Erin
Bear,
I’ve started this letter and torn it up a thousand times, it seems. I don’t think there are words to say what I need to say to you. I’ve tried and tried to find the right ones, but I always come up empty-handed.
I guess I should just start by saying that I am sorry.
But, God, that sounds so trite.
I want to roll my eyes at those words. They aren’t enough. They don’t do justice to how I really feel, to how much I care for you, to how badly it kills me to know that I hurt you.
They do nothing to explain what the choice I made did to me — long before you knew.
So, I’m going to try to explain. I know most of this won’t make sense. Most of this won’t
The alarm goes off on my phone, a bright, cheerful jingle that signals it’s time for me to leave to head to group therapy.
I silence it, and then stare at yet another unfinished letter to Clinton.
There’s a pile of them in the waste bin next to my desk, and I crumple this one up into a ball and toss it in with the others.
The letter is still in my mind as I drive to therapy. The little church it’s held in is off campus, just a short, ten-minute drive, but it’s long enough to let me mull over the fact that I’m never going to be able to write out what I want to say to Clinton.
“You don’t need to send the letters,” my therapist had told me at our last session. “Just write them to the people you’ve hurt, and say what you’re too scared to say to them in person.”
I’d thought the exercise was annoying and cliché at first, but then… it had worked.
At least, sort of.
I’d written a letter to Skyler, and while I didn’t give the letter to her, writing it helped me find the courage to talk to her.
And now, we had finally taken a real, genuine step to putting everything that happened last semester behind us.
I know we have a long way to go yet, but just having the conversation healed me in a way I couldn’t fully understand.
Since then, I’ve written letters to my parents, to my unborn child, to my rapists, and to all of my closest friends — Jess, Lei, Cassie.
But I can’t seem to write one for Bear.
If I could have anything in the world, it would be to have my friendship with Bear again. The way we used to be. Before he knew.
I’m still in a fog of thoughts when I make my way into therapy, and just like always, I bypass the donuts and the coffee and take my usual seat, pulling out a notebook and setting my purse in my lap.
And when I look up, Gavin Lindberg is staring at me.
The jolt of those electric blue eyes is enough to stop my next breath, and I stare back at him, unflinchingly, until Jackie asks everyone to find their seats and that we’re about to begin.
It’s only at the sound of her voice that I finally blink, and with that blink, the rest of the room seems to come back to me in a whoosh.
I clear my throat, looking from him to Jackie, instead, and I keep my focus on her or whoever is speaking for the rest of group session. I’m not in the mood to talk today, so I just sit quietly and listen, and smile, and nod, and think.
And not look at Gavin Lindberg.
“Alright, that wraps us up for today,” Jackie says after our breathing exercise.
“Before you go, I want to leave you all with one last thought… this week, while you’re going about your normal routine, I want you to ask yourself what you miss about what you perceive as the old you.
If anything comes to mind, write it down.
You don’t have to do anything, not yet, I just want you to jot down anything that you used to do, or used to have, that you feel is lacking now. ”
I chew the inside of my cheek, already mentally noting a dozen things that I miss about the girl I used to be. I decide to write them down later, though — mostly because I’m already late to the Panhellenic meeting and I still need to set the house up for our KKB movie night.
As I’m packing my notebook into my purse, a shadow steps between me and the overhead fluorescent light, and I pause, letting my eyes slowly crawl up to Gavin’s waiting face.
I hadn’t noticed last week how tall he was, but as I stand, my eyes only coming to the base of his neck, I realize it.
He’s very tall. And very lean. And very…
dark. It isn’t just his hair or his clothes, but the way he stands, the hidden storm in his eyes, the lines in his face that somehow seem to hold more history than that of an old and tired man.
His skin is a golden brown, almost olive, like he’s from the Mediterranean, and since he’s not wearing a hat this week, I can see that his hair is a deep, rustic brown.
It’s short, but a little untidy, with ends sticking up here and there.
And just like last week, he’s dressed in dark, distressed jeans and a black t-shirt that says Thy Art is Murder on it.
“Hi,” he says when I shrug my purse over my shoulder.
I swallow. “Hi.”
“I wanted to apologize.”
“Oh,” I say, sweeping my hair behind one ear and over my shoulder.
“Yeah. So… this is me. Apologizing.”
“You’re doing great.”
“I’m really very good. At practically everything. It’s a curse.”
I smile, and a quiet moment passes between us, with him staring at me and me checking the time on my watch.
“Seriously,” he says when I meet his gaze again, shoving his hands in his pockets like they’ll betray him if he leaves them dangling free. “Last week… I was a bit prickly. I didn’t want to be here, and I… I don’t really know why I attacked you like I did, but I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “Really. I didn’t think it was an attack at all. And, I get it. I didn’t want to be here the first few times I came, either.”
“And now?”
At that, I sigh, shrugging a little as I look around the room at the fellow misfit toys. “Now, I worry less about what I want, and more about what I need.”
When our eyes meet again, there’s an understanding there — one unlike any I’ve ever felt before. It’s the kind of universal tug at my heart, at my soul, that makes me feel like I’m tethered to a stranger. Like somehow, there’s a piece of me in them, and a piece of them in me.
After a minute, Gavin nods, and then without another word, he brushes past me and toward the door.
I stand for a second, face screwing up in a bit of confusion at the abrupt exit. But when I shake my head and turn to head for the door myself, I nearly run into Gavin where he’s stopped and turned around.
I manage to put the brakes on before I run straight into his chest, but we’re still a little too close for two people who just met when he looks down the crooked bridge of his nose at me and asks, “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
My eyes shoot open wide.
“Next week,” he says when I don’t answer. “After group. We can go wherever you want, unless it’s Italian or Indian food because I hate both.”
I bite my lip against the laugh that comes from me then, because it’s both unexpected and absolutely lovely. I forgot what it feels like, to laugh like that, to feel joy fizzing in your chest like champagne bubbles.
At the sight of my smile, the side of Gavin’s lips tug up, too, until he’s wearing a shy smirk that somehow fits him perfectly.
“Sure,” I say.
I debate offering him my number, but I don’t have the chance. As soon as I agree, his smile ticks up a bit more, and then he nods at me, turns, and rushes out the door.
And I stand there in his dust, still a little sad from earlier, a little confused from our interaction, and a little something else, too.
Though I can’t quite put my finger on what.