Dear Andrew,
My whole body aches as if I’m coming down with the flu. According to Monica and Mallory though, it is simply a standard case of broken heart. You see I wouldn’t know that because this whole experience is new to me. No man has shattered my defenses like you did.
For twenty-three years, I never understood why my friends would come to me crying, saying they were going to die because their boyfriends left them. I chalked it up to overactive hormones but now that I’m in their shoes, it has become clear. You really do feel like you’re going to die or at least you feel like the world has been leeched of color. God, I sound overdramatic, don’t I? It’s your fault for turning me into this person. It’s your fault for a lot of things. I’m so mad at you, Andrew, my hands are curled into tight balls when the sun rises. I’m also sad because you aren’t sleeping next to me. Who knew the five stages of grief applied to an array of tragedies?
Excuse the randomness of this letter. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since my 1986 Honda cruised off the used car lot back in Detroit. Since there isn’t a stereo and only a tape deck, the nice sales guy loaned me a couple of tapes. Tina Turner kept my company along the confusing number of freeways I had to navigate. One song in particular, ‘I Don’t Wanna Lose You,’ was played on repeat. My mother would have a heart attack if she heard that. She raised me listening to Aretha Franklin and thought Tina Turner was too whiny.
I’m currently in St. Louis at a run down motel called the Seashore Inn, which is weird because it’s nowhere near water. Although, my room does have a beach theme. The walls are colored this awful foam green and the woven sea grass headboard smells like a moldy sponge. You would laugh at the singing fish above the TV, but let’s be honest. If I were with you, we wouldn’t be staying here. It was obvious when we were (the past tense still doesn’t sound right to me) together you liked your luxuries. Fancy car, big loft apartment, and an art studio with million dollar views, yet your personality didn’t match up. You are an enigma, Andrew.
Remember that time we were lying in bed, legs entwined and you told me that the moment I walked up to your table at the strip club it was fate intervening? That I was the girl you were destined to be with. Did you really believe that? Because sometimes I would catch your eye across a crowded room and think the same thing. Man, did I love you, still do.
Love. It’s an emotion that has the power to destroy you or lift you up. Right now, it’s ripping me to shreds, but you already knew that. As I sat down to write this letter, your name lit up my call screen. You have rung a half dozen times since yesterday morning. I haven’t picked up any of them. I can’t—not when you are my drug, my salvation. When it comes to you Andrew, I’m weak.
Monica encouraged me to change my number but then my only connection to you would be cut off and then this nightmare would become real. I guess that is why I’m writing this ridiculously long note. It’s my way of staying close to you. After all, you were the one who said you preferred old fashion letter writing. Although, I know I’ll never send it. I don’t want to run the risk of Camilla reading my word vomit.
Camilla. Her name makes me want to a punch a wall. At night, thoughts of you together keep me up till dawn. If I could wish on a thousand stars that our paths had crossed earlier, I would because then maybe you would have married me instead of her. Playing the ‘what if’ game won’t do anything, I know that, but a girl can dream.
It has been thirty-six hours, nine minutes, and twenty-five seconds since I left you kneeling in the snow.
Goodnight,
Haven
Dear Andrew,
I almost fucked a random stranger in the restroom of a dive bar off highway 44 near Santa Fe, New Mexico. The old me would have and not batted an eye. The itch was so strong that my skin crawled. Everybody has their own vices. For some it’s chocolate, for others it’s alcohol, for me its sex—or it was sex. My last one-night-stand was December 9 th , 2012. It wasn’t anything partially exciting nor something I want to revisit. From that day forward, I’ve stuck to cheesy romantic comedies and pasta. Last night though, carbs couldn’t erase the numbness that has sunk into my bones, only carnal pleasure could.
He was the opposite of you, Andrew. Salt and pepper hair, jeans that hugged his muscular thighs and snake skin cowboy boots. A hat was pulled low over his eyes that were the color of a summer sunset. He introduced himself as Barret in a timber voice. I lied and said my name was Ashley because in that moment, I wanted to be Ashley. A young woman who just graduated from Oklahoma State University with a degree in social work and was driving cross-country to visit her family in California. She was peppy, like a cheerleader with an adorable naïveté that Barret fell for, hook, line and sinker. It felt good for that hour to shed my old skin, become somebody else. When he first approached, I had little interest. Older men aren’t my type.
“What are you drinking?” he drawled, glancing at my amber filled glass.
“Scotch, neat.”
“Rough day?”
“Something like that,” I replied shortly. My body turned toward the door, away from him. “If you will excuse me, I’m busy.”
“Of course.”
He tipped his wide brimmed hat and departed to a booth in the corner. I was taken aback by how easy it was to get rid of him. I had gotten used to your tenacity and forgot not all men are like you. As the scotch burned a hole in my stomach, an aching loneliness washed over me. I missed you with every cell in my body. I missed your laugh, your smile, and the way you said my name. That was what spurred me to down another shot. Four sheets to the wind, my feet jumped off the barstool and over to the man known as Barret. We chatted about random topics. The weather, football, and my fictional life as Ashley. I slipped easily into her role, the lies popping out of my mouth like a Pez dispenser. It didn’t take long before his hand was on my leg. Unconcealed lust shining in his eyes. Our conversation became threaded with underlining sexual innuendos. The whiskey had loosened my tongue and lowered my inhibitions.
My mouth dipped to his ear. “Why don’t you meet me in the bathroom?”
“How ‘bout we go to my place instead? So I can take my sweet time with you.” Barret traced my jawline with the tip of his finger. He smelled earthy, like soil after rainfall. “You deserve to be taken care of.”
I didn’t want to be cherished. I wanted to be fucked over the edge of the sink, hard and fast. Anything slower than that would allow my brain to wander. When my brained wandered, it wandered to you, Andrew. Placing my hands on his scruffy cheeks, I kissed Barret roughly, pouring out my misery and disappearing into the embrace. He responded equally with fervor. When we broke apart, his erection pressed against the zipper of his pants.