Say the Word(51)

I figured when I saw him in person again, I’d know what to do. For now, my mind was too preoccupied by thoughts of a very different man to even consider what was happening with Desmond. Between my boy issues, Miri’s revelations earlier that afternoon, and the fact that I’d just reached the bottom of my final stash of Doritos and would have to restock at Swagat tomorrow, it was safe to say that my mind was spinning and I’d been through the emotional wringer. There was only one thing — besides copious amounts of Merlot — that might help at this point.

The Jamie Box.

I pulled it down from its spot on the top shelf of my closet, running my fingers reverently across the carved wood. Flopping down in the center of my bed, I laid the box gently on the comforter in front of me and slowly lifted it open. My eyes immediately caught on the framed photo of Jamie and me embedded on the inside of the lid, then moved down to take in the neatly ordered row of colorful envelopes that sat within the box itself.

The photo had been taken five years ago, when I was a sophomore in college. At the time, Jamie had lived with me in a small apartment near the UGA campus, and I’d planned my course schedule around driving him to treatments and appointments in Atlanta so he didn’t have to be alone. We’d moved away from Jackson two short days after I’d broken Bash’s heart, and we’d never looked back. I hadn’t returned for a single spring break or summer vacation because I couldn’t bear to see the love of my life look at me with hatred in his eyes.

Except for the memories that would always haunt us, Jamie and I were free of our past. Our parents called occasionally under the pretense of checking on us, though truthfully I think they were relieved to be rid of us and the responsibilities Jamie’s illness had piled on them.

And while I’d still been heartbroken two years after leaving Sebastian, you wouldn’t know it by looking at this picture. Jamie and I had been happy — staring at each other rather than the camera lens, with matching grins crossing our faces as we laughed at some ridiculous joke Jamie had cracked. A nurse had snapped the picture just after we’d received the news that his scans had come back clean. He’d been headed toward remission.

As the camera flashed and captured the frame, we didn’t know just how short-lived our relief would be. We didn’t know we’d have only a few blissful months of thinking he’d defy the odds, before the cancer would return with a vengeance. We didn’t know the struggle that lay ahead of us. And we didn’t know that two short years later, that same struggle would claim his life and take him away from me permanently.

My fingers traced the glass covering our happy faces. I missed my twin, with his endless positivity and his refusal to quit living even when he learned that his life had an expiration date a lot sooner than he’d been expecting. I missed the way he’d call me the “light of his life” when, in truth, he was really the brightest part of mine. I even missed his endless teasing, and the mischievous smile on his face whenever he’d done something to embarrass me beyond redemption.

But at least I had the box. It had been delivered to me by one of Jamie’s favorite nurses about a month after he’d died. Inside were exactly one hundred letters, each sealed with a specific directive about when or where I should open it.

For the day you receive this box.

For your first day at a new job.

For a day you’re feeling sad.

For a Valentine’s Day when you’re single.

For your first night in a new apartment.

For the first birthday you celebrate without me.

For a rainy afternoon.

For the day you get married.

For the day my first niece or nephew enters this world.

The letters’ contents were always a surprise. Most were lighthearted, meant to bolster my spirits or make me laugh. Some were full of hope, encouraging me to try new adventures or broaden my horizons. But a select few, the ones I treasured most, were both poignant and heartrending — interwoven with memories and the poetic injustice of a resilient young man forced to leave this earth too soon.

I’d opened about a third of them in the three years since I’d lost him, and read them so many times I’d nearly memorized their words. The others remained unopened, as crisply sealed as they’d been the day they were composed, waiting for their prescribed time. Occasionally, when I was really sad, I’d get the urge to tear them open all at once and devour Jamie’s words on a binge, as if doing so might somehow repair the cracks in my soul and mend the missing pieces he’d taken with him.

I never did, though. Jamie would’ve been pissed at me for ruining his carefully thought-out plans.

Today, I reached for a familiar blue envelope that sat near the front of the stack. I ignored the tear-stained, finger-smudged paper as I read the words scribed across the front.

For a day you wish my handsome mug were there to make you smile.

I pulled the thin sheet from the envelope and felt my lips twist up as Jamie’s sloping hand came into view.



Hey Sis,

Obviously, since you’ve selected this particular envelope, I’m going to assume you’ve either had a rough day or Doritos has finally decided to stop producing the Cool Ranch variety. In either case, try not to panic.

If it’s the former — rough days pass. The sun will set, the earth will rotate, and a month from now you probably won’t even care that your best friend was a bitch or you had a bad day at work.