Page 9 of Left of Forever

Dear Heinous Gruffalo Woman,

I’d love nothing more than to hear about garage sale carnage or the bloodletting of the HOAs. I’m well versed in small-town “scandals,” so this will feel very home-adjacent to me, I’m sure. But I think we can talk about ourselves a bit, too, as long as we avoid identifiers?

I’d love to hear something (for lack of a better word) hopeful about you. Today felt like a hopeless sort of day—a sentence that I’ve erased twice now. I have a hard time sharing the shitty stuff, I realize. It’s like putting that on paper makes it aggressively clear. Today, we recovered a body, though. A man (because they almost always are) who was told to evacuate, and instead thought he could maintain his own fire line and keep this raging thing at bay. I don’t get whyhe’d be so fucking stubborn. Why wouldn’t he trust the experts? We were doing everything we could, and no, we still would not have saved his house, but dammit, he’d still have his life. I hate whatever circumstances made him think his home was worth risking his life.

I also hate that I saw myself in that idiot man, though. I keep thinking of how I’ve done that in my own life. How I’ve taken on things I had no business taking on, neglected to accept help, and what I’ve lost because of it.

I don’t normally look forward to the breaks during these big fires. It feels like I’m always anxious to get back, as if one dumb man is going to be the difference in containing it. I’m looking forward to going home for a week, for once.

Anyway, tell me something hopeful about you? Even if it seems corny. I’d love to know your hopes and dreams.

I did hear about the horses, but I’m sorry to report that it’s not definitive news. Only that they have not been found at all.

—L

Dear L,

One dumb man can do a lot. I think if one dumb man can start the thing, one certainly can make adifference in stopping it. I know you hardly know me (other than the fact that I am utterly grotesque!!!), but I also happen to be an excellent judge of character. Based on our exchanges here, I bet yours is strong. It takes so much strength and bravery to examine and be honest about where we’re messiest, AND to open up again. I’ve fucked up in my life too many times, but I’ll be truthful with you since it’s just us here… I think I’ve only learned to barricade my heart. Like maybe that’ll protect other people from my broken bits. Does that make sense? It’s hard to stay too vague in this, but just know that the people I’ve hurt the most and let down the most are the ones I love the most, too. The bravest thing I ever did was leave something that was fine, but not making either of us happy anymore. Sometimes I think I regret it even still, but… there are different kinds of hurt. There’s the kind you inflict sharply and quickly—like emotional blunt force trauma—and then there’s the other kind, like a slow-building poison in your veins. I think it starts with withholding love, but maybe it starts with withholding hurt, too.

God, I’ve turned this into more of a diary entry for myself, haven’t I? My best friend is an avid journaler and is always talking about how writing stuff down helps her reveal and understand things. How she manages to surprise herself. Guess she’s onto something.

I hope the jalapeño and cheddar biscuits make amends, but I’ve also got some juicy news to offer. In my tiny town, two of its most prominent charactershave fallen in LOVE! I think they may have even been living a secret love story for years, though from the outside looking in, no one would’ve known. It’s your standard fare; she owns the trading goods store, he owns the diner. She nagged him, he needled her, she accidentally (allegedly) hit him with her car and professed her undying love on their way to the ER. Rumor is, my brother caught them doing something unsavory in one of the fitting rooms yesterday!

As far as hopes and dreams go… I’m a little stumped here. I haven’t been asked this sort of question in so long. I have my dream career, honestly. I love what I do, and I love where I live. I have the world’s coolest kid. I don’t care if you have five incredible children, mine’s better than yours. Sorry:|

I’d love to travel. I’d love to see new places, knowing I have my home to come back to. I want to drink wine on an Italian villa and dance in an Irish pub. I live near a coast, but it’s cold and craggy all the time. I’ve never been to a warm, golden-sand beach. I’ve never been anywhere, really.

There are days that I think I would like to love someone again. But honestly? I’m not too sure about that. I don’t know if we need romantic love to be happy in life, and I worry that my perspective would always be a little bit skewed when it comes to that anyway. I grew up with my great love, so I think maybe my heart took shape around his.

My dad left when I was too young to know the difference, and my mom hasn’t wanted for a full life. She’s fiercely independent, tries whatever hobbies she feelslike, whenever she feels like. She has great friendships and plenty of love to give to her community and whoever she wishes to give it to. I’ve seen other people lose that romantic, soul-rending sort of love, whether through death or betrayal or… whatever life dealt them that made it impossible to keep the thing. It was like watching someone try to function with half a heart when it was taken away. I genuinely don’t know if I want to risk that again—having to survive something like that.

Even the most consuming love doesn’t necessarily mean happiness in the end. I can attest to that. I can look back on everything now and see the beauty in my own personal history and the good things it gave us, and yet I can’t quite pinpoint where it ultimately died, you know? And sorry if this is TMI, but again, safe space and all that—I think even sex was ruined by the end. It was great, don’t get me wrong, but it also felt like a crutch for connecting when we weren’t otherwise.

I also think that maybe the pain and the mystery of that is best left in the past, at least for me. Do you think that makes me a coward? Maybe I’m just a cynic. Maybe I still think holding on to hope is dangerous.

How about you? What are your hopes and dreams?

Sincerely,

Gollum

CHAPTER 4

ELLIS

Her letter came as I was walking through the hotel lobby, duffel bag in hand, headed on my way home for a weeklong break. I’d packed all my things in case the fire miraculously gets contained in the meantime, and signed up with the extended stay to have my mail forwarded in case anything else comes while I’m gone. I almost didn’t open her letter right away when I slid into my truck, knowing I couldn’t write back immediately. Now that I’m driving and need to keep my eyes on the road, I wish I hadn’t.

I feel… fuck, I feel devastated. Like I ripped into a freshly healed scar. And electrified, like my whole system endured a shock. This was a terrible idea, stealing this connection this way. I feel a little sick.

Sheisa stranger to me; it’s easier to justify this in part because this is like meeting her all over again. But she’s also not. When she referred to her brother, I knew she actually meant mine. AndSilas is who I’ll call as soon as I calm down so I can get the details on this Martha-and-Walter development she mentioned, too.

Dammit, I have to pull over and read through it again.

Traveling was something we dreamed about when we were younger, but in the same way that you talk about “when I win the lottery, I’ll do this or this,” in that it still felt unattainable. It kills me to think she might have set that aside for other dreams.

Dreams that ran just as dry, if they were the ones to do with happily ever after and a house filled with kids.

But to say she can’t pinpoint where it went wrong? I know exactly when it did, exactly how many months of negative tests there were: thirty-six. I know the very date one came back positive and can remember how happy she looked and the salty taste of one of her joyful tears on my lips. I know the exact day and time she almost died on a hospital table when it turned out to be ectopic, and I can remember the color of the dark circles under her eyes for months after with disturbing clarity. I remember how it felt when I told her I didn’t want to try anymore. I thought the vasectomy would eliminate it from our life altogether, but things only got worse, and the weight of her resentment became a living, breathing thing. And then her mom got sick and the distance between us grew, andfuck, I couldn’t weather it. I thought I could take her anger enough for us both, but she’d barely look at me, she’d barely speak to me. She’d pull my body into hers night after night, and I’d try to find her and findustime and time again, but it was like we were both ghosts. I could feel us both walking on emotional eggshells every day, and by the time she said she wanted out, I was so goddamn tired that I did, too.