Dirty Letters(5)

“No.”

“Nuts?”

“I was going to say vulnerable.”

Doc turned his attention to a bird that had landed on the bench across from us. He immediately brought the binoculars to his eyes. “A northern cardinal!” He turned to me. “Do you know what they say about cardinals?”

“What?”

“They’re messengers from our loved ones who have passed. Perhaps you might want to ponder what our little red friend might be trying to tell you at this very moment, Luca.”



We stayed in New York for five days before the long ride back to Vermont.

Walking into my precious house—my safe haven—after being away for so long brought me a great deal of comfort.

I’d picked up my pet pig, Hortencia, from a local farmer who agreed to watch her. How does a homebound girl end up with a pet pig, you ask? Well, a couple of years ago, there was a fire at a farm down the road from my house. When I’d heard about some of the animals dying, naturally it triggered me. Doc thought it would be a good exposure exercise to visit the site of the blaze. When I had, I learned that not all the animals had died. Some of them were still there, housed in a temporary barn. When I looked into my pig’s eyes, I basically saw myself: a sad, lonely being. She’d probably lost her best friend, too. So I did what any person who’d found her soul mate would do: I took her home. Ever since, she’d been like my child, definitely spoiled. Since I never planned to have kids, I figured I could get away with treating her as such.

As I tried to get back in the routine of being home, I continued to be haunted by Griffin’s letter.

You suck.

You suck.

You suck.

He was never one to mince words, but after all this time—that was harsh.

It felt like I should want to cry over this, but I couldn’t actually cry anymore. In fact, Doc and I often joked about the fact that I was incapable of shedding tears. He’d urged me to try to cry, to let everything out, but I never could—not since the accident. Not even when my father died.

Venturing down to my basement, I went in search of the plastic-covered container that I’d put Griffin’s old letters in—I’d kept them all.

Maybe if I could somehow reconnect with him by rereading one or two, that would help me decide whether or not I should write him back. Responding to his abrasive letter could be opening a massive can of worms. It might be better to let sleeping dogs lie, to let my memories of him remain mostly positive. I supposed responding could also bring me some much-needed closure, even if he never wrote me back again.

Opening the container, I closed my eyes while selecting one. I didn’t want to manipulate fate by choosing a particular letter to read. I just picked one at random.

Upon recognition of the date, I realized it was one of the older ones, from when we were probably about ten.

Dear Luca,

How have you been?

I feel sad because my mum and dad told me that they are getting a divorce. They said it’s not my fault.

How was your dance recital? Did you get flowers after, like you wanted? I would send you some if I had money. It costs a lot to send things to America.

I wrote you a song. It starts like this:

Luca. Luca. Luca.

I want to buy you a bazooka.

I’m not done yet. Looking for more words that rhyme with Luca.

Later, gator,

Griff



Clutching the letter to my chest, I thought about the image of him I had in my head. Somewhere in the box was the one picture of himself he’d ever sent me. When we were around twelve, we broke the unofficial “rules” and finally exchanged photos. I’d chosen one where I was dressed up for a dance competition, wearing makeup and with tap shoes on. He’d sent me a photo of himself standing in front of some building in London. At that age, I was just starting to be boy crazy. It definitely surprised me to learn that Griffin, with his big brown eyes and dark hair, was quite the cutie.

I’ll never forget what he’d written back to me after receiving my photo.

Turn this letter around for my reaction to your photo on the back.

And then when I did, it said:

Wow, Luca. You’re really pretty!

I don’t think I had ever blushed so much in my life. That was the first moment it hit me that maybe my feelings for Griffin could be more than just platonic. Of course, I’d kept that thought deep inside because it wasn’t like anything could have happened given the distance between us. Neither of us had the money to fly to see each other. The distance only made it easier, though, for us to open up to each other.

Remembering the words of that sweet young version of Griffin and comparing them to the harsh ones I’d received a week ago was a tough pill to swallow. Still no clearer on whether to contact him, I pulled out another letter.

This one, according to the date, was from when we were probably around fifteen or sixteen.

Dear Luca,

I’m gonna tell you a secret. Don’t trust boys. Like ever. We’ll tell you anything to get into your pants. And then when we do, we’ll blow it—literally—in like two seconds.

Okay . . . you can trust me, but no other guys. (And that’s only because I’m far away and can’t try anything anyway, otherwise I might not trust me, either.) Anyway . . . I had sex. I guess maybe you figured that out already.