And then you came.
Defiant, infuriating, and completely out of my control.
You stirred me to savagery at a time when nothing could move me at all.
You must understand, Len, that hate is nature’s most flawless drive. It is infinitely renewable, reusable, and fuels people far better than love. Think about the number of wars that started because of hate, and the number that started because of love.
One.
There was one war in the history of the world to start upon the legs of love.
It was the Trojan War, and it was Greek mythology.
Which brings us right back to zero.
That’s the logic I worked with, and fuck, did it do the trick.
I hated you because I had to feel something for you, and the opposite of hate was out of the question. Not on the goddamn table. Falling in love with a girl who hated me, who thought I was a monster who killed jellyfish and had been involved with a middle-aged man? No, thank you. Your face alone made me feel defanged, so I had to get creative. To bite harder.
We were an unfinished business, personal and always walking the tightrope between love and hate.
But we were always something, Len.
We will always be something.
You might move on and marry someone else, have his children and get your happily ever after, but you will never be completely done with me. And that’s the small chunk of mirth I allow myself. That’s my half of the brownie. That’s my one, perfect summer moment in the South of France, watching the face of the girl I will love forever for the very first time.
Because, Lenora Astalis, this is love. It’s always been love. Love with many masquerade masks, twisted turns, and ugly truths.
I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but I’ll be wishing you were there.
The internship has always been yours.
I blackmailed Harry for it at age thirteen, in the darkroom. Since your father was the deciding voice, I convinced him I’d give him something in return. You were always Alma’s favorite. She chose you, but Harry and Edgar were the majority.
And so, it feels fitting that because the internship should have gone to you, you are going to show your sculpture at Tate Modern.
It is worthy and beautiful, just like you.
I wish I were strong enough not to do what I need to do.
I wish I could get the girl.
Because, Len, you are her.
You are that girl.
My safe place.
My asymmetric happiness.
My Edgar Allan Poe poem.
You are my Smiths, and my favorite fantasy book, my brownie, and summer vacations in lush places. There will never be anyone else like you.
And that’s exactly why you deserve someone better than me.
Love,
Vaughn
The weeks leading to the exhibition had been so busy, I was sometimes surprised I didn’t forget to breathe. I certainly forgot to eat and sleep.
Papa and Poppy stuck by my side throughout, taking time off from their own schedules to assist me. It’s like they could see the hole Vaughn had left in my heart when he packed his bags and vanished. Neither of them talked about him. He just hung in the pregnant air, suspended by strings of cruel hope and tragic impossibility. Heartbreak had a taste, and it exploded in my mouth every time I tried to smile.
I worked on autopilot, putting the last touches on my assemblage piece. I’d met with curators, designers, and the exhibition coordinators. I’d signed contracts and smiled for cameras and explained my work to people who oooh-ed and ahh-ed. I’d interviewed, along with Pope and other young artists, with magazines, local newspapers, and even the BBC.
Pope visited me every other day, his face marred with paint and triumph.
His piece was good.
Real good.
We’d share a kebab and drink Irn-Bru and crochet our plans for the future. The theme for the exhibition was the most promising young artists in the world, and I was excited to be included. Although no matter how much Papa assured me I’d earned my place fair and square, doubt gnawed at my stomach every time I looked at my piece.
I wasn’t supposed to be a part of the exhibition.
I was a last-minute replacement, second best, a fill-in.
And it wasn’t the only reason my stomach always felt hollow.
Three days after Vaughn tore me to pieces with his letter, the news came out that Harry Fairhurst had committed suicide in his St. Albans mansion.
His death was met with cold, unnerving silence from his colleagues, close friends, and fans. Shortly before he was found dead in his bathtub, swimming in a pool of his own blood, some past and current students at Carlisle Prep had plucked up the courage to come forward and call him out for his sexual abuse.
Dominic Maples, a current senior, had led the petition against him.
Apparently, the posters I’d hung everywhere, combined with a traumatic experience involving my uncle, encouraged Dominic’s decision. He explained in the news that there was something sinisterly liberating about watching Fairhurst’s face on paper poked, dented, and smeared in paint, almost beyond recognition. It made him look less powerful, human. It occurred to me that many mortals were burdened with the false status of a god, and almost none of them enjoyed the power that came with it.