A thought occurs to me, and I act on it before I have time to reconsider: I call a friend in LA who specializes in rare books. I tell him what I want, and I tell him to name his price, just get what I asked for delivered to me, here in River Gulch, by Sunday; I receive a promise that he’ll come through.
Drive over to the old neighborhood, halt at the mailbox—to my surprise, there’s an envelope in there already. With my name on it. Her handwriting is…magically neat.
I put my envelope for her in there, and then consider opening hers for me right now. Instead, I decide to take it home. Probably just a key, maybe a note too. But it’s something.
It’s late when I get home again. The envelope feels heavy, somehow. I sit on the edge of my bed staring at the envelope in my hands. It’s just an envelope. Four letters in blue ink. She formed the letters of my name with fancy flourishes, curlicues and long swoops and—I’d never admit this out loud even under pain of torture—my favorite part, a little heart for the dot over the ‘I.’
She’d even filled in the center of the heart with a dot of pink Sharpie.
Lame, lame, lame. I’m so lame.
Getting all sappy and giddy over a fucking heart on an envelope.
I feel an absurd compulsion to do something overly macho. Punch myself in the face. Crush a beer can on my forehead. Something idiotic like that.
Instead, I just let it wash through me, and recognize all this for what it is: I’m catching serious feelings for Delia.
The thought of not seeing her at all from now—late Thursday night on the cusp of Friday morning—all the way until Sunday? Legitimately makes my heart sink. And I can’t even escape into fantasy-land, because I promised her I wouldn’t do anything until it was with her.
I’m thirty years old. I was twelve, nearing thirteen, when I started to notice girls. Noticing that I liked looking at girls swiftly transitioned into noticing particular aspects of female anatomy made me feel funny in my swimsuit area. Like any hetero teenage boy first hitting puberty, that quickly took off into figuring out how I could get a look at what a fully developed girl looked like underneath her clothes. Turned out—fortunately for me, I felt at the time—my dad had a stash ofPlayboymagazines “hidden” in a crate in the basement. Which means I’ve been jerking off every day of my life since I was twelve. Normal, I figure. Sometimes twice a day, maybe a little less normal, but how am I supposed to know? It’s not something guys typically discuss, you know. Point being…since I discovered that looking at naked girls made my willie get big, I haven’t gone a day without it. I think back…of course there have been days spent traveling, days during college when I was in classes and cramming that there just wasn’t time or energy.
This is the only time in my life that I have voluntarily gone not merely a day, but several days, without doing that. Shouldn’t be a big deal, but…it is.
Because I’m doing itforsomeone. She asked me, so I will.
What this indicates to me is that there isn’t much I won’t do, if Delia asks.
I sigh.
Just open the damn envelope. It’s not a love letter, it’s a freaking key.
I open it, sliding my finger under the flap. Within, a 3x5 notecard with a key taped to the blank side. On the opposite, lined side, a note.
Here, her handwriting is still magically neat and garnished with fancy flourishes, but smaller, more cramped. As if rushed. As if she was putting the words down before she thought better of what was coming out on the page.
Thai,
I honestly can’t believe I’m giving you a key. I guess this means I kind of trust you, doesn’t it? Should this be such a big deal? It feels like it is. I mean, it’s not like we’re moving in with each other or anything. Just offering each other access to our homes. The thing is, Idotrust you, Thai. I’m really putting myself out here, with you. So…please, please,pleasedon’t be playing a trick on me. I couldn’t handle it if this amazing new version of you isn’t the real you. Because Ilikethis Thai Bristow.
A whole lot.
See you Sunday. In bed.
—Delia
P.s.: If you were to be sleeping naked, I wouldn’t be too mad. ;-)
I read the note until my eyes blur and the letters start swimming and the words stop meaning anything.
My throat is clogged, and my eyes burn. I’ve never really cared until now whether anyone likes me. I’ve always been perhaps a littletooconfident in myself, and in my place in the world. Friends have always come easily. Popularity was a cinch. Dell has been my best friend from birth, and I’ve never questioned that, he’s just always been there, always been my dude. Girls? Pssh. I’ve literally arranged a hookup with a girl with nothing more than a look—I caught her eyes, smiled, darted my eyes and jerked my head at the door. She’d nodded, smiling shyly yet eagerly, and that was that.
That’s the amount of effort it takes to get a girl into bed.
But beingliked?
It’s never crossed my mind.
Because I’ve been an arrogant prick. Just assuming people like me, assuming I’ll get what I want because I always do, because Ideserve it,simply because I’m me.
