Like I Mean It
When I walk out into the spring March air, I shiver.
I see my husband standing outside, talking on the phone. He ends the conversation as I walk to him.
He opens his arms and pulls me into a hug. I want to cry, so I do. I don’t hide my heart with as much vehemence, not as I used to. It’s still black and bloody, but we are healing it.
I have been going to therapy for a year. I started after I tried to leave him before our first wedding anniversary. I thought marriage could fix me, but that’s not the way the world works.
My red rage has lessened in ways I never knew it could. It is not perfect, this life we have, not by a long shot, but I am climbing out of this hole.
A pink letter falls out of the notebook tucked under my arm. It blows in the wind and Connor catches it by stepping on it. He dusts it off and smiles at me when he comes back to me.
“This old letter. Damn.”
Three years ago, when I left Connor, he sent me flowers every Wednesday for a month. Finally, I had to tell him to stop. To let him know the flowers hurt me. It was a reminder of how I broke us. His last delivery of roses had a letter stuffed inside the envelope. The small white thing bulged with the words.
Connor starts reading the letter in front of me, he turns so I can follow along.
Gwen,
Wow, what a crazy couple of weeks we have had. For that matter, what a crazy seven years since we met. We've had ups, we've had downs, we've been through so fucking much together. Memories I will cherish forever.
Firstly, I want you to know my silence toward you over the next few months is not me ignoring you and I hope it will not come across as disinterest, it's exactly the opposite. I love you so much and whether it's with me or without me, I truly want you to be happy in life. If a clean break and solid time apart is what you need to feel happy right now, then I am going to give you that.
I'm going to listen to you and respect your wishes. I don't want to smother you like I did before you moved out. I'm sorry for that. I just wanted to spend all the time I could with you before you left. I think this letter and giving you space is the only way I can show you that I realize if you gave me another chance it would be different for us and I would be committed to changing the things you need from me and would need from me in the future.
Like showing you more love and passion. I would shout my love for you in front of everyone. I know I didn't react the way I should have in the past, but this is different. I am different. I didn't express my feelings properly before, I was a stupid guy who didn't fully understand himself. It took the love of my life, you, breaking up with me to realize that you are the one I always wanted to spend the rest of my life with and that I need to grow up and change if I want that to happen.
I have done a lot of self-reflection and there is so much I need to work on. A great relationship is a partnership. I want us both to feel comfortable communicating and expressing what we want from each other.
Five years is a long time and if not as my lover, I need you as my friend. My life without you is not the life I want and I am so sorry you've had to wait until this point for me to grasp this.
I can't help but remember all the times at Paul's Wingstop, the times we had in your trailer, or even the years in the house we shared.
I can't believe how lucky I got that it was my car you left your purse in. Every time I have thought of our past over these last few weeks, it has brought a smile to my face. I want to go back to those times. I want us to enjoy ourselves again like we used to. When we never let what other people thought of us stand in our way. Maybe we can't go back to that, or should, but I would love the chance to carve out a new life with you.
We could create our own life together on our terms. No white picket fence or what others think we should have. Kids or no kids. Adopting or having one of our own. Whatever you want is what I want.
I am so proud of you and your writing and I know you will go far. I am always here if you want to tell me how it's going, what is happening. My phone will always welcome a call from you. Even if it's just to talk or blow off steam. I will always be here for you.
I am here waiting, and I always will be.
I wish you the best and I hope, one day, I can be a part of your life again.
Connor
When we are done reading, he folds the letter up. I have a tear in my eye. That damn purse I left in his car brought it out of me. Seeing again, that he knew we were meant to find each other too, makes me ache.
I want to say we found a happily ever after. That I gave him the children he wanted. That I let him love me fully every day. But I can’t do that. I can’t let good in all the way, not yet.
I will rebel against it until I die. I will rebel and I will be me, ugly and torn. I can’t be less.
When I look back at us, I see me being less. I see me trying to be good, pure, quiet, and meek. Less sloppy, less slutty, less mentally broken. I see me being all those fake things on the surface so I can make everyone happy.
I want to write an ending for everyone that is neat but I am not neat. I am not happily-ever-after. I am if I lie, and I am so tired of lying.
What if I just say we are trying? That we are trying to work through this. To be better, for each other.
Is it a lie if some days I do not feel it in my heart? If I just want to leave him for good so he can have all he wants? I will always be a runner, but my love can be found in the places he pulls it from.
He takes the journal from under my arm and tucks the letter inside, then he sets it on the hood of our car and pulls me in for a hug. I like the weight of him, the way he feels. “How was it today?” he asks the question to my long brown hair.
“Better. We ended the story.” I pull away and look into his dark eyes, run my hand along his stubble.
“So what now?”
I run my hand along his arm, pushing up the sleeve of his shirt. He has a tattoo there of a woman with stitched lips. A representation of who I used to be. Stitched lips and confessions locked tight. They slip out now, in poetry and on paper, to him, to my therapist.
“We start at the beginning again. I tell it again, but with no lies. No fiction.”
“And what about us?”
I kiss him. I kiss him like I mean it. Like our vows and our hearts and our scars and our imperfect love, our imperfect life.
“We start at the beginning.”