Alan adds, “Lily has support, from her friend and her sister, didn’t you tell me that?”
I nodded, “She does.”
Michelle surprises me by reaching over and putting her hand over mine before she says anything.
“Josh, some of this is on you but you need to think hard before you do anything rash.”
“Meaning?”
“Be clear with yourself if you really are going to commit to her before you go any further than trying to apologize.”
I started to respond but she held up a hand.
“It’s one thing to feel you love someone. It is another to take loving actions. It doesn’t always feel good or even feel like love. She’s been hurt enough—just be sure you’re really all in. No one can see into the future, but…just be careful with her, okay?”
I nod. I feel propelled to do something, but I don’t know where to start. I know I need to get out of here.
I stand up—remembering I’m still on call for the night. I can’t just sit here anymore. I say my goodbyes and thank them all for the dinner and for not letting me be alone.
I walk Ginger around the block, and then we take off for home. I think of all the sappy things I want to tell Lily. God why couldn’t I have been this sure a few weeks ago?
As I’m driving, I replay the night in the bar, revising it with what I should’ve said instead. I need to stop as I’m barely registering the road in front of me. Trying to distract myself with episodes of recent podcasts I’d missed, I can barely hear them over the noise in my head.
Eventually, somehow, I’ve arrived back home without much conscious awareness of driving here. After letting myself in, I sort through the stack of mail and junk by the front door to find my previous unsent letter. I read through it—and see it’s not nearly good enough. I pace the house as Ginger goes out to do her business. I’m well aware it is nearly morning, and I should sleep, but I can’t stand it any longer. The need to do something with all these feelings is overpowering any sense of self-preservation I have.
Finally, I think I know what to say. I sit down and write to Lily, this time with the intention to send it.
Dear Lily Anna,
I wrote you another letter, one that maybe I’ll show you one day, but it was essentially me working it all out. In that letter, I tell you and myself, how sorry I am; how much I didn’t mean those shitty things I said at the bar. I started to tell you how much you mean to me. I wrote about our friendship.
Our history.
Since that day, at the bar, I’ve been thinking about the last few months—the new shared history we have together: the hikes, the wedding vendors, karaoke, the diner, the clinic, my home, the Purim festival.
The truth is, I love you.
I’m sorry I’m an asshole and couldn’t see it when you needed to hear it. Not just at the bar but every time I saw you—reallysaw you—I should’ve realized.
When you are awkward, I love you. When you are happy—I love you. When you’re afraid, and I wish I could fold my arms around you and heal every hurt, every anxiety. But I am so damn proud you’d rather be your own hero—and I love you.
For every minute of every day, I love you—when you’re stubborn (yes, even then), when you can’t find your purse that’s on your shoulder, when you look lost, when you kiss me, when I kiss you, when you are determined, and when you are afraid. Every moment in between… I love you.
About what happened at the bar… I was angry at the world, and you were the person trying to soothe me with kindness, the way that you do, when I felt nothing but self-hatred. I’m so sorry.
The fact that I threw the things in your face that you have worked so hard to live with and grow in spite of—it’s unforgivable. I’m not sure that I even deserve your forgiveness. The way I shouted at you and belittled you in the bar… I may never forgive myself. Just know, please, that I’m ready to do anything it takes to prove my sincerity and my loyalty to you. To show you how much you mean to me.
I am yours.
With love,
Joshua
I look over the letter.
I hope it’s enough to let her know how much she means to me. I know I’ll suffer if she can’t give me another chance; of course I will. But more than anything, I realize the love I have for her is moving me to let her know, in this and in all things, that I’m the one who made mistakes. The idea that she should feel bad because of me is unacceptable.
“Well Ginger.” I look over at my dog, who’s peering at me with her golden eyes. “Here goes… everything.”
