Page 25 of Lies and Lullabies
“What, did the girl turn into a pumpkin at midnight?” Ethan asked this question while banging out a serious of whip-fast curls.
I felt tired just watching him. “Something like that.”
“Sounds like bullshit,” Ethan said.
“Sounds like you don’t know a thing about it.”
“Sotellme. You loved this girl, and she turned you down?” Hell—the big man could do a set of sit-ups and still have enough breath left to break my balls.
“Not exactly,” I said before I could think better of it.
“So what happened?” Ethan put one of his giant hands on my shoes, and we switched positions again.
I began my second set of abdominal agonies, thankful for once that it wasn’t possible to speak. To convince my body to finish the set, I promised myself a skinny-dip in the lake after this. Swimming, and then coffee. That was something worth living for.
“Nicely done,” Ethan said when I finished. “That will keep them screaming your name when you rip your shirt off during the set.”
I flopped onto the grass. “At least I have that.”
“So what happened with the girl?” The dude would not let it rest.
I studied the impossibly blue sky. “She was meant to be somebody else’s girl, that’s all.”
“Seriously? You threw down for this girl, and she said, ‘No thanks, I’m with this other schmo?’ Now I can’twaitto meet her.”
Of course the truth was more complicated. When I’d met Kira, I’d been a very immature twenty-five. After my best summer ever, I’d returned to Seattle, and things had gone well for me almost immediately. The record label had loved the lyrics I’d written in Maine, and they’d set up a brisk production schedule forSummer Nights.
I’d had to lay down a couple of the electric tracks first, because I’d left my favorite acoustic guitar in Maine. Ethan had called Mrs. Wetzle and asked her to ship it to the address on its luggage tag—my management company’s address in L.A. But when the guitar finally made its way back to me, the name on the return address had been Kira’s, not the innkeeper’s.
Inside the case, I’d found a letter tucked under the strings, right over the sound hole.John, she’d printed on the envelope, and the name had already looked strange to me. The summer had begun slipping away before the jet had touched down at SeaTac.
The letter inside the envelope had been short, and it had caused my chest to tighten.
John,
You’ve only been gone a few days, but it feels like months. Maybe you won’t want to hear this, but I miss you terribly. I hope we’re still friends? Did I wreck that?
I’d call you to say this if I could, but I no longer have your phone number. (Apparently indelible ink will smudge.) But here goes nothing: I love you, and I wish you hadn’t left.
When you get this, I hope you’ll call me, if only to tell me that the guitar made it unscathed. And I’d love to hear your voice. If I don’t hear from you, I guess I’ll know I’ve overstepped. But I couldn’t not say it.
Thank you for being the best guy I’ve met in a long, long time.
Love always, Kira
PS:the store phone is 207.663.2774. I close on weeknights until mid-September. It’s just a lot quieter now that you’re gone.
* * *
I had readthe letter several times in a row. It seemed impossible that someone like Kira could love me. I didn’t trust it. After all, a night of really excellent sex could scramble anyone’s brains.
Hindsight made me wish I’d reached for the phone immediately. But I didn’t call. I wasn’t sure I deserved that kind of love. She’d only seen the best parts of me. Not the drunk, insecure nights, or the sleazy things I’d done.
So I’d tucked the letter back into its envelope, and then folded it in half. I’d put it into my wallet. It went everywhere with me—on visits to the record label, to jam sessions with Nixon and Quinn. Sometimes, during a quiet moment, I’d take it out and read a portion.Love always. OrThank you for being the best guy I’ve met in a long, long time.
I wanted to call. I wanted more. But I was so sure I’d fuck it up somehow. If I didn’t call, it was still perfect. Someone loved me just for me. That had never happened in Seattle. That had never happened anywhere.
And then I’d become busy. Producing the album had been a grind. I’d promised myself I’d call Kira when things settled down. But a week passed, and then another. At some point I’d looked up and it had already become November. She would have gone back to college in Boston. I’d missed my chance.
