November sucked. December sucked. So did January and half of February. I started getting there toward the end of February, and by the time March rolled around, I could breathe. I’m still in contact with Joy, and I’m on a roll with my degree; Dr. Bergstein has proven efficient at working with me long-distance. We Skype, we email, and we talk on the phone. I’m just not in contact with the Fratters anymore.
For a while, it was so bad that Dad had to go down to L.A. for me. Joy helped him pack up my stuff at the Queen, and he got it back to Portland. Luka was there, supposedly. Helped lug my stuff to the car. Asked for my new phone number. Thankfully, Dad and Joy are good at keeping secrets, so I’ve had no calls from him. He’s tried to email me, though, and he’s attempted social media, but it’s easy to block people you can’t have in your life.
A girl can only be stupid so many times in a row. I wasn’t going to watch Luka rip my heart out with his bare hands. See, death isn’t the only condition that can instigate destruction. I know firsthand that the same godforsaken feeling of grief can be triggered by your love getting paid to sleep with other women.
I have my own place now, downtown Portland, an apartment in a mustard-colored, two-story condo. It holds a small kitchen, one bedroom, and a living room. Best of all, it’s only mine.
When I moved in, I made sure to leave all Verenich-twin relics in my parents’ attic. I can’t seem to get rid of them yet, but at least I don’t have to watch them every day.
My place is small but provides me with a sensation of space. Wedged between beachy walls and pine floors, I keep an ultramodern style with sleek lines and a light interior palette. I’m not ashamed to admit that it’s an up-yours to the Queen era and how it ended. There will be no more strong colors and ornamental décor for me.
Early April brings iridescent green trees outside my kitchen window, and with them comes hope. The mailman seems to agree too, because today I have a piece of news I’m pinching myself over. The letter still lies open on the counter, and I’m blinking at it, phone in hand.
“Dad?” I burst out. “I got it.”
“What did you get, honey?”
“The job at the hospital! They’re not even waiting until after the dissertation.”
“I knew it. Of course they want my girl. You’re brilliant. They read your articles, didn’t they?”
I shake my head, laughing. “I guess? I attached the two first and the letter verifying the contract for five.”
“Perfect. You showed them, all right!”
I bring my hand to my face, covering my grin. “I got a job, Dad. I’m a real adult.”
“That you are.” A smile tinges his voice. It makes me think my tribulations haven’t been easy for him either.
I drop to a chair after we hang up, happiness making me lightheaded. It’s only noon, but I have this urge to rip open a bottle of wine. If I’d been at the Queen now, we’d all be celebrating. Lenny would have swung me in the air. James might have slapped my butt while Diego muttered something about him being inappropriate now that I’m with… while I was with Luka.
I miss them. I don’t miss the dysfunction I fled from though, Belen included.
I get up and pour myself a glass of wine anyway. Then I sink back down and lazily rifle through the rest of my mail.
I have a letter.
Oh. It’s from Joy. That’s right, she said she’d sent me something the other day. She wanted me to call her once I received it. I rip it open and expect her neat, curly handwriting. Instead I find what looks like Julian’s bold block letters. What in the world?
I turn the sheet of paper. Black writing goes all the way to the bottom of that page too, and the signature has two thick sloppy Xs, and then—
Luka.
I call Joy all right. I don’t even read what he’s written before I call.
“What the hell, Joy! Are you the messenger of Luka, now?”
“I told you to call me—”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Before you opened it, though, geez. Did you read it?”
“No, and I’m not planning to either. He’s gonna make something up about not having gone to Lucid after all, not having slept with Belen or a ton of other chicks. I’m not dealing with his lies anymore.”
“Ha, no. That’s not it at all. He went back to work again the day after you left. He didn’t even have a choice.”
“Whatever happened to taking up student loans?” I shout. It still gets me. I still love that piece of hopeless shit, and I hate, hate that I couldn’t reform him. Ha, change the bad-boy, right? Isn’t it what western culture has taught young women to crave? Everyone needs their bad-boy phase. It’s such bull. I never needed it.
“He couldn’t take up loans for the kind of money he needed for this. Believe me. The only reason I sent that letter for him is that he told me everything.”
“What ‘everything?’”
“Now you can hang up and read the letter. I knew you wouldn’t read it without a pep talk, so that’s why I asked you to call me. I’d hate it if you tossed it out and raged at me afterward. Wait, did you?”
“What?” I rub my eyes in frustration.
“You didn’t toss it out yet, right? Tell me it’s not covered in hot sauce at the bottom of your trash bin.”
Unease pricks up my spine and causes goosebumps to break out on my arms. I can’t do this again. The Verenich brothers have broken my spirit one time too many. “I’m throwing it out as we speak.”
“Actually, you owe it to Luka to read it. That’s all you need to do. Read it. I get that you’re trying to get over him, but you need to at least know he’s not a total kook.”
I hang up.
I don’t pick up when she calls me again.
I wait a day.
His letter glares at me from the top of the fridge, a bent edge watching my every move over the door to the freezer.
On the second day, I feel it behind me while I watch TV too. I mutter, “Fuck it,” get up, and swipe it into my hands, quickly, haphazardly like it won’t send me into an abyss.
I can go to Mom and Dad’s afterward. Hang with Aci and her new puppy.
People have read letters before, and I can too. I won’t burrow under my duvet and cry until the meaning of life liquefies.
The envelope is open. All I have to do is pull out the single sheet of paper filled with bold, square, black letters, oh Luka.
I swallow.
Sweet Geneva.
Nothing happened the way it should have after we came home from Brazil, and I’m sorry. I should have done so many things differently, banned Belen from the Queen for instance. Because she means nothing to me, I didn’t realize that beneath the surface, it tore you up to have her around.
You were my one and only, my perfect mix of objective and emotional. I had fun slaying dragons for you. I just wish I could have slayed more.
I blink away tears. They’re fat and few, and when they tip over the edge of my eyes, they warm my cheeks on their path down.
I’m sorry that our short, happy story ended with a fight. We had some good times, you and I, and here I am, now, hoping these words find you despite the odds. I just fucking want you to know that everything I did, I did to spare you.
You didn’t need to learn Julian’s darkest secrets. You know? But I have nothing to lose now that you’re gone, so here I am flinging it your way anyway. I admit it. I’m doing it for my own gratification, hoping you’ll understand I never wanted to disrespect you with what I did. If that makes me selfish, I’ll live with that.
I drop the letter. My heart is racing too hard. I don’t want to know what he’s going to tell me. I can’t not know what he wants to tell me.
What broke us, wasn’t Belen. It was the one thing you despised about me from the moment we met. That day when you accompanied me to Lucid, I felt like you understood the industry for what it was—a business. Our bodies are interchangeable. It could be mine, it could be Marcus’, it could be Anthony’s covering Ana or Belen or Irene. It doesn’t matter in any other way than who gets paid. But I guess you forgot once you left the studio.
You, little lady. You owned me from the day Julian brought you to the Queen.
I cover my mouth. I’m alone, and my sob would upset no one except me. I can’t hear my own misery.
You wanted me to never return to Lucid, to never again touch Belen. You wanted me to take up loans to cover my last semester of studies, and I wish I’d explained why I couldn’t. People say it’s never too late to be honest. Guess I’m holding out hope that they’re right.
I’m stalling, writing my way through this piece of paper and postponing what I sat down to tell you. Shit, Geneva. I guess it’s time.
I take the letter with me. The door to my mini-balcony groans, but I push it open and slide outside in need of air. For a heartbeat, I stand there scouring the sky with my thumb marking the place where I stopped reading. I know; once I look down again, my world will tilt sideways. I have the option to stop reading. I could burn this letter, toss it in the trash, and move on with my life like nothing happened.
Lungfuls of cold air cleanse me. Slowly, I turn and step back inside. I shut the door behind me and push the latch back in place. Then, I lean my forehead against the glass pane, aware that I have no choice but to read on.
My brother took opiates for the pain after the fire. I’m not sure he was ever really weaned off them. And that wasn’t all he did. Do you recall how festive he could be? Julian was good at covering for himself, but it was years ago that I caught him at the Mezzano, crushing powder and mixing his own cocktail in the men’s room.
I didn’t want to alarm you. You didn’t need the anxiety of being afraid for the one you loved, and my brother would’ve pulled in the oars on this whole staying-alive thing if you left him.
Ever since, I tried to straighten him out. The so-called trips to hang out with our uncle were rehab stints, some in Utah, others in Malibu. I remember you saying once that the air in Russia became him. You made me feel like success.
Toward the end, Julian inhaled anything he could get his hands on. Happiness was as stressful as sadness to him, and he’d increase his doses and try new things. I should have anticipated that he’d get worse before the wedding, because that would have been OD’ing on bliss. He couldn’t handle it.
Rehabs are expensive, and so are drug dealers. I couldn’t pay for it all. Then came the funeral. I wanted the bills to be done, to bolt the door closed to the gloom of Julian’s last years before I opened a new one for you and me. I did what I did because if anyone deserved a clean slate and a bright future it was you.
So now you know. We’re fully done, my brother and I, and I’m checking off a lot of lasts. I just received my last paycheck from Lucid Entertainment. Just paid the last installment on Julian’s last rehab. Today, I’m packing my last things at the Queen, and tomorrow, I’m taking my last exam. Then, I’ll be off to residency.
If it weren’t for you, Julian would have succumbed years ago. It’s you who made my brother stay with us longer than his spirit had decided. Now, I pray that you find it in you to forgive both of our shortcomings.
I have loved you for a very long time, Geneva. Here’s to hoping you read this letter all the way to the end.
Until I see you,
xx
Luka
The weeks disappear in a blur. I can’t concentrate, not even on the article I’m supposed to edit. It was a miracle I’d sent number three off to the magazine before Luka’s letter hit me in the face, in the heart, and in the tear ducts.
I need Luka and Julian out of my head.
I need my new job to start.
At the Queen, I had the guys to keep me busy. Here, I don’t. Nothing compares to long-time friends, and the first days after the letter, I was in a haze of sleep and wine.
But it didn’t take me long to find a better alternative. I signed up for a gym. Or more like the Diakos-Miller family gym, which means I don’t pay. It’s a family membership through Mom and Dad. I’m not even ashamed of that.
I wear myself out entirely there, and lose weight in fistfuls. The treadmill isn’t enough, though. I need cold, fresh air and my iPhone loud on the ear, and with the way my heart grinds against my lungs, the only band that lets me breathe is Limelight.
Dark and hoarse, Jesse Everett’s vocals reach deep inside of me. Sometimes he shakes me up. Sometimes he comforts me. Every day, I run, slapping the pavement, hitting the park, then looping through the forest where green canopies sink over me.
Tonight, I lift my phone and stare at a shaky photo of long, wavy dark hair while I run. Jesse’s eyes are as pained as I feel, and his mouth looks made to be kissed. The sight of him, so different to my twins, calms me even before he rasps out my bridge.
Stop begging for the hunt, babe—
You’ve got nothing I want
Keep checkin’ for clues, cuz I
Refuse your bait.
It’s my third Friday at work. I’m in a lab coat though I do nothing medical, and I glide through hallways, nod at colleagues, take elevators to different floors, and walk between buildings. I’m on a cross-departmental team working with refugees from developing countries and war zones. None from Brazil, but they value my input, here, for my “proven ability to integrate, describe, and understand.”
I work with psychologists, physicians, and social workers. There are also a few nurses and a couple of medical students on the team. Our goal is to come up with a detailed, holistic plan for new refugees so that all facets of their lives can become satisfactory in record time.
I work with caring colleagues who believe in our mission as much as I do. Through my job, I can make a difference to people who have suffered, and that feels damn good, especially when, after hours, I read and re-read Luka’s letter until I have to run out the door with Limelight blasting in my ears.
Sure, it’s love. Sure, it’s grief and agitation. I was so angry at him for not telling me earlier. Why would he have kept me in the dark like that? He should have trusted me. Understood that I was strong, that I could take Julian’s truth. Maybe I could have helped set him straight too. If we’d been two against him the whole time he indulged his addiction, maybe he would still have been alive.
Would I have stayed with him?
Years of deep addiction and stays at different rehabs.
Would I?
I turn Jesse’s voice up on my living-room speakers and shut the door to the fridge so I can’t see the half-empty bottle of wine. Thirty minutes later, the neighbor knocks on my door and asks if I can turn the music down because his baby is going to bed.