Dear Scotty,
Ledger is an asshole. We’ve clarified that. I mean, the guy turned a bookstore into a bar. What kind of monster would do that?
But . . . I’m beginning to think he has a sweet side too. Maybe that’s why you two were best friends.
“What are you writing?”
I slam my notebook shut at the sound of his voice. Ledger is removing his apron, eyeing me. I shove my notebook into my bag and mutter, “Nothing.”
He tilts his head, and his eyes fill with curiosity. “Do you like to write?”
I nod.
“Would you say you’re more artistic or more scientific?”
That’s an odd question. I shrug. “I don’t know. Artistic, I guess. Why?”
Ledger grabs a clean glass and walks over to the sink. He fills it with water and then takes a sip. “Diem has a wild imagination. I always wondered if she got that from you.”
My heart fills with pride. I love when he reveals little tidbits about her. I also love knowing someone in her life appreciates her imagination. I had a vivid imagination when I was younger, but my mother stifled it. It wasn’t until Ivy encouraged me to open that part of myself back up that I actually felt like someone supported it.
Scotty would have, but I don’t even think he knew I was artistic. He met me at a time when that part of me was still in a deep sleep.
It’s awake now, though. Thanks to Ivy. I write all the time. I write poems, I write letters to Scotty, I write book ideas I don’t know that I’ll ever get around to fleshing out. Writing might actually be what saved me from myself.
“I mostly just write letters.” I regret saying it as soon as I say it, but Ledger doesn’t react to that confession.
“I know. Letters to Scotty.” He sets his glass of water on the table beside him and then folds his arms over his chest.
“How do you know I write him letters?”
“I saw one,” he says. “Don’t worry, I didn’t read it. I just saw one of the pages when I grabbed your bag out of your locker.”
I wondered if he saw that stack of papers. I was worried he might have peeked, but if he says he didn’t read them, for some reason I believe him.
“How many letters have you written him?”
“Over three hundred.”
He shakes his head in disbelief, but then something makes him smile. “Scotty hated writing. He used to pay me to write his reports for him.”
That makes me laugh, because I wrote a paper or two for him when we were together.
It’s weird talking with someone who knew Scotty in a lot of the same ways I knew him. I’ve honestly never experienced this before. It feels good, thinking about him in a way that makes me laugh instead of cry.
I wish I knew more about Scotty outside of who he was with me.
“Diem might grow up to be a writer someday. She likes to make up words,” Ledger says. “If she doesn’t know what something is called, she just invents a word for it.”
“Like what?”
“Solar lights,” he says. “The kind that line sidewalks? We don’t know why, but she calls them patchels.”
That makes me smile, but it also makes me ache with jealousy. I want to know her like he does. “What else?” My voice is quieter because I’m trying to hide the fact that it’s shaking.
“The other day she was riding her bike, and her feet kept slipping on the pedals. She said, ‘My feet won’t stop flibbering.’ I asked her what flibbering meant, and she said it’s when she wears flip-flops, and her feet slip out of them. And she thinks soaking means ‘very.’ She’ll say, ‘I’m soaking tired,’ or, ‘I’m soaking hungry.’”
It hurts too much to even laugh at that. I force a smile, but I think Ledger can sense that stories about a daughter I’m not allowed to know are ripping me in two. He stops smiling and then walks to the sink and washes the glass. “You ready?”
I nod and hop off the table.
On the drive home, he says, “What are you going to do with the letters?”
“Nothing,” I say immediately. “I just like writing them.”
“What are the letters about?”
“Everything. Sometimes nothing.” I look out my window so he can’t read the truth on my face. But something in me makes me want to be honest with him. I want Ledger to trust me. I have a lot to prove. “I’m thinking about compiling them and putting them into a book someday.”
That gives him pause. “Will it have a happy ending?”
I’m still looking out the window when I say, “It’ll be a book about my life, so I don’t see how it could.”
Ledger keeps his eyes on the road when he asks, “Do any of the letters talk about what happened the night Scotty died?”