January 8, 2025
january 8, 2025
Jake,
Kevin Costa. Senior year. That’s who I made out with on the band bus. We were grabbing our uniforms to change into for an awards ceremony. Happy?
And now I’m wondering if he was one of the ones who gave you shit.
Oh, Jake. I laughed reading your recollection of that night heading home from Boston, because of course I remember it. Mostly because of the music you recommended to me. The Black Keys. Arctic Monkeys. Death Cab for Cutie. Matt and Kim. Goo Goo Dolls. I’m a little frightened to ask what music I recommended to you, and if you still listen to it at all. I listen to yours all the time. I may or may not have a running playlist…
You’re not the only one who has thought about that night. Do you even remember what happened? Do you remember reaching for my hand and holding it? We each had an earbud in and you squeezed little pulses into my palm to the beat of whatever we were listening to. I was embarrassed because you sat there, talking with such enthusiasm about all of these artists that you loved, and all I could think about was how much I wanted you to kiss me.
You’re right. Weird to say after a decade. But somehow writing it in a letter makes it so much easier, so here I am, letting you know that you weren’t alone in your feelings.
But after that night, you sort of trailed away, and we fell back into our usual rhythm as Shelly and Jakey Jake. I figured the night was a fluke. That maybe you were only holding my hand as a friend. So I gave up on whatever those feelings were, and moved on.
Want to pass me the shovel so I can dig a hole too? Thanks.
Shelly