Beauty and the Mustache (Knitting in the City #4)(59)
Author: Penny Reid

– Drew

Ash,

I walked to our field today.

It was cold and the flowers are gone.

All color is absent.

Did you take them away when you left?

Why would you do that?

– Drew

For Ashley—

Your indifference feels like the end

Of a life without meaning

A life without being

Must eventually stop

Else the being

Loses its life

For Ashley—

If I told you I love you now

How many seconds would it take

How long would you allow

All that I am to break

I turn away

Before you can see

How badly I need you to stay

With me

And so I passed the next several hours sitting at my desk poring over Drew’s field notes, reading them over and over. At first I tried to keep an emotional distance from the words, from his thoughts, from the depth of emotions he’d hidden so masterfully during our time together.

He might not have been good at playing make-believe, pretending, or lying, but he was damn good at hiding.

I cried a few times, smudging the skin under my eyes with soot from my fingers. The chair grew uncomfortable; I ignored the pain, strangely feeling like it was deserved.

In the end my soul was moved. There really was no other way to describe it. Reading Drew’s thoughts was like being catapulted into the heavens against my will. He loved me, or so he’d written. He needed me, but he’d never said it. Never out loud.

I reflected on our time together, seeing things more clearly through this new lens of enlightenment, and—though he never said the words— realized that he’d shown me in a million different ways. With every look, embrace, and desperate need to shoulder my burdens, he was telling me that he loved me.

I flipped back to some of my favorites, the ones that made me feel like I might faint with overwhelming swoony joy. But as I re-read the passages, a balloon of doubt subtly worked its way into my consciousness, and tied to it were so many questions.

Why had he hidden himself from me? Why push me away? Why not fight for me? He wasn’t a coward. He was the bravest man I knew. And why send it to me now? With no explanation, no letter, no nothing. And why in tarnation did it look like he’d tried to burn it?

Restlessness seized me. I needed to talk to him. I needed to see him, but I knew that wasn’t possible. Seeing his words in black and white, ink on a page, written in his hand, made them feel real to me; maybe more real than if he’d said them out loud.

Spurred by this thought, I grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and began to write him a letter.

My Drew,

I love you. I love you desperately. I don’t have your way with words. If I could, I would write you poetry. Instead, you’ll have to settle for my haphazard thoughts and explanations for my behavior.

I am so sorry that I’ve been blind, that I didn’t understand the extent of your feelings. I didn’t see you clearly, and that’s my fault.

When we were together, when we met, I admit that I was in a fog. I was blind to everything but my own grief and mourning my mother before her death. During those six weeks, I was focused on making every moment with her count. She was my mother and I loved her, I do love her, and I couldn’t see beyond my own heartache and sorrow.

That’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.

Regardless, I feel like I’m one of those stupid, enviable romance novel heroines. The ones that have been hit with a vanilla ninny stick, devoid of personality and blind to the gift before them. I was doomed to wander in ignorance until the last thirty pages of the book.

Part of me is actively rooting against my own happy ending because the fictional hero deserves better than a girl who is blind to his love and devotion.

But this isn’t a novel. I suck at interior design. I don’t always use the tissue seat covers when they’re available in public restrooms (sometimes I’m in a rush or I’m feeling lazy); but I always wash my hands.

I wake up with morning breath and frequently make poor fashion choices. I read too much, I eat too many cookies, and I have a yarn problem (meaning, I own more yarn than I could possibly knit into finished objects; there is NO WAY I’ll use it all before I die, yet I’m still buying more yarn. I probably need an intervention). I also own only one pot.

I feel it’s important that you know these things about me because I am flawed.

I jump to unflattering conclusions. I’m a little judgy (something I’m working on). I’m a coward and I don’t tell people how I feel unless I’m pushed beyond my doubts. I hate how I look because I look like my father.

And I understand that you are not an alpha billionaire plagued by ennui. It annoys me that you leave your socks all over your house. I do not think dirty socks are going to help in a zombie apocalypse. Also, what is with the ketamine under the sink in the bathroom? It’s creepy.

I also find it irritating when you tell me what to do or talk to my brothers without first talking to me—like arranging to have me fly back on the day of the funeral, that really pissed me off. You take too much on yourself. Why do you do that? Why do you insist on carrying the burden for everyone else? Don’t you understand that I need you to need me? How can I give if you won’t take?

Also, you might not be good at playing make-believe, but you are a master of avoidance. Work on that.

I wonder if you stayed silent for so long because you feared my rejection? Or maybe you feared I would grow to resent you if you’d asked me to stay in Tennessee? Regardless, I understand that you are also imperfect. I understand that you are brave, but that you are human and not immune to fear.

I understand that you feel things deeply, maybe so deeply the feelings become paralyzing.

I understand that about you and I still love you desperately. I love you beyond reason. I want to be with you right now. I want to live you.

Love, Ash

I didn’t give myself time to think about what I’d written.

I folded it, placed it in an envelope, affixed a stamp, wrote out his address—surprising myself when I knew it by heart—and jogged downstairs to mail it. I fitted it through the mail slot and watched it flutter away until it landed on a pile of other letters.

I stared at the mail slot for several minutes. I wondered if any of the other letters were love letters.

Slowly, I made my way back to my apartment. When I reached the second landing, I allowed myself to think about the letter. The thoughts within were sporadic and likely poorly organized, but all the words were true, and I that’s what mattered most. Honesty.

It was only when I’d made it back inside my place and shut the door that it occurred to me that Drew might not write back. Maybe Drew had sent the notebook because he’d moved on. Maybe it was his way of releasing me, letting me go.

I thought about that for a minute then rejected it. If Drew sent me the book, it was because he wanted me to read it. He wanted me to know his feelings. He wanted me to respond. Maybe he’d waited the two months because he wanted to give me more time to mourn my mother. Time to heal. Time to see.

I nodded at this train of thought; in fact, I jumped on this train of thought like a love-train-hopping hobo. My steps were lighter as I walked to my room. I picked up Drew’s notebook on the way to my bed and placed it on my bedside table.

I gazed sleepily at the burnt leather binding as I drifted off, images of Drew, me, and our future as love-train-hopping hobos filling my dreams.

*dpgroup.org*
CHAPTER 27

“Men trust by risking rejection. Women trust by waiting.”

― Carolyn McCulley

I didn’t start to panic until the end of the third week in December.

Drew didn’t write me back. After a week, I wrote him another letter. This one went through several drafts and was a proper love letter. I scoured novels for good examples, and even browsed a selection of famous love letters on the Internet. I wanted it to be an amazing love letter.

I then resolved to write him a letter every day, and I did so for two weeks, each carefully crafted. I waxed on for pages about his goodness of heart, his strength, his eyes, his bottom—he had an exceptional bottom—his hands, his smile, how smart he was, his voice, his poet-prowess.

During this time, I avoided my friends’ phone calls and made excuses to skip knit night. I didn’t want to talk about the journal, not yet—not until I could report on my happily ever after.

At the end of those two weeks, receiving nothing in return, I called him.

His phone went to voicemail.

I decided I would wait and call him twelve hours later so I didn’t seem like a desperate stalker. His phone went to voicemail again.

It was at this point that I panicked. The panic didn’t last long, however. It quickly gave way to intense, angst-filled depression. I couldn’t find anger because I was buried under wallowing and self-pity; that’s just south of ridiculous and a little west of pull-yourself-together.

I was a pathetic, heartbroken train-hopping hobo.

In the past, I would call Momma during these times. I would call her up and she would give me advice; she was my soft place to land. But she was gone. I missed her terribly, and not just because my soft place was gone, but because I missed her.

I thought about talking to Sandra about it, but chances were she’d turn into a psychotherapist.

I thought about talking to Kat about it, but she seemed to be going through some kind of family drama and was away in Boston.