Page 389 of Face Off

The jersey is an atrocity.

I love it more than several members of my extended family.

Please inform Marisol that I appreciate her commitment to crystals, bows, and desecrating professional sports merchandise. I wore it to the boutique after closing and spent twenty minutes turning in front of the mirror because your name across my back made me feel beautiful, claimed, and dangerously close to purchasing season tickets.

The sculpture made me cry.

You found the exact place where the marbles were made and asked someone to turn me into glass. That is either the most romantic gesture anyone has ever made or evidence that you enjoy emotionally destabilizing me through art.

I placed it on the counter.

Every morning, light passes through it and scatters across the boutique. Every morning, I read the words on the base.

I take up space here.

Thank you for seeing the woman I am becoming clearly enough to give her shape.

Your letter was unfair.

Nobody should be allowed to combine Browning, Jane Eyre, Captain Wentworth, Donne, a bedazzled hockey jersey, and a nearly naked photograph inside the same package. There should be regulations.

The academic photograph has been studied.

Repeatedly.

My current analysis is that gray sweatpants contribute nothing of value to society when worn by anyone except you. When worn by you, they become an argument against self-control.

I miss your body.

I am allowed to write that without permitting it to become the only reason I return. I miss your hands, your mouth, your weight, and the way you looked at me when nothing existed beyond the room we occupied.

I also miss reading beside you.

I miss fighting about books, stealing your coffee, and watching you pretend my feet weren’t cold when I put them against your legs. I miss the ordinary parts most because those were the pieces that made loving you feel like a life instead of a crisis.

Now I need to address Temple.

I hated every word of your description.

Knowing there was no romance doesn’t make me feel better about you using a woman to forget me. Knowing you cried doesn’t satisfy anything vindictive inside me. It breaks my heart for both of you.

I appreciate why you told me.

You destroyed the intimate version my mind created and replaced it with something painful but true. I understand the difference.

I also understand why Temple matters to you after that night.

She isn’t the villain. She never was. Temple was hurting, you were destroyed, and both of you made a choice you had every right to make. I respect the friendship that came after it.

I appreciate even more that you admitted you might have gone through a wall if our positions were reversed. That might not represent impressive emotional maturity, but it made me feel considerably less insane.

As for Briggs, your secret is safe.

I already suspected something.

Temple smiles differently when his name appears, and Briggs watched her through most of the wedding weekend while pretending he was studying the architecture. If anything is happening, I hope they trust us when they are ready.

They both deserve tenderness.