Love to Love Her YAC (39 page)

“Who’s it from?” asks Tawny. Her forehead
creases as she watches me.

“It doesn’t say,” I choke out. I fold the
flimsy envelope and stick it in my back pocket.

“Don’t you want to open it?” asks Mom. All
eyes are on me and my strange behavior. I attempt to laugh it
off.

“I will!” I say. “I just want to get these
last two pies knocked out first. It’s probably just the Lowry
alumni association wanting my money for a class reunion or
something.”

Mom seems unconvinced, Tawny even less so,
but they don’t push the issue. “Okay,” Mom says. “Let’s get started
on the peanut butter pie for your uncle.”

3:45 PM

A
n hour later Tawny
is taking a nap in her room while Mom showers and Dad watches a
golf tournament, so I sneak into the den and shut the door to get a
few minutes of privacy. I pull the envelope out of my back pocket
and use an ivory handled letter opener on Dad’s desk to cut the
flap open.

Inside is a single sheet of lined notebook
paper, folded in thirds and then in half. Both sides of the paper
are covered in the same cramped handwriting that appeared on the
envelope. I sink down to sit on the sofa before I begin to
read.

Dear Rhiannon,

Forgive my old-fashioned tendencies—I knew
you would be at home for Thanksgiving, and I didn’t want to intrude
on your time with your family by calling or showing up uninvited
again, so I thought I’d write you a letter instead.

I’m at home spending some much needed time
with my mom—I don’t think I’ve told you, but I’ve really barely
talked to her since I moved out to go to college several years ago.
I’ve been a bad son, and that’s just one of my many regrets from
the past few years. I hate that it’s taken me as long as it has to
get my head out of my ass (pardon my French) and begin taking steps
to rectify my wrongdoings. I wanted to begin by reminding my mom
how much I really do care about her. We’ve had a really good couple
of days together so far.

Another big regret I have is letting things
get to the point they did with Jordan. I’m not pointing fingers
here, because I believe I may be just as much at fault as she is,
but I do wish I’d realized sooner that we weren’t supposed to be
together. You may not want to hear this, but I’ve talked to her
since coming home (on the phone), and I think we’re in a better
place now. She ended up agreeing with me that our relationship
wasn’t a healthy one. I have no doubt we’ll be able to move on with
our own, separate lives. I even told her about you…

I have a lot of other smaller regrets,
like taking the last brownie Adam’s mom sent him without asking,
and hitting a squirrel with my truck a few weeks ago, but only one
other
big
one. Knowing how I hurt you and
how totally and completely I fucked up the perfection of what we
had, however fleeting, is what keeps me awake night after night.
You may be able to one day forgive me, but I don’t think I’ll ever
really forgive myself for the pain I caused you. The only thing I
can hope to do is put your mind at ease, even if it’s just a
little, by begging you to believe me when I say that was never my
intention. I’m a one-woman kind of guy, and I promise I meant every
word when I told you last weekend—You’re it for me.

This apology wouldn’t be complete if I
didn’t at least try to explain what happened between Jordan and me
the weekend I came home to break up with her. You may be tempted to
skip this paragraph, but please just bear with me… First of all, I
was drunk. I know that’s the world’s shittiest excuse, and I swear
to you I will never drink again if that’s what it takes, but in
this case it does happen to have played into my mistake. It was the
end of the night, and I was miserable because I was expecting to
have my “talk” with Jordan that night but I couldn’t because there
were other people around. Even though I don’t have feelings for her
anymore in that way, when she tried to give me a goodnight kiss I
just sort of fell into it. It’s kind of hard to explain, but I
sincerely hope you’ll understand—it was force of habit, nothing
more, and I cut it off almost immediately when I realized how wrong
it was. There are few things I can say with one hundred percent
certainty, but saying that will never happen again is one of
them.

It also wouldn’t be right for me not to
address everything else that’s going on in your life. I can
apologize from now until the end of time for the pain I’ve caused
you, but there is
nothing
I can say to
take away your suffering when it comes to your sister. I hate how
helpless it makes me feel to admit that—I’m sure it’s a feeling you
know well. I can’t fix it like I desperately want to, but what I
can do is be there for you. I spent a lot of time watching you and
Tawny together the weekend I was there with you, and I have never
been more awestruck by any one person’s strength and caring than I
was by yours. I know having you is everything to her. But Rhiannon,
you need someone to lean on, too. I wanted more than anything to be
that person for you, and even after all the regrets I’ve listed
here, that one has to be my single biggest. The thought that I
ruined my chances at being the person you need saddens me literally
to no end. I wish I could go back in time and change it, but since
time travel has yet to be invented, the
only
thing I can do is tell you how sorry I am. I know I’m not in a
position to be making requests of you, but I do ask that you
remember this one thing: that I’ll always be here for you, whether
you need it or not. So no matter how far it is down the road,
whether it’s tomorrow or next week or five years from now, if you
need someone to just listen or hold you, I can be that for you.
Nothing would make me happier.

I’m not asking you to give me another
chance. I wish you would, but I also know I don’t deserve it. I
guess it’s just that time of year when you think about all the
things you’re thankful for—Even though I’d do about a thousand
things differently if I had it to do over again, I’m still so,
so
thankful
that I met you.

If I could be so bold as to make one final
request—there’s one more thing I’d like to tell you, but it
wouldn’t be right if I didn’t do it in person. I don’t expect you
to want to see me again for a while, but I don’t mind the wait. I
can be a very patient person, even if I didn’t always show you that
side of me. It doesn’t matter if it’s a month or a year from
now—when you’re ready to hear it, you know where to find me.

Happy Thanksgiving, Rhiannon.

Yours, Blake

The paper is warped and spotted with tears by
the time I finish reading it for the third time. I gently refold it
along the damp creases and replace it in its envelope, then tuck it
back in my pocket.

Blake – 12:00 PM

I
t’s just my mom and
me for Turkey Day this year; it’s hard to believe this is the first
Thanksgiving we’ve shared since I was seventeen years old. It’s
also the first time in as many years I’m not at Jordan’s
grandparents’ house.

Since it’s just the two of us, we decide to
skip the formality of a multi-course meal. We laugh over the fact
that, come to think of it, neither of us even likes turkey all that
much, and the only traditional side we would eat on a day that
isn’t the fourth Thursday in November is the mashed potatoes. So
instead she shows me how to make lasagna the way she used to one
night a week when I was really young, before my dad left. Lasagna
night was always my favorite.

At noon we carry our plates to the little
dining room that never gets used anymore. We sit down across from
each other; I pick up my silverware but pause when I notice Mom
looking at me. “When you were little we always used to start the
Thanksgiving meal with a prayer and then each say something we’re
thankful for,” she says.

I set my fork down and fold my hands in my
lap. “Go ahead,” I tell her.

She grins back, a bit bashful, then bows her
head.

“Come Lord Jesus, be our guest,

May this food by thee be blest,

May our souls by thee be fed,

Ever on the living Bread. Amen.”

“Amen,” I echo, grinning at the memory of
that exact prayer being repeated so many times throughout my
childhood.

“So now we say something we’re thankful for?”
I clarify.

She nods. “You first.”

I sit back in my chair, contemplative.
Finally I say, “I’m thankful for the chance to be here, having
lasagna with you. I hope there will be many more dinners just like
this one.” I raise my wine glass as if toasting the sentiment, and
she beams as she does the same.

She lets out a long sigh. “I’m thankful you
came back to me,” she says quietly. “I wasn’t sure it would ever
happen,” she continues, getting choked up. She dabs at the corners
of her eyes with her napkin. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, “excuse
me.”

I wait, slightly embarrassed but also filled
with something like affection. She clears her throat and speaks up
again, her voice stronger and clearer this time. “I’m just so glad
to have you here. I love you, Blake.”

I nod knowingly. Reaching across the table to
pat her hand, I say, “I love you, too, Mama.”

Rhiannon – 12:00 PM

A
unt Liz and Uncle
Jerome’s Dodge Caravan pulls up outside right at noon. Mom’s been
up cooking since six o’clock this morning, and the house is filled
with the heavenly scent of butter and spices and baking bread.
Sophie paces excitedly in the entryway until Dad goes over to open
the door, and the four of us file out after her to greet our
guests.

The day is cold and bright, with crisp yellow
sunlight that filters through the bare branches of the trees. Tawny
and I huddle together for warmth as our relatives pile out of their
minivan. A flurry of hugs and kisses and exclamations of “My how
you’ve grown” ensues. Simon is a year younger than Tawny at
fourteen and still hasn’t quite hit his growth spurt, but he’s a
cute kid. Spencer climbs out of the backseat and claps me on the
back as he says, “Yo, cuz, long time no see.” I attempt to wrangle
him into a hug but stop short at the appearance of another familiar
face behind him.

“
Corinne?!
” I shriek in disbelief.
Spencer long forgotten, I take another step forward, wondering if
my eyes could possibly be playing tricks on me.

“Oh, hey, Rhiannon,” she says, her pale
cheeks beet-red. “Happy Thanksgiving?”

I look from her to Spencer, completely
bemused, and Spence begins to laugh as he loops his arm casually
around Corinne’s shoulder. “Have you met my girlfriend, R?” he
asks.

“
Girlfriend
?” I have to bend over and
clutch my knees, I’m laughing so hard. “Oh, this is just too much,”
I exclaim, wiping tears from my eyes. Once I’ve regained my
composure I stand up and wrap Corinne in a big bear hug, then pull
Spencer in as well. “I’m so happy for you both!” I cry.

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Corinne asks
uncertainly.

“Well yeah, it’s effing bizarre!” I laugh.
“But there’s no one else I’d rather welcome to the family.” Corinne
grins as Spencer picks up a suitcase and we all troop inside.

4:00 PM

F
our hours later our
bellies are full, and Mom, Aunt Liz, Uncle Jerome and Tawny have
all laid down for naps, making the house significantly quieter.
That leaves Dad, Spencer, Corinne, Simon and me to start on the
dishes, and Simon has been rather overstatedly stretching and
yawning for the past ten minutes, probably setting the stage to
leave us and take his own nap—he seems to think he got the bum end
of the deal by not slinking off earlier with the rest of them.

After a little while we develop a sort of
assembly line, with Spencer culling dishes from the table, Corinne
doing the pre-rinse, Dad scrubbing and me drying. We work quietly
and efficiently, and within forty-five minutes the kitchen is
pristine again; Mom is going to be deliriously happy when she wakes
up from her nap.

Satisfied that our work is finished, Dad goes
to the living room to turn on ESPN. Spencer gives Corinne a peck on
the cheek (how adorable) before going to join him, leaving just the
two of us girls standing in the kitchen.

“Pie?” I ask. Corinne smiles as she nods. We
each cut a slice, and Corinne follows me out to the sunroom.

“So spill,” I say as we take our seats at the
glass topped table.

“There’s not much to say really,” she dodges.
She glances up and chuckles at my dubious expression.

“I know there has to be a love story in there
somewhere,” I tease.

“Oh yes, love story indeed,” she says, her
voice dripping with sarcasm. “In fact, it starts with us drunkenly
hooking up at the Tri Delt End of Finals party last May—we’re
talking Hallmark over here.” She points at herself, and I bust out
laughing.

“Wow, Cori. I had no idea you were such a
romantic.”

“Well now you know.” She winks at me as she
forks a bite of pie.

“So this has been going on since
May
?”
I ask, incredulous.

“Well, no. Naturally I was starry eyed and in
love when I stumbled out of that dark frat house closet, but Spence
ignored my calls for the better part of the summer.”

“He ignored you?” I say, incensed on her
behalf.

“Yes,” she says with a shrug, as if it didn’t
faze her at all. “I just figured it was because he was gay.”

My jaw drops.

“Oh come on, we all thought it,” she laughs.
“No straight guy listens to Barbara Streisand and calls curtains
‘window treatments.’”