Page 31 of All Your Firsts

I hear him walking down the hall, but pay him no attention. I can feel his presence at my back, but I continue setting out my new clothes. All I’ve worn are the couple of pieces I threw in my bag at my parents’ before I snuck out, so I’m pretty excited to wear something new.

“I’m going out.”

“Have fun.”

“You’re not gonna give me shit about you staying home while I go out?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.” He takes a step but stops. “Oh, I almost forgot. This was in the mail for you.”

I turn around, and my blood drains from my face as Vic hands me an envelope. I know exactly what it is once I see the writing on the front.

I rip it from his fingers and hold the thin paper between my hands and heart.

I look up at Vic with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

His head tilts as if he’s curious. Probably wondering why I’m holding a simple envelope like it’s the answer to world peace. It’s none of his business, and I just hope he hasn’t gone through the letter. I don’t need him telling Gage I’ve been corresponding with one of his friends for years.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like it from the way you’re holding it.”

“None of your business.”

He doesn’t move, so I huff out an irritated breath. “It’s just a friend. We like to write each other letters.”

“There’s this cool thing called a phone. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it. You received these things called phone calls and text messages.”

I put my fingers over my lips as if shocked. “No way! You think I can get one after school?” I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

He walks away from my room without a word.

I close the door with a kick of my foot and rip the seal of the letter, giving myself a tiny little paper cut in my haste. I suck on the pad of my finger as I grab the letter inside with my other hand and shake it out of the envelope. I’ve lost my careful handling.

I want to know what he has to say.

I want to know his excuse for dropping me without a goodbye.

We never discussed when there would be an end to our letters. He even continued to write to me when he got out, then, when I went to college, and then nothing.

Radio silence. But the silence was loud.

He became a daily thought over the years. I told him my victories, defeats, dreams. Big and small, he heard it all.

His disappearance hurt like hell. It was like a loss. I mourned him as I did with my brother when he stopped writing. Anyone would have felt as I had once you’ve spoken to someone for years. I was such a masochist for months after the letters stopped. I went by my PO Box in town weekly, sometimes multiple times a week, just to put my key in the lock, open it, and see it empty.

All I could think of is the last letter I wrote him, testing the water on meeting him. I asked in the early stages of our letters,and he always let me down gently. I stopped asking until my last letter while in college.

I wanted–no, needed–to see the man I’d poured my heart and soul out to over the years.

Would we get along as well as we did through paper? He told me I should reach for whatever I wanted in life, no matter the repercussions. That my art was a gift and not some stupid hobby, as my father would say. Or would we debate, as we sometimes did, on the importance of my love for rom-coms over his action and horror? Him being opposed to them while I was for everything: rainbows, butterflies, and love in movies; no gore or death for me. Or him believing it was a necessity to dunk chips in his milkshakes while I thought that was disgusting. Soggy chips, no thanks.

But once the letters stopped, I wish I could hit rewind and go back to before I wrote the last one.

Maybe I pushed too hard to meet him? Maybe he got bored? Maybe he found someone and decided to devote all of his time to them?

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