

  You wore an emerald green sundress and an ivory cardigan to both ceremonies. I wore a black suit. And my tie matched your dress.

  We stood together on the exact spot where we’d thrown our lock in the river junior year, and then we threw the keys in two years later. The same spot where my parents stood and let fourteen-year-old Pete take their picture back in the day. Where Pops and Gigi got engaged.

  You made that baby priest cry with your vows, Sully. And maybe you made me cry a little bit as well, but I’ll never admit that to anyone who wasn’t there. Because the moment you promised to be my wife, you also became my family.

  You and me. Forever.

  Emma Woodhouse

  Fun fact: did you know @ellie.whitman.123 still follows you on Instagram? I mean, you do have a few thousand followers now so you may not realize Ellie still hearts your posts. Especially the ones featuring that guy you call #GilbertBlythe.

  Major swoon avec sigh.

  So when you announced that your official book launch would be at Albertine, a French-American bookstore on the Upper East Side, my girl Ellie took note. She made a gigantic countdown poster the size of her refrigerator door, and every morning, she would X off another date until October 17th – book launch day. (Pssst. That was me. Your husband. On our refrigerator. In our kitchen.)

  Your mom and dad came, of course. And since our Brooklyn apartment was so small, we decided to celebrate by booking two rooms at the Surrey Hotel – one for them, one for us. It was only a four-minute walk from the bookstore, and hey, how often do you launch your debut novel?

  Only once, Sully. Only once.

  For weeks leading up to the launch, I kept hearing people say how calm you seemed. “Oh! Meredith! I can’t believe you already have all your bookmarks printed! You’re so organized!” Blah blah blah. Do they know you at all, Sully? Have they not seen your planner? Good grief. It was like watching the whole world looking up at the sky and exclaiming, “Oh, my! How blue!” Of course you were prepared. You’re the planner queen. But calm? Mmmmm, no.

  But as I would soon find out, your nerves had little to do with your book and more to do with the launch party itself.

  I wish I could capture the light that flooded your parents’ faces when you stepped up on the tiny makeshift stage that evening. Or the way your loopy grin shifted into a smirk when you noticed Dan’s and my #TeamLuke and #TeamJosh t-shirts under our professorial-looking blazers.

  Too bad Dan was wearing the #TeamLuke shirt and I was wearing #TeamJosh, though. Did you know there’s like five Tumblr pages dedicated to Dan as Real-Life Luke? WHAT? Do these people not recognize me? I’m your own personal #GilbertBlythe, featured regularly on Instagram as your #OTP. Your #ManCrushEveryday. We share a last name! Come on, Fans of Meredith!

  I. AM. LUKE.

  Anyway, ninety seconds into the Q&A portion of your event, I heard the tinkling of the bell above the store’s front door. Rude, I thought. This is my girl’s VERY FIRST book launch, and you want to show up fifteen minutes late? But then I noticed your face morphing into the
heart-eyed emoji, and oh, Sully. Without even looking behind me, I knew what you’d done.

  Yes, hello again, Emma Woodhouse. Up to your old tricks, I see?

  My first thought when I saw Anne was whoa. Her pretty dark curls were extra pretty, and her outfit was… well, let’s just say I couldn’t wait to watch Dan squirm.

  Except he didn’t squirm. Not immediately, at least. He just sat there beside me, cataloguing the gilded astronomical symbols on the midnight blue ceiling, oblivious to the reunion headed his way.

  I learned a long time ago never to stand in your way where Dan and Anne were concerned. So as you moved from the interview to the signing table, I decided to kick your plan into high gear. My mistake? Assuming Anne was in on your scheme.

  Oh, Emma. You are either the worst friend on the planet or the best. I still can’t decide.

  Without a single glance your way, I gestured for Dan to follow me to the back of the line.

  “Don’t you want to sit with Meredith?” he asked as his forehead creased into a question mark. “You’re the hero of her novel!”

  “Luke is the hero,” I corrected. “Besides, we have a job to do.”

  “We do?”

  “Yeah. Meredith doesn’t want the line to drag, so she asked us to hover at the back and intimidate all the people in front of us with some well-placed huffs and menacing glares.”

  He laughed. “Sounds about right. Hey, maybe we could –”

  We’d reached the back of the line by then, which is when Dan finally noticed his own personal Lauren Bacall standing alone.

  I always forget that Anne’s at least six inches shorter than you are until she’s standing right in front of my face. But that night, she seemed even smaller as she squeaked, “Pete! Hey!”

  “Anne!” I said, half-laughing as I hugged her. “Did you drive up from Boston?”

  “I took the train,” she smiled as she pulled away. Then she looked behind me. “Hi, Dan.”

  He didn’t respond for at least a few seconds… maybe longer. When I finally turned around, Dan was still ten feet behind me, his features schooled into an expression so soft that I wanted to laugh. He claimed later that he was temporarily plotting both our demises, but I saw it with my own two eyes, Sully. Dan Thomas was still loopy for his Paris girlfriend.

  Which is when I got my grand idea.

  Now look, I know you want the whole world to believe your favorite movie is Star Wars, and while I generally like to indulge your personal blind spots, I refuse to indulge this one. Because despite how cool it sounds to pretend you’re everyone’s manic pixie dream girl, your actual favorite movie of all time is You’ve Got Mail.

  It’s cool, sister. Your secret’s safe with me… says the sappy dude whose favorite movie is The Princess Bride.

  Anyway, your obsession with You’ve Got Mail reached a fever pitch after we moved to New York, and because you were the Kathleen Kelly to my Joe Fox and the Buttercup to my Westley, I had booked us a post-signing reservation for eight at Café Lalo on West 83rd Street.

  You. Me. Your parents. Agent Isabelle. Editor Angie. Dan Thomas. Plus one empty seat for the Holy Spirit.

  Actually, I don’t know why I booked the extra seat. Maybe eight’s easier to say than seven. Or maybe I just know you intuitively enough to plan ahead.

  So I put on my most charming smile and launched my plan. “Are you heading back to Boston tonight, Anne?”

  “Um, no.” She shot a quick look at Dan, who was still frozen in place. “I’m staying at the Excelsior because Meredith told me about your dinner reservations at –”

  “Café Lalo! Great!” I grabbed Anne’s elbow, steering her gently toward Dan. “Listen, could you guys do me a favor? I know my wife. She can be a little too indulgent with people’s time, and I don’t want to lose our reservations if things run over here. Do you think you could head to the restaurant and save our seats?”

  Over Anne’s head, Dan lifted an eyebrow at me. “What about getting our books signed?”

  “That’s the beauty of knowing an author personally, Danny,” I smirked. “She can sign your book at dinner. Or next week when you come over to do your laundry, if you like. Whenever, man. It’s cool.”

  He raised his eyebrow even higher. “Why is your voice squeaking, Russell?”

  Anne, who was standing with her back to Dan, simply smiled at me. “We’ll make sure nobody steals your table, Pete,” she assured me. “Just make sure Meredith knows we’re there waiting.”

  “Oh, I will,” I winked, hugging her once again. “Did I mention how gorgeous you look?”

  “Cut the charm, Russell. She already bought Meredith’s book.” Dan narrowed his eyes at me as he tugged her out of my grasp. “Come on, Anne. Let’s get out of here.”

  I watched them leave, then headed back to your table, pulling up a chair from nearby. “Well done, Emma Woodhouse,” I muttered into your ear. “Operation D’Anne Part Deux is in motion.”

  “I know,” you smiled to yourself as you scribbled your signature into a book. “Thanks for sending them out into the night. I knew you’d do the right thing.”

  “Wait, what?” I blinked. “You knew I would send them over to the restaurant without us?”

  “Of course I did. You’re ten times the romantic that I am, and Dan’s your best friend.”

  “Yeah, but… hey, did you just play me?”

  You smiled up at the person before you and thanked them for coming, then signed their book. Then you nodded to Isabelle to pause the line before you turned back to face me. “Of course I didn’t play you, Pete. I just banked on your usual behavior and made plans accordingly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that this morning, I called Café Lalo to change our reservations from eight people to two. Because as soon as the initial shock wears off, both Dan and Anne will remember that they’re both single and living in the same time zone. And all will be right again with the world.”

  And you know what? You were right, Sully. By brunch the next morning, Dan and Anne were back on track. By January, she’d moved to Brooklyn, and that April, they threw a small wedding in Anne’s parents’ backyard, six months after their reunion.

  Speedy and expeditious. Just like you and me.

  Look at us, Mrs. Russell. We’re trendsetters.

  Changle Lu

  We spent our first married Christmas back in Paris at the Guénégaud apartment with Molly and Jamie. When we invited them, I made them swear they wouldn’t bring gifts. But of course your mother ignored me, and these days, I kind of think her rebellion was providential. Because one of her gifts – a book called Street of Eternal Happiness – changed our future for the best.

  You read all three hundred and fifteen pages on the flight back to New York from Paris. For weeks afterward, you’d tell me everything the author had taught you about life in the former French Concession. Thanks to this Rob Schmitz fella, Changle Lu – the Street of Eternal Happiness – became Shanghai’s equivalent of the rue Cardinale Lemoine in Paris, where Hemingway and Hadley first lived as a young couple. At least in your mind.

  “Promise me,” you insisted. “If we ever move to Shanghai, we’ll live on Changle Lu.”

  I made that promise, Sully. And I kept it. (You’re on our balcony overlooking it right now.)

  Changle Lu, a.k.a. Changle Road, is a tree-lined boulevard with colorful old buildings on either side and million bicycles dotting the cobblestoned sidewalk. Along certain sections, it wouldn’t take much to imagine that we still live in Paris, so strong is the former French influence on the architecture.

  Our apartment is… well, if the Brooklyn apartment was miniscule, our Shanghai apartment is only just slightly less tiny. When the apartment agent brought us here that first week in town, I expected you to be disappointed. I should have known better.

  Instead of all the inconveniences, you only saw the charm. The furniture is shabby-chic, tone-on-tone white, and every slipcover is washable.
The hardwood flooring is original. And it’s in that herringbone design you love. The exposed ceiling beams seem straight out of some medieval tavern in Rouen, France.

  And the light pouring inside through the trees? “We’ll take it,” you said, without hesitation.

  Most mornings, I wake up to find you sitting on the balcony with your laptop, writing (and rewriting) a high-stakes thriller that has nothing to do with Night and Day. The new story features six linguistically-gifted individuals who function as the intellectual equivalent of the Navy Seals, if the Seals worked for Interpol. Three men, three women, each raised in a separate safe house across the globe by fifty “parents” representing the world’s fifty most popular languages, plus one coded language that only the agents know.

  There’s mayhem. There’s romance. There are irregular verb jokes and chapters full of nerdy fun.

  But, as you so often remind me, we’re not here to write thrillers or learn Mandarin, are we? We came to Shanghai to help James and Sarah Logan, whose twin girls arrived just days before we did. I figured we’d only be here a few months – organizing laundry, canvassing the train station to find new residents – but to your surprise (and my relief), you love Shanghai as much as I do.

  Two years later, we’re still here, eternally happy on Changle Lu.

  That isn’t to say that you’ve stopped finding me ridiculous. For example, remember when you asked me for a Mandarin/English dictionary for your twenty-fifth birthday? Simple and practical, right? Right. But come on, Sully. How could I disappoint Amazon’s data scientists when they offered me same-day delivery on a creepy, pointy-eared Elf on the Shelf at checkout?

  Hello, Ducky Shincracker. Welcome to the fam.

  To your credit, you humored me temporarily. When Ducky pooped chocolate kisses across our kitchen counter, you laughed. And when Ducky made snow angels in a cup’s worth of spilled flour, you found it adorable.

  But then he hung upside down from the shower head with a miniature (fake) video camera, and uh… whoops. After that, poor Ducky was banned from our flat until further notice.