What happened between us, especially physically, has never happened to me, before or since. Yes, you took a lot and I realize that it was partly my fault and I don’t regret anything. I don’t even know why I’m telling you. I sure didn’t mean to. But I don’t want you to harbor any doubt.
I also hope that it was something special to you and that you are being honest when you said you’d not told anyone or done anything since. Otherwise it was a waste.
I better shut up! This is probably the most I’ve ever let you know of what I think . . .
I’m very serious when I say that I’d love for you to write me.
By the way, if you’re ever down by my house there’s always something waiting for you . . . a big kiss and hug.
Tim wrote back, a pithy ditty telling me to move my fridge so I didn’t get fat. I didn’t lose heart. I tried again ten days later. I wasn’t so emotional that time, though. Not until the end. Tim had noticed the signature on my Christmas card.
It had intrigued him enough that he’d sought me out.
I signed my second letter, Love Always, Tara
I’d seen one of Chum’s prior girlfriends sign a letter to him that way once. It had touched me to the core. A vow of undying love. It meant everything.
I wrote to Tim again on Valentine’s Day. Not so much about my daily life this time. Spring break was coming up, and I had really high hopes that Tim and I would see each other then.
I’d made up my mind. If he agreed to see me, I was going to do everything I could to get him into the backseat of his car and finish what we’d started that night on Maple Street.
So I put my heart out there a little more. Not so much that I scared him off. But enough for him to know that I wasn’t playing around.
I keep thinking back to last Valentine’s Day—I was such an ick—and you sent me that card.
That was when I’d thought I was pregnant. And he hadn’t told me he loved me. I’d had such high hopes that I’d get a ring for Valentine’s Day . . .
I’m really sorry for the hard times I’ve given you. I’m paying for them now, though. I feel awful about it.
Be a good boy.
Remember I love ya, Tara
He’d told himself that seeing Tara over Christmas break had been a good thing. Yes, she was his first love, and as such she’d always have a part of him, but he’d left her house and he hadn’t fallen apart. He kept telling himself that all was good, that he’d moved on, as he wrote back to her over the next couple of months. They were friends. And that was fine.
He could tell himself anything. The truth hit him in the face when he got her Valentine’s Day letter. Wearing his usual smile, his heart filled with “letter from Tara” lightheartedness, he opened the envelope.
His heart was pounding. His emotions churning. He was . . . outraged. Or something. It was the closing that got him. Remember, I love ya. My God, she said it, she wrote the words. Not just, Love ya. Or Lots of Love. She’d put the I there this time. Made it personal. He had evidence.
And then the nagging voice inside of him stopped him. This was Tara. Maybe she didn’t really mean what he thought she wrote. A girl could love someone like a brother and not be in love with him. There was a big difference.
He added the letter to the others in his locked box. But those words at the bottom of that page caused him great angst.
They wouldn’t let go of him.
What in the hell had she meant?
He was just going to have to be direct with her. There’d be no more cat and mouse. Too much was at stake.
February 20, 1979
Dear Tara,
Hi, how are you? Received your letter today. Was glad to hear from you. I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’m still seeing Emily and I think it’s safe to say that I love her more than last time I wrote you. We’re making plans together, maybe marriage in a couple years.
He wrote that deliberately. That should send a message to Tara. Either tell me you’re sorry you broke up with me and want me back or let me go. But then he told her that Emily was still kind of hung up on an ex-boyfriend, too. Before he messed up too badly, he got to the point.
Tara, I’m not sure how you meant that “I love ya” you wrote at the end of your letter. It seems weird seeing it, because you never did before. Let me ask you this. What was the extent of your feelings for me? I just want to know if you really did care? Please tell me honestly. Because I sometimes get the feeling no one could really love me, that there’s always something better. Do you know what I mean?