Dear Jon (2 page)

I have a newfound respect for men who work in construction. My second day on the site, I’ve never been more exhausted in my entire life.

After I’d switched gears about finding a job, the search was simple. I showed up for an interview on a construction location in a remote community outside of Provo, and based on my stature alone, they hired me. After the initial meeting, the foreman stuck around and talked to me about plans on the site. He was impressed with my understanding of the structure, and I even felt like I taught him a thing or two about design when he let me see the finished drafts of the home I’d be building over the next few weeks.

It’s my dream home. Every element of the house and surrounding land has a purpose. What looks visually clean and simple is based on structural complexities that excite me about the plans in my own life.

I’d once thought about making a home with Livvy. I’d wondered where we would settle, when Manhattan was such an integral piece of both of us. Not being able to reconcile the two, I would always imagine we kept two homes. A place amid the bustling city we love, and another tucked away in a natural seaside environment where I would teach her about constellations at night, and where she could show me the predation habits of fish in the ocean during the day.

Her father had taken her diving when she was younger, and the way she would describe the colors of the fish fascinated me, made me curious to experience the things she had.

“Jon, you have mail.” My aunt places the letter on my desk.

Seconds ago, I didn’t think my body would move, but at those four words, I’m alert and invigorated. It’s from her, I know it is.

Just as quick, I feel lifeless again. I wish I wasn’t so excited to hear from her. The anger creeps back in as I walk to pick up the letter.

It looks and feels just like the last one. No return address, but postmarked from 10023. Still anxious to hear her reason that she cheated on me, I open the envelope.

I love you, Jon.

Same greeting. I huff at it, still disbelieving her words. The nostalgic smell titillates my senses again, and I wonder if she means to stir this reaction in me. I wonder if she has any idea that it does.

September 29th.

Recognizing it’s June, I question the date. It’s not our anniversary. That was a week later.

Our first kiss. It wasn’t planned, but it wasn’t spontaneous, either. You warned that you wanted to kiss me, and I gave you permission to do it. It was the first time in my life I knew what it was like to desire another person. I didn’t know it would be so easy to teach my body the meaning of passion, of lust, but with one kiss, I learned quickly. Your desire transferred through me immediately as your lips touched mine, and I felt like I’d been marked for life. I was yours from then on.

From then on until June 2nd, though, right? Why, Livvy? Tell me about that date!

We were standing on the sidewalk that Thursday night. We weren’t alone. People walked past us. I wasn’t ashamed of what I was doing because it felt right.

I wonder if it felt right when she kissed Finn. I wonder if she’s ashamed of that.
Answer that, Liv!

Your desire toward me impaired your judgment, working against your need to show my father that you were good for me. Knowing others wouldn’t approve, you took my first kiss and you made my heart soar. Dad wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t care. It felt right.

It felt like a turning point in my life. It was the start of something new and wonderful. That realization–and the fact that your kiss was sensual beyond the imagination of my then-fifteen-year-old mind–made me grasp on to you for support. I needed to be steadied, while I wanted to be putty in your hands. I would have done anything you asked, but you asked for nothing more.

That’s not exactly true. You asked me to slow down.

You then walked me home and delivered me safely to my father.

Because I’m a good guy, Liv. I’m that guy your father would have wanted you to be with. I wonder, is he as disappointed in you as I am?

I would do anything for you.

She would do anything but apologize, apparently, or explain her actions! Does she think I’m just going to take her back? Doesn’t she know what she’s done to me? To us?

We aren’t finished.

Etched in grey paint is another mysterious footnote.

Weak

And I
feel
weak. I feel physically weak from back-to-back 10-hour days carting around materials and clearing out the dead and dying brush around the site. I feel emotionally weak for letting myself feel the longing for her.

Of course I remember that first kiss. It was completely spontaneous, but my manners did intercede a little, moving me to tell her my intentions first. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind that I could attempt to kiss her, much less follow through, with all the studying I had done that day. But I needed a release from the building tension, and it was the only appropriate outlet I had. I was stressed about tests. I was nervous about our first official date. More than either of those feelings, though, in that moment, I was in love.

Her beauty gave me the courage to ask and the confidence to accept her first kiss. I didn’t take it. She gave it willingly. Her inexperienced lips caught up quickly to mine, giving me the sensation I was desperate for, as well as the assurance that she wanted me just as badly as I wanted her.

I am weak.

My aunt has such good intentions. Since I arrived to her home in Utah just over a week ago, she’s been talking about inviting people over to meet me. It’s been important to engage my brothers in social outings and sports activities so they can find some sense of belonging in this place that’s two thousand miles away from all they’ve ever known.

I don’t need the stimulation. I’d rather be alone, do my work, read my books, and sleep, but I finally gave in to her gracious gesture. Last night, about eight families from her church came over for a cook out. Each of the families had a child around my age. There were six girls that spanned the ages of 17 to 20. The awkward introductions by my aunt made it blatantly obvious that she was trying to help me get over Livvy.

I smiled and charmed them all. I never let on that I was inwardly screaming to go inside and shut myself into the converted craft room that had become my home for the summer. The guys were friendly. We talked about sports, and I recalled the headlines I’d scanned that morning–and every morning–to keep up with the banter.

Most of the girls wore too much makeup. It was clear to me that they’d been prepped to hang out with me. A few mentioned that my aunt had told them I was “super smart,” that I was going to Columbia on a full scholarship, and that I was interested in architecture and art. One of them–more brazen than the rest–made a comment that no one told her I would be so hot. She stated she would have dressed differently, had she known. I couldn’t fathom what she would have worn instead. Already her tight shirt and ill-fitting skirt left little to the imagination. It was an instant turn-off.

There was one girl, Susan, who reminded me of my Livvy.
She’s not mine anymore.
Still, when I spoke with her, I yearned to talk to Livvy. She was the youngest. She was Livvy’s age, but she had the sweet naïveté that Liv had when she was a few years younger, when we started to date. Those were a few of the things that made me fall so hard, and last night, some of those feelings were stirred up again. It had occurred to me I was free to ask her out on a date. I’d be betraying no one. I was trying to find a good segue in our conversation about a movie we had both recently seen.

Then I thought about that movie. It was the movie I had seen with Livvy the night before her graduation. I didn’t know the ending because we didn’t stick around to see it. Instead, we fought, and that was the beginning of the end of us.

In thinking back on that night, I thought about all the nights we’d had. The sequence was like the fast-rewind function on a home movie. It ended with that day I’d caught up with her after art class, when she was sweet and naïve.

I pictured Susan instead of Livvy. My heart didn’t let me even
pretend
that Susan and I could have the happy ending that Livvy and I will never have. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel confident in myself enough to trust another girl with my affection.

Instead of asking Susan out, I told her I wasn’t feeling well, and I retreated to the silence of my makeshift room, not even telling any of the other guests good night. I didn’t get her number, nor would I ask my aunt for it. There was no happily-ever-after in my future. My happily-ever-after kissed another guy. My happily-ever-after obliterated my heart and my ability to love another woman.

“Jon?” Max says through the pine door.

“Yeah, buddy?” I roll over on my side to see him better when he comes in.

“Aunt Patty says dinner will be ready soon.”

“Thanks. Did you help cook?”

“Mm-hmm!” he says proudly. “We’re having
strawbanoff
. But it doesn’t have any fruit in it.”

I laugh a little. “Stroganoff.”

“I said that! Strawbanoff.”

I shake my head at him, wishing he could stay bright-eyed and happy forever.

“Oh, and you got a letter in the mail today.” When I don’t reach for it, he places it on the pillow in front of my face.

“How long until dinner?” I ask him.

“Ten minutes.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

I love you, Jon.

She might as well start these letters with, “I’m lying, Jon.” At least I’d believe her then.

I expect the smell before it hits my nose, so the surprise is significantly lessened. The longing for her is, too.

The rain nearly drowned you on the night you first spent time with my mother and father. I remember you telling me later that you almost lost the nerve to knock on our door that night, but that you didn’t want their initial thoughts of you to be that you were a disappointment to me.

In the brief time you spent with my family at dinner, you went from kid-they’d-sponsored-at-Nate’s Art Room to respectable-young-man in their eyes. In mine, you went from boy-I’d-kissed to person-I-could-spend-my-life-with.

I set the letter aside for a moment. I thought of her today, wishing she was still that person-I-could-spend-my-life-with. At the construction site, they brought in a large rock. It was about three feet high and five feet wide. From my vantage point, aside from its size, there was nothing spectacular about the stone.

A crane eased it down slowly, carefully, as the owner of the house gave instruction. Just before it touched the ground, I noticed that the earth appeared to be cleared in just that spot.

When the heavy machinery moved away, a woman joined the owner and they held one another while they looked at this rock. They kissed, took a picture of the lawn adornment, and then left in separate cars.

Later in the day, as I returned from a short lunch break, I first saw the words “I will” painted in red carefully toward the bottom. It took me a second to focus on an inscription above that. It was meticulously drilled into the stone in a flowing typeface:
Marry me.

I felt silly, feeling sad as I stared at the sentiment, but it moved me.

“This is the exact spot Mr. Tyson proposed,” the foreman said as he walked past. “They were regular hikers on the land, and they always rested on this spot to take in the view.”

I turned around, giving myself a few seconds to look at the mountain that their home would overlook.

“Jon?” Max is back. “Dinner is on the table.”

For my brothers’ sakes, I love that we now eat together at a table, but I really want nothing more than to bring my plate into my room and eat alone.

“Start without me,” I call out to him. “I’m finishing up something.” I pick up the letter again and keep reading.

Your face lit up as you talked about your plans to go to Columbia, and then about your ideas of what you wanted to do with your life. Thinking back, it’s very inspiring to me. I want to do something that matters, too. I know I’ve messed up, but I think I can still do good things with my life.

Remember what you said as you left that night? You told me not to worry about you.

Jon, I’m worried. I know I’ve already said it, but I love you.

And there she goes again with the empty words.

We aren’t finished.

This time, I seek out the message in paint. The color is pink.

Impressions

If she keeps telling me she loves me, it will eventually remove all meaning from the words. It’s actually a good thing, I think. It’ll eventually make it easy to get over her, if I can take the emotions out of her words.

I realize I don’t have to take the emotions out of them. She did that on her own. Feeling less broken-hearted all of a sudden, I decide to join my family at the dinner table.

An hour later, I find the signed CD Livvy had bought me at the Grizzly Bear concert last New Year’s Eve. I’d avoided listening to our favorite band because there were so many memories attached to it, but I realize if I just start listening to it, over and over again, new memories will begin to mesh with the old ones, and dilute the nostalgia. It’s not fair for her to get my favorite band in the break-up. I should be able to hold on to some element of my former life. I’ll keep my music.

When I get home from work, I check the mailbox on the way in. It’s Saturday, and the last letter was on Wednesday. Looking at the pattern of her previous letters, it seems about time to receive another.

She doesn’t disappoint tonight.

As soon as I think that, I realize she
will
disappoint me tonight, as soon as I read the first line. After setting the letter on my desk, I decide to take a shower before I open the envelope. My muscles sore, I let the hot water glide down my body as I try to figure out what this letter will say. Is she ever going to apologize? Wondering that makes me more tense, and I wish she was around to massage the pain from my muscles. I remember how she would kiss my right shoulder before she’d begin, every time. There’s a pang in my chest at that recollection.

Missing her more than I want to admit, I leave the bathroom with only a towel around my body and go to my room, shutting and locking the door before grabbing the letter and sitting down on the bed.

I shiver as the water continues to drip down my back from my wet hair.

I love you, Jon.

I was once a virgin.

Heat overtakes my body at her statement. It’s an odd way to start a letter, but it’s a turn on, for sure. I can’t keep my mind from drifting to the night when she left that virgin behind. I glance at the door as I try to remember what my aunt told me their plans were. I just wonder when they’ll be home. Finding moments of solitude are admittedly difficult here. Being in a nice bed with sheets that don’t belong to me makes what I want to do right now more taboo.

I should have taken care of this in the shower. The urge wasn’t as bad then. I start the letter again.

I was once a virgin.

The night you found out I was a virgin was also the night I found out you were not. Your admission was a blow to my own confidence, and I was at first afraid you wouldn’t want to be with someone who wasn’t experienced, like you were.

I was disappointed in you. I felt betrayed–”

“Don’t talk to
me
about betrayal!” I yell to myself, crumpling up the letter and throwing it on the carpet across the room. I’m so on edge, I feel like I might lose it tonight. I have to get rid of the tension. I decide to take advantage of my family’s absence, even at the risk of them coming home. The door’s locked, and I think this will be quick.

My go-to fantasy is my reality, my history. I return to Mykonos, where we washed away all the sins of our past and started our lives over again, together. I felt as pure as she actually was after we showered with each other. That was the first time she’d ever been fully naked in front of me. I’d seen most of her, taken a peek of nearly all of her, in our chaste moments of passion before that night, but altogether, she was her own work of art. The way her eyes widened as she first had a full glimpse of my body became the focal point of that gorgeous living, breathing artwork. Whoever her parents were, they had created perfection. Perfection looked up at me with a shy smile, and I was humbled that she had decided to be with me.

Impatient, I allow my thoughts to skip past the tentative moments, the gentle ones when I tried to put her mind and body at ease. Instead, I think of the seconds after she let go of my hand and moved her fingers to hold my body closer to hers.

As I suspected, it doesn’t take long to alleviate the tension. What I don’t anticipate are the tears that follow. It doesn’t take long to wipe those away, either.

I miss her so much.

After cleaning up and putting on some clothes, I pick up the letter again and try to smooth the paper into a flat sheet.

I was disappointed in you. I felt betrayed by you, not considering what your life had been like in between the time you left the Art Room and the time we started dating. There were months that I didn’t know anything about you. They were difficult months, following the death of a man you loved. I knew I had no right to feel betrayed. I had to understand, to forgive actions I never even needed to know about. Thank you for confiding in me, Jon. Thank you for telling me about your moments of need. I understand more now than I did before.

When I look back on that night, I look back in sheer admiration at the man I was getting to know. You quoted beautiful poetry to me. You took me to a special place where neither of us had gone before. You taught me things I didn’t know. You showed me things I’d never seen. You didn’t make me feel like the prettiest girl in the world–you made me feel like the
only
girl in the world.

You were the only boy in my world. You still are.

We aren’t finished.

Anxious, I read the word scrawled in red paint.

Revere

My eyes lingering on the word, I catch the double meaning. The restaurant I took her to was One If By Land, Two If By Sea, which came from Longfellow’s “Paul Revere’s Ride.” In this letter, she also talks about her admiration for me.

I gather the previous three letters in my desk drawer and look at the footnotes of each.
Declaration. Weak. Impressions. Revere.
She’s summarizing the theme of each letter at the bottom of each page. Maybe she’s giving me the opportunity to decide whether or not I want to read the letter by glancing at the bottom of the page first.
How simple. How kind of her.

I wonder when the
Why I Cheated
letter will come.