A Lover's Lament

Maybe we are all monsters, created by war like some lab experiment gone wrong. Maybe I should tell her the man that took her father’s life deserves to be hanged, along with every drunk driver. Maybe I should tell her that I want nothing more than to kill him with my bare hands for hurting her, because even after all these years, she still means the world to me.

Maybe I should just be honest.

I remove a pad and pen from my duffel, and then I sit and stare at the paper, scanning my brain for the right words to say. I manage to write ‘Dear Katie’ before uncertainty takes hold again.

Closing my eyes, I picture the two of us on that last perfect night. Feeling her lips on mine, my skin against hers, and knowing that everything was going to be okay. And then the reality of it all settling in … Wyatt with his straight A’s and bloated trust fund, her father and his unattainable expectations, my inadequacies. Shaking my head, I push the memory away.

Grabbing the flashlight from my pillow, I shine it at the pad, and before I know it, the pen begins to move. I don't process every word I write; I only write from the heart. Letting the words flow out of me freely, I scrawl with feverish intent, letting truth dictate the message. For the first time in years, I let my heart take the lead.

“Sad” – Maroon 5

“HOLD UP.” MAGGIE DROPS HER fork on the plate and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You actually went through with it? You wrote him a letter?” I nod my head at the same time I shovel a bite of pizza into my mouth. “And you told him what happened and how you were feeling … and you didn’t hold anything back?” Nodding again, I reach for a napkin and she slides one toward me. “Wow,” she says, a look of disbelief on her beautiful face.

“Wow?” I ask, a little annoyed that she finds it surprising. “Why wow?”

“Why not wow?” Maggie relaxes back in her chair, giving me her patented you-won’t-win-this-argument look, and I roll my eyes. “You’ve just been so …” she trails off, biting on her lip as though she’s looking for the right word.

“Closed off?” I offer.

Her eyebrows push into her hairline and she laughs. “‘Closed off’ is one way to put it, but I was going to say bitchy. But we can go with ‘closed off’ if it makes you feel better.” I open my mouth to argue and she cocks a brow, daring me to deny it. I snap my mouth shut. “What’d you expect me to say, that you’ve been a ray of fucking sunshine? Because we both know that sure as hell isn’t the truth.”

Magdalena Garcia—aka Maggie—has been my best friend since the first day of college when she stopped me from accidentally walking into the men’s bathroom. She has been and always will be the most upfront, in your face, tell-it-like-it-is person I’ve ever met, so her boldness shouldn’t be a surprise but her words sting nonetheless. They shouldn’t—I know they shouldn’t—but they do. I’ve been a bitch of epic proportions to everyone, including her, and I’m lucky she’s put up with me for this long. I don’t really have anyone to blame but myself either, but I’m still not in the mood, not after my recent fight with Bailey.

“Don’t,” she says, waving her fork in my direction. “Don’t you dare look at me like I just kicked your fucking puppy.”

“I love you, Maggie, but I deal with this shit from everyone else in my life, and I’m not about to sit here and put up with it from you.” Pushing from the table, I drop my plate in the sink. I walk toward the living room, but she snags my arm in her tiny hand and whips me around.

“I’ve kept my mouth shut for three months.” I stare at her blankly, hoping that if she says her piece, I can get the hell out of here. Wait, we’re at my house. I need to get her the hell out of here. “That’s twelve weeks, Katie. Do you know how hard that was for me?”

I fight back a smile because it’s nearly impossible for Maggie to keep her mouth shut for longer than a minute, so the fact that she went twelve weeks is a complete miracle. “I let you fester and bitch and close yourself off because it’s what you felt you needed to do. And maybe this wasn’t the best time to say anything, but I saw something different in you tonight and …” She shrugs her shoulders and looks down.

“And what?” I ask, dropping into the seat I’d just vacated.

“When you were telling me about the soldier pen pal program—and about Devin—I saw a little part of you that I haven’t seen since before the accident.”

“Really?” She really saw that?

“Yes, really,” she says, laughing. “You smiled. Sure, you smiled at the thought of writing ‘fuck you’ to a man that’s defending our country, but you still smiled … and I’ve missed that smile.”

I knew that I was hurting everyone—hell, it was my intention. But seeing the forlorn look on Maggie’s face makes me realize, for the first time, just how far I had taken it. “Sorry, Mags,” I say, reaching my arm across the table. I wriggle my fingers, urging her to take my hand.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to kiss and make up,” she says, amusement shining in her large hazel eyes as she cocks her eyebrows suggestively. “I think you’ll need to do a little more than just apologize.” I sigh and pull my arm back. Her hand flies across the table and

snags mine. “Okay, fine,” she says with a dramatic eye roll. “I forgive you. Now tell me more about this letter. I want to know exactly what you said to Devin. I hope to hell you laid into him.”

She’s like a dog with a bone, and I should’ve known that she’d read way too much into it. “There isn’t anything else to tell.” I shrug, dislodging my hand from hers so I can steal a pepperoni off her half-eaten pizza slice. “I said my piece, opened up to him about my dad and then I pulled up my email and picked a different soldier that I’ll write to next time.”

“Except you won’t,” she mumbles dismissively. “Anyway, did you cry when you wrote it?” She takes a swig of her soda and waits for me to answer. I’ve missed this, sitting here shooting the shit with my best friend. And even though I don’t particularly want to talk about this subject, I also don’t want to lie to her.

“I did.” I nod, fighting the urge to look away. Her hand freezes midair and she blinks at me several times before slowly lifting the pizza to her mouth.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Sorry.” She swallows and then takes another drink of her soda. “You just threw me for a loop there. I thought maybe when you told me you opened up to him in your letter, it was just a fluke that you actually answered me, but then you just did it again.”

“I did.” Apparently, that’s my universal answer tonight, and surprisingly, it feels good. At first, I wasn’t sure if writing the letter was therapeutic or not. And honestly, I’m still not sure, because when I crawled into bed that night, I was nothing short of pissed off. But this seems like progress so I’ll take it.

Devin never did write me back, and initially I was sort of bothered by it. I thought for sure that he would at least reply to tell me that he was sorry, or maybe that I was a bitch and didn’t deserve the release I was so desperately looking for. It’s possible that his lack of response bothers me more than his harsh words would have, and maybe that’s because everything surrounding our falling-out is nothing but a big mystery to me.