Halfway to You(87)

Todd’s letter posed a question—and not just a practical, logistic one. It posed a question about who I wanted to be.

I reread his words. I suspected Todd’s intention was to be spontaneous and romantic, but I was so tired of the touch-and-go, the give-and-take.

So tired.

In past years, I might’ve melted from a letter like that, but on that warm day, I grew angry. First: Why hadn’t Todd sent this letter years ago? Second: Why was he sending it now, and what of Alison?

I couldn’t discern his tone from syntax alone, but I felt imposed upon. I wondered at the assumptions attached to his words. Did he truly expect me to come running after all this time? Was it cocky of him to think I would? Or did he see this as a hopeful gamble?

Frustration bloomed like a fresh bruise, deepening the longer I stared at Todd’s handwriting. I was sick of feeling purple and blue.

I pushed up from the stoop in a huff—disturbing the cat—and tromped upstairs to my apartment. I picked up the phone and dialed.

He didn’t pick up on the first call, so I rang again.

When he answered, I waved the letter as if he could see it. “Why did you send this?”

“Ann, it’s five in the morning here.” He sounded groggy with sleep.

“I don’t care,” I said, lighting a cigarette from the half pack Bertie had given me. I stepped out onto my balcony and sucked in a massive breath, holding the filter between my lips while I smoothed the letter on the banister. “Why did you send this?”

“You got my letter.”

“Todd.”

“I sent it because I meant it.”

“What about—”

“That ended a while ago. It was sex and no substance.”

I flinched at the word sex, then shook my head, furious at my own weakness for him.

“Look, Ann. You’re it, okay? You’re the only one I want to—”

“Don’t do that.” My fist clenched. “Don’t say that unless you’re serious, Todd, because I can’t fucking take the heartache.” After all that travel, I hadn’t bested my romanticism—it’d been in hibernation. Now, it lumbered through my chest, awake and ravenous.

“You hurt me, Todd.” I wasn’t sure which time I meant—all of it, I supposed. Venice, Greece, New York—even Lima, with Alison’s voice on the line, hope stolen.

“I know I hurt you.” He sighed. “This apology is long overdue. I should’ve been truthful with you—from the beginning. It wasn’t fair of me to keep secrets. I was selfish, and evasive, and you deserved better. I’m sorry.

“Look,” Todd continued, “I’ve tried to move past us. I really have. But the harder I try, the more certain I am that it’s impossible to forget you. What else can explain the fact that five years after our breakup, I still can’t stop thinking about what could have been? Fifteen years after our first meeting, I still crave your company? That must mean something. I know I fucked up, but I’m not ready to give up. That’s why I sent that letter. The real question is whether or not you feel the same way.”

For a long time I had no words.

He was at fault for his secrets, but hadn’t I been too careful with him? Hadn’t I had the chance to confront him, push him, stand up for myself? It didn’t excuse his behavior, but I knew I could’ve been a stronger partner. My fear of losing him had clouded my honesty, and that hurt both of us.

God, what stupid games we’d played. With each other, and with ourselves. I had grown so accustomed to chasing him that when finally he was ready to turn around and embrace me, I evaded. I wanted to correct the imbalance by pulling back, just a little, just enough, to feel like I had some control.

But that’s the thing about love. There is no control.

“It’s easier to be your friend,” I finally admitted. It was easier to chat and laugh and pretend the stakes weren’t higher than that—like surfing a three-foot wave as opposed to a tsunami.

“It is easier,” he whispered. “But doesn’t it hurt more?”

I imagined myself falling from a surfboard onto rocks versus falling into the deep. I imagined the thrill of riding a big wave as opposed to a small one. Then I stopped imagining and asked, “Why Tahiti?”

“I figured you hadn’t gone there yet. And the glass horse—”

“I remember.”

“I’m not messing around, Copper,” Todd said, his voice like warm honey. “Will you see the blue water with me?”

“I . . .” I trailed off, stubbing out my cigarette. “I have to think about it.”

“Take all the time you need.”

We hung up, and I stared at the wrinkled letter on the banister, the corner of it pinned under my ashtray. The wind rustled the nearby trees, a shower of leaves falling like a thousand what-ifs. What if we were never meant to be? What if we were? What if I stayed home and gave myself the chance to move on? What if I regretted not going to Tahiti for the rest of my existence?

If I had even a chance at being happy, it would be with Todd. No one else.





ANN


Papeete, Tahiti, French Polynesia September 1999

When I arrived in Papeete, Tahiti, the warm air pressed against me, heavy and sweet. The hiss of car engines and bugs was a constant din beyond the glass walls of the airport, punctuated by strange birdcalls. Outside, the early-morning sky was cloudy; dark swaths of purple rain clouds were interspersed with fast-moving streaks of white and sunrise pink. Plumeria perfume wafted from the taxi stand, and I breathed deeply, anticipation fluttering in my heart like a million vibrant winged insects. Beyond the steel and concrete of the city, the jungle-textured, mountainous wild loomed.