Page 173 of Let's Kiss and Tell

While I’m continuing to work through my feelings in therapy, the fact of the matter is that without Marsh, I’m empty. I try to think of someone who has even come close to filling me the way Marsh does, and I hit a wall. I can’t think of anyone because there is no one…There’s nobody I ever allowed to see all the sides of me that Marsh has. There’s nobody but him.

I reread the article again.

The one person that mattered to me is gone, so I’ll at least try to put myself first for once.

I stand up and rummage through my kitchen counter drawer. I sift through old receipts, greeting cards I’ve hoarded for years, photos, and pens and highlighters. Finally, I find a blank sheet of paper and sit at my kitchen table.

I write until my hand starts to cramp and then turn the page and continue writing some more. It’s been a while since I’ve written by hand. My stream of consciousness flows out of me and I write exactly how I feel in this moment. How I’ve been feeling the past few weeks, how I feel about my career, and how Marsh’s article made me feel. When I’m done, I stare at the sheet of paper, front and back, surprised at how much I was able to get out. I foldit and consider throwing it in the garbage can and setting it on fire. I debate hiding it deep in the back of my drawer never to be found again. Instead, I stand up and grab my keys.

In no time at all I’m in my car and driving down Venice Boulevard. I’m wearing my flannel pajama pants, an old sweatshirt, and a pair of running shoes, but I don’t care. Icarefullyspeed through LA traffic until I’m in front of a house that feels like an old friend. The driveway is empty, and my heart begins to thunder just wishing Marsh was home.

My hands tremble as I turn off the engine, putting the parking brake on. I think I might throw up. It’s that feeling you get as a child when you stand up in front of the whole class for a presentation. Step by step, my feet cross the damp road from an earlier rainstorm that’s now glistening underneath the streetlights. When I get to the front porch, I grip the paper in my hand.

I don’t know what’s going to happen in a month from now. Where my head will be at, where Marsh’s head will be at. He could come back from his trip and have found someone new, someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with. In a month from now I could come to the decision that I don’tneedto say anything to Marsh. It’s apparent anything can happen in a month’s time. But today, I need to say something to him. I want him to know thattoday,I care.

Analyzing the space between his front door and the floor, I wonder if I can slide my sheet of paper underneath, but it’s sealed. I look around and wonder if there’s a spot safe enough for me to put it in for the next few weeks. My gaze falls to my feet, and I consider the welcome mat—the dense fiber that looks water resistant. Then I realize he may never look under there. Finally, I clock the steel mounted mailbox to the side of the door. I flip open the lid and see that there are already a few letters and some junk mail inside. I figure I might be able to place my note inbetween some of the mail or maybe wrap it around one of his bills to assure he finds it.

“Lucy?” The voice behind me causes me to freeze, hands inside the mailbox. “What are you doing?”

Slowly, I turn around and see Marsh at the end of his driveway.

“Uh,” I stammer.

He squints. “Are you going through my mail?”

“No!” I immediately pull my hands out of his mailbox. “I mean,yes.But it’s not what you think.” I shove the letter into the pocket of my sweatshirt and register that Marsh is in front of me. God, it’s been so long and yet it’s like no time has passed. He’s wearing a black Henley with beige pants and a pair of sneakers. His hair looks a little longer than it did at the wedding and he let his facial hair grow out more than usual. And of course, his signature glasses.

I already feel like a wilted flower coming back to life.

“I…I thought you were in Thailand.”

There’s a puzzled look on Marsh’s face, but his gaze sticks to mine like a magnet. “I leave tomorrow night.” He takes a step forward. “What are you doing here?”

“Can we talk?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything, just waits for me to continue. “I…” I start but don’t really know where to begin or what I’m doing. I wasn’t expecting to see him tonight…maybe ever again. I just look into his eyes—his dark, soulful eyes and the solemn look on his face. I grip the paper in my pocket and think about what I wrote. “I think we’ve been on nine dates,” I finally say.

Marsh frowns, the groove between his brows deep. “What?”

“Gold Line…” I start. “Sushi, boxing, Koreatown, The Peppermint Club, the pier, Sadie’s birthday, San Francisco, Audrey’s…”

He looks at me, flummoxed.

“I think I’m missing one.” I swallow.

“The open house,” is all he says.

“Okay, ten,” I say and then let out a sigh of disbelief. “Wow, ten. I’m sure there are others too. The night we went to get tacos, but I don’t know if that counts as a date—”

“Lucy,” Marsh says, “what are you doing?”

“I’ve never been on more than three dates,” I say. “I don’t keep count or anything, but when I was thinking of everyone I’ve ever been with, I just don’t want to see them after date three. I mean, technically there’s Chris, but we were never going ondates.We were just—”

“Lucy…” Marsh says, and I focus, getting back to my point.

“Then one day, I see this guy looking at records…” I continue. “I think it’ll be easy to spend time with him. I can be in a fake relationship with him because it’snot real.That’s what I tell myself every single day. When he texts me in the middle of a work meeting and I blush. When I look at him from the passenger side of his car and enjoy the view a little too much. When I wake up in his arms and pretend to be asleep so I can lie with him for a few more minutes. I tell myself that everything I feel isn’t real, because the relationship isn’t real.”

I wait for Marsh to say something, but he just stares at me. A look of hurt on his face.

“I thought I didn’t want a relationship because of my parents. I told myself that love wasn’t real because I’ve never felt that way about anyone before. I believed that things wouldn’t work out because I’ve seen too many heartbreaks,” I say and my voice trembles. “Then one day I look at this guy I’m pretending to date and nothing about it feels pretend anymore. I don’t know how to pretend. I tell him I’m falling in love with him and instead of jumping into his arms, I run. I run because I’m scared. I run so far awaythat I just want to go back to my old routine of being with someone different every week.” I let out a pathetic laugh and the muscles in Marsh’s jaw leap.