AUGUST 17, 10:13PM
My body is waterlogged and weary,
heavy and caged.
Every conversation with you held me captive.
Each moment led to certain surrender.
I was your submissive, your prisoner.
You, my demise disguised as my saving grace.
Spending the remainder of the summer without Joey makes me feel like there’s a drought in my life.
I’ve almost sought refuge from the thirst by running back into his arms.
But I know, despite how brutally I miss him, I need to stay away from him.
And as much as I wish I had my sisters to turn to, I just don’t. Part of it is due to their overall absence. Part of it has to do with our blow-up, which led to some serious questioning and hurt feelings on my end.
I’ve been keeping to myself lately. I ripped my head from the clouds, violently, and started viewing life and every aspect as what it is, not what I want it to be.
It’s difficult, altering your way of thinking. I’ve tried to bury my desire for getting what I want. I’ve tried to accept that sometimes, things just aren’t how you want them to be.
I’m also learning that if you want things to change, you have to sometimes shake them until they do. Until some sort of fruit falls from the tree. Even if it’s rotten.
Even in my anger and hurt and disappointment, I’ve been clinging to Sophie’s advice. This notion that I can create my future, piece it together until everything I see fits.
After I came down from the peak of Mount Pissy, I went searching for my old journals again. And I found them. They were buried at the bottom of a box marked Kitty’s Random Stuff. I shook my head at how unoriginal it was, the irony of the box holding a writer’s life’s work, wondering if the handwriting was my own.
I wasn’t surprised that I covered the journals with other, less meaningful things. Children’s books, yearbooks, silly drawings I made as a kid that my sisters wouldn’t let me throw out. They liked the nostalgia of it all, I think, and holding onto that part of my childhood for as long as they could.
It was another reminder that I have always been hiding this part of myself, always afraid that I would never measure up to what I thought was good enough. Skilled enough. Poetic enough.
I burned the fear away, tried to banish the voice that convinces me I’m not good enough. It’s still there, but I ignore it now. The less power I give it, the less it has over me.
I dug through journal after journal, searching for old poems that I could be proud of today when I couldn’t find it in myself to feel it back then.
To my surprise, between a handful of pieces from my early teen years and what I wrote over the last two years, there were enough for a decently sized poetry collection.
Over eighty pieces, varying in length and emotion, that I’ve since been compiling into a word document on my laptop.
Perks of being part of the book world have shown me that I’m not as lost as I always thought I was. Thanks to a bunch of indie authors I follow, and authors we have relationships with because of our bookstore, I know there’s an entire world of self-publishing out there that will grant me the space and freedom to publish my words exactly as I want them.
One day, I might try to go the traditional route. But right now, I know in my heart that this is the road I want to travel on.
And regardless of the outcome, I will have done it on my own. I don’t care how many copies this book sells. I don’t care if it doesn’t sell a single one, to be honest.
All I care about is proving to myself that I could do this, and so I did.
My train of thought is interrupted by a soft knock on my bedroom door and I wonder which of my sisters it is, or if it’s both.
“Come in,” I call.
And I don’t close my laptop. If they want to see how my pain transformed over the years, the shape it took in the form of poetry, I’ll let them.
I swing around in my chair and see Lucy’s slender frame in the doorway.
“Do you have a moment?” she asks.
“For you? Always,” I say. Because despite my disappointment, my immense love for her could never disappear.
She comes in and sits on the edge of my bed, and her hands aren’t empty. “I wanted to apologize for keeping the letters from you. It was never my intention to make you feel helpless or that I wasn’t confident in your decision-making skills.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, meaning it. “I know you guys always want the best for me. I know it even when I’m angry at you.”
“And I appreciate that,” she says. “But there’s more.” She holds up her hands with the items in it.
Another bouquet of flowers.
Another letter.
“He keeps sending them,” I tell her. “I’ve stopped checking the mailbox.”
“I noticed.” She places the items on the bed. “I’m sure you’re aware that I was never a huge fan of Joseph Madden.”
“You don’t say,” I tease, with a grin. “And I’m sure you know I never blamed you for that.”
She smiles, and just like that, things are easy between us again. Then, her face gets solemn again. “I think I learned love from novels. And a love that ended earlier than anyone anticipated. Before I had a chance to pay attention to the balance of flaws and imperfections.” She sighs and presses her palms into her thighs. “You two are human and mistakes will be made. My main concern is your happiness.”
My heart swells in my chest at what sounds like a personal blessing from my older sister. For my choices, even if they may be potential mistakes in the making. “Lucy,” I whine, walking over to her. I sit on her lap and throw my arms around her, hugging her with a gentle squeeze. “That means so much to me. Thank you.”
“Yes, well, I’ve been learning a lot of lessons about judgment and forgiveness these days.”
I wrinkle my face, wondering what she means.
Is this the same closed off Lucy that hardly lets anyone in her world?
Is there something I’m missing?
She taps my leg before I can say anything else. “Okay, up you go. I have a few things to take care of myself.”
I rise from her lap and she takes my hands and kisses them both.
“Goodnight. I’m always proud of you,” she says.
“I’m always more proud of you,” I say, smiling, just before she winks at me and closes the door.
And I’m left standing there, alone, staring at the flowers and letter. I pick up the flowers and inhale the fresh, floral scent of the mixed bouquet. Then, I pick up the letter, turning it over and over in my hand.
But I still don’t have the strength to read this one, or any other yet.
I know it will hurt too much.
25
AUGUST 26, 7:18PM
I finish what must be my hundredth fucking letter to Kitty in the last few weeks and put my pen down. I know I need to read over this one, at least twice. Kitty holds on to words, finds hidden meaning in almost every damn thing, even when there isn’t any. I used to think it was a quirk. Now, I just want it to go away so it can make this even the slightest bit easier.
I feel like I’m losing my mind. I don’t think anyone responds well internally to being ignored. And maybe externally, depending on the level of crazy in the individual.
I light up a cigarette and smooth out the paper in front of me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and my heart starts beating a little faster. Each time it vibrates, or dings, I snatch it at the speed of light hoping that by some off chance, it might be Kitty.
But it never is.
Tonight’s no different as I see Mickey’s name lighting up the screen. I send him to voicemail—again.
I already told him, I’m done with the fucking favors. Done with the payback bullshit, in every sense. He told me they all think I’ve gotten soft, that I’ve given my whole life up for one pussy. It didn’t sit well with me. Old habits die hard but hot tempers d
ie even slower.
I may have threatened him with a crowbar and told him that he and every other excuse for a “man” who refers to women as merely pussy need to grow the fuck up and find a woman worth changing for. Then I called them a pitiful bunch of fucks who get hard off mental circle jerks they naïvely mistake for brotherhood.
Maybe I can get away from the violence, but it’ll always be in me somewhere. Maybe anyone saying anything remotely bad about Kitty just brings it out of me.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and ash my cigarette, then stare at the letter and my chicken scratch handwriting.
Kitty,
For a petite little thing, you sure are vicious. I mean that in the nicest way possible. Fuck, I’m already starting this one off wrong. I just meant that it’s one of the things I’ve always loved about you. Your intensity, your ferocity. Your loyalty, to yourself above anyone else other than your family. Come to think of it, every single thing I love about you, that you are so firm and unwavering in, is also part of why you probably won’t even read this.
I don’t know if you’ve ever read any of the sorry letters I sent you, or if you’ll read this one now.
I can’t say I like it, but I can say I respect it.
I will never pretend I didn’t ever give you at least one real reason, if not an infinite amount, to cut me loose. But I also can’t say I’ve ever stopped trying to give you at least one real reason to accept me back into your life. In any way you would have me.
I’ve begged for friendship, for even a fighting chance to be your acquaintance at some point. I’ve begged you to at least let me be someone you might see on the street and say hello to one day. I’ve begged for anything other than hatred. Because you are the single person in this world that I can’t even stand the idea of hating me.
And that’s the truth. In fact, it’s the only truth I know at this point. Sounds pitiful, doesn’t it?
But I guess that’s what it feels like, meeting the love of your life and then feeling that crippling absence every day that they’re gone.
To every letter, every miserable attempt at reaching you, I’ve received silence. A smarter man would have taken a hint by now and let you go. But a wiser man would have learned how to keep you in the first place. And not only keep you, but keep you happy.
And, to be honest, Kitty, I would settle for whatever you want just to have the chance to see you smile again. Even if it would kill me inside. But I can shoulder that burden. It’s only fair. My shoulders are broader than yours, remember?
What I can’t seem to accept, though, is letting you walk out of my life forever.
I know I’ve apologized a million times by now, for a million different things. For every way I’ve failed you. For every single time I ever disappointed you. For every time you cried because of me. For my carelessness, with you. For being the guy you didn’t need but somehow the one you wanted. For fucking that all up, royally.
I won’t lie. I don’t ever want to stop trying to win you back. But, you’re the writer here, not me. I don’t have a way with words the way you do. And there are only so many different ways I can say I’m sorry before I have to accept that you just don’t want to hear it.
So this will be my last letter to you. I can only respect your decision to distance yourself from me again. I just hope you never let me, or any other guy, change that beautiful heart of yours. I hope you never let anyone make you feel like you’re anything less than fucking perfect. And I hope you continue making it hard for everyone in this shit world to get your attention, because for what it’s worth, they should all be fighting for it.
I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate it more when I had it. But I’ll always want it back.
PS. You better go back to that place to read your poetry again. And even if you don’t, just know that my spotlight will always be on you, Kitty.
I love you.
-Joey
I put my cigarette out and exhale, knowing for certain that this letter is likely pointless. If she hasn’t responded to the others, what would make this one any different? But, I never said I was smart. I’m just an idiot who’s not only lost the girl once, but twice, and maybe for good this time.
I fold the letter and put it in the envelope, licking it shut, knowing that even if she doesn’t respond, if she at least reads it—even just this one—then she’ll know how I feel about her.
I put it in my pocket and head outside to get the bike situated. I’m sure by now everyone on her street is sick and tired of hearing my motorcycle coming and going. But fuck them. It’s not about them.
After I cruise the near fifteen minutes to reach her place on the lake, I take a deep breath and slip the letter in the mailbox, closing it before riding away from the Bordeau household.
As I turn around to watch Kitty’s house fade in the distance, I wonder if I’ll ever travel down this road again.
26
SEPTEMBER 2, 7:47AM
A band-aid on the dam.
Gauze for this aching wound.
A smile plastered on my face
that holds nothing more than
pretending to be happy without you.
Is it convincing yet?
Everywhere it follows you,
the absence shadows me, too.
I run from it on the sand,
search for it in the water,
hold it close at night when I’m missing
your warm breath against my neck.
I’ve let myself get lost in this drunken cloud sway,
in this boring life without you,
but I still keep you with me
every day.
Today’s the big event at the bookstore, the one we’ve dubbed “Labor of Love: End of Summer Signing”. We have a few big-name authors showing up to sign their books for readers, and poets coming to read; and I can’t wait.
Watching the faces of readers as they meet their favorite authors, the looks on their faces, the tears in their eyes, the way they gush and laugh and hug and love, it’s beautiful. It’s inspiring. The way words can bring people together. The way they can captivate and hold you, move you. The way they can make you love an author you don’t even know. The way they can make you feel like you do know them, like you are made from the same stuff.
Books are so personal.
Words are so unique to each person’s experience, their view on life.
I can only hope to have any one of those effects on readers one day. I can only dream of having any readers at all.
But still, I can dream.
I’m getting the stacks of books in order at each table for the appropriate author. Lining up an assortment of sharpies, pens, and glitter pens for their choosing. Some of the authors have shown up, checked in, and left to get coffee before the chaos begins. But the whirring of excitement is already in the air. The energy that Bordeau Books is about to hold. It’s magical.
Just as I start setting up and straightening chairs in front of the tables for the audience, for the poetry reading portion that will come first, I hear the familiar sound of a motorcycle pulling up out front.
Sophie and Lucy are busy tending to other things, but they both hear it too, and they look at me with confusion and questions on their faces.
“What is he doing here?” Sophie asks. “I told him not to come back here.”
“Wait, what?” I ask her. “When was he here?”
“Forget about that. Why is he here now? This event is too important to have him screw it up,” Sophie says.
“I don’t know why he’s here,” I say.
And just as I think I’m going to have a heart attack, I hear him say my name.
“Kitty.”
I turn around and he’s just stepped inside, looking slightly breathless.
I walk over to him, trying to appear calm, when inside my emotions are so conflicted that I feel like passing out or disappearing would be easiest. “Let’s go talk outside,” I say, grabbing his arm.
“No,” he says, stopping me. “What I have to say to you, I want your sisters to hear too. And I have something to say to them.”
“Okay,” is all I can manage to say.
I step back from the closeness of him, his body heat. The scent of his body wash is too dangerous. And having him here, feeling him here, it’s obvious in the way my body is reacting to him that I still have a weakness for him. Too many weaknesses.
Seeing him now makes me afraid that I might always willingly choose the weakness if it means I can keep him.
He rubs a hand on his head like he’s searching for what to say.
“Wait, were you guys seeing each other this whole summer since we’ve been back?” Sophie asks. “Were you keeping this from us?”
“Oh, don’t act like she’s the only sister here with a secret,” Joey says to her, pointing at her. “I saw you with that guy, on the beach. Who’s he? Kitty never mentioned you were seeing someone.”
I look at Sophie to see her reaction, but she just scratches her neck as her eyes widen like she’s been busted.
“What guy?” Lucy asks her. Then she shakes her head and looks back at Joey. “That’s not important right now. You have five minutes, Joseph,” Lucy says. “We have too many things to prepare.”
“All right, all right,” he says. Then, he looks at me. “Kitty, I don’t know if you’ve been getting my letters. I don’t know if you’ve been reading them, or just ignoring them altogether. I don’t blame you either way. I just wanted to tell you face-to-face, that what happened was not a choice I felt I had.”
He goes on to explain the circumstances. How he owed the club residual favors for his permitted and peaceful exit from it. He tells me—and my sisters—exactly what happened. How it transpired.
How when the cop pushed his face into the ground with his boot he thought of me and how this would hurt me, and us. He speaks of the instant regret in his gut. The desire to take it back and make different choices. How he wishes he never agreed to owe them a single thing.
And how he told them that was the last time he would do anything even remotely illegal for them.
Ruin Me: The Summer of Secrets: Part 1 Page 9