Dear Jon (5 page)

“What’s your temperature?” my mom asks from the doorway before she leaves for her waitressing job before lunchtime.

“It’s 102.3,” I tell her as I fight the urge to swallow because I remember how painful it was the last time. “The medication should kick in soon. That’s what the nurse said anyway.”

“Do me a favor, Jonny, and stay away from Max as much as you can tonight. If he gets sick, they won’t let him in daycare, and I really can’t take a day off since I just started working at Nan’s.”

“Tell me about it,” I complain. “I didn’t want to leave the site this morning, but I thought I would collapse after an hour. I wouldn’t have been able to stay hydrated, anyway, with my throat swollen like this.”

“I can pick up some ice cream later.”

“I got some this morning. But thanks, Mom.” I’m not used to her doing things for other people, and especially not for me. Sobriety is changing her.

“No problem. Just relax and get yourself better. Everyone gets sick from time to time. I’d come give you a hug, but I don’t want to get sick.”

“Thanks,” I say. “The sentiment counts.”

I can hear Will playing his video games for most of the afternoon, even as I weave in and out of restless sleep. I think it’s nice that he doesn’t have to watch Max every day. I’m sure my youngest brother has a lot of fun at daycare, and Will has some time to be a regular teenager. For a few days a week, he only has to be responsible for himself.

In the afternoon, he brings the mail into my room, surprising me with another letter from Livvy. Having all day to myself, I miss her more than I usually do. As much as I’ve tried to sleep or focus on other things, the medication is making it hard to actually think. The only thing I’m really able to do is feel. I feel bad. I feel bad physically. I feel bad emotionally, too.

“Want anything?” Will asks.

“I just want to feel better, and I don’t want to get you sick. So get out,” I joke with him.

“Hey, got anymore books to read?”

I raise my eyebrows, then quickly try to hide my astonishment. Pulling my arm out from under the covers, I point to the top drawer of my dresser. “Look in there. Read some of the jackets and see if anything looks good.”

“I like this cover,” he says, flashing
The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
for me to see, “but it’s too thick.”

“Oh, no,” I argue. “There are five books there. Honestly, Will, I can’t think of a better book for you to read. It’s smart and funny. And I’ve read that one countless times. We could definitely talk about Arthur and Zaphod for hours. Please,” I plead with him. “It’ll be awesome.”

“I can barely carry it,” he whines.

“Then you need to work out more. It’s a book, for Christ’s sake. How wimpy are you gonna look to the fairer sex if you can’t even carry an admittedly oversized book?”

“Wait, is there sex?” He looks very interested now.

“Sure is,” I tell him convincingly.

“You said that last time and there wasn’t.”

“Well, then, I guess you’ll just have to read to find out, won’t you?”

“Whatever.”

“But, hey, Will, there’s so much more to life than sex. That seems to be on your mind a lot these days.”

“You brought it up!”

I don’t think I did, but I realize my mind isn’t very clear. With the amount of time I’ve spent thinking about Livvy today, I very well may have brought it up. It’s been on my mind.

I don’t admit that to my brother, though. “Just go read, Will. And let me know if you want to chat about it. Come tell me when you realize you love the book, okay?”

“Challenge accepted,” he says, nodding his head and leaving my room. He comes back moments later to shut the door.

Grabbing the letter, I struggle to decide whether or not it’s good for me to read it. I already feel beat down and defeated today, thanks to the strep throat. I don’t really need the added feelings of rejection that have accompanied every letter I’ve received from her. No matter what nice thing she says or what sweet memory she reflects upon, the lasting impression I have from each note is the image of her kissing Finn.

I’m too weak to say no today. I miss her too much. The footnote is a repeat of a previous one, which I find curious. I touch the paint surrounding the word to make sure it’s textured. For a second, I thought she’d resorted to making copies of her pleading love notes.

I love you, Jon.

I wish I didn’t love you, Livvy.

I remember your campaign to make my parents like you. You were always so conscientious of things you did and so concerned with how they saw you that your suggestion for Valentine’s Day caught me off guard. My father would never have forgiven you, had he known, so it’s safe to say Mom never told him.

The night before, I was scared. It wasn’t just the fear of getting caught, though. I was afraid of your expectations of the day. I’d kept my plans a secret from you for one main reason. I wasn’t sure what I’d be willing to give that day, and I was scared you’d be expecting me to give you everything. After all, in the four hours of alone time we’d had that week before Christmas, it went further than I’d planned.

She never told me that. Did I push her? Did I make her do something she wasn’t ready to do, because that was never my plan with her. Not sexually, anyway.

So a full day with you–more than twelve hours–I knew the potential was there for things to spiral out of our control. I wanted you in ways I’d never wanted anyone, and you weren’t afraid to tell me how you wanted me. Idle time, no chaperone, and two people in love were all the components required to make love–
or
to make a big mistake.

Making love to her was never a mistake. I hope she doesn’t think that about any of the times we were together.

On the morning of Valentine’s Day, I woke up with a nagging feeling that we would get caught, and the thought of my father catching us in the act made the act itself much less desirable in my mind that day. As I let the scenario play out in my head, I never could see you and him having another civil conversation, and I knew I didn’t want that to happen. So before you could get your hopes up, I told you how I felt.

No, my hopes were definitely up that morning. I’d bought condoms. I’d showered twice that morning because I was so on-edge. Although we hadn’t said we would have sex, I thought we would. I can’t say I wasn’t planning on it, because I was, but I hadn’t plotted the steps to make it happen. I figured it would be something that came about organically. I figured our making out would naturally lead to it. I figured she would let me try things with her I never had–and on that point, she still did, even if it wasn’t actual sex–and I thought her desire would build as her trust in me did.

But when she said she didn’t want to go all the way that day, I didn’t question her or pressure her. When we did make out, and when she did let me go farther than we had gone before, I had to temper my own thoughts with non-erotic things, like science and stories I’d read. If I hadn’t done that, I think I would have gotten carried away. I would have put her in the position to tell me
no
, and I didn’t want to hear that word.

I never did that day, and I was proud of that fact.

Even though Mom did figure out where we were that day, I still consider our actions a secret that we kept between ourselves. It was a beautiful day with you, doing things we love on our own and together.

Let’s keep more secrets between us, Jon.

We aren’t finished.

Secrets II

There is no
us
anymore. Is this a secret I’m keeping from her? Because she certainly doesn’t seem to realize that.

My swollen throat seems to get worse at the end of her letter. The throbbing headache won’t be helped by crying over her again.

Rolling over on my side, I reach to get my
Science for Sustainable Development
text and open it up to the bookmark. Focus on science. Forget about Livvy.

After work on Saturday, I feel like I could conquer the world. Over the past two days, I simply couldn’t pull my weight. I was weak, and although the fever was gone, my throat still hurt and my head was pounding most of the time while I concentrated on my job. I didn’t ask to leave early, and that option wasn’t offered, either. The fact is, I’ve become someone they depend on at the site.

I like that.

“Will?” I ask my brother as I walk through the living room. “Do you want to go for a run with me? It’s nice out. You look pale.”

“Okay,” he says, putting the large tome face down, bending the spine. I know that bothers some people, but I love to see books showing their wear. It’s a sign of a good book that’s been shared by a lot of people. This particular copy was my father’s, and when it was given to me, it already had evidence of many, many readings by my father. Dogeared pages, coffee stains, even some notes in the column helped me feel more connected with my dad.

We both get changed quickly, passing my mom, aunt and littlest brother on the way out.

“Can I go?” Max asks.

“Buddy, I’ll take you for a lap or two when I get back. Will and I have a lot of ground to cover, and with your short legs, I don’t think you’ll be able to keep up.”

“I could ride my bike.” He could, but I really wanted some time alone with Will.

“Max,” Mom chimes in, “you said you’d help me make some cookies. Remember?”

Max still looks torn, and on the verge of tears. I check my watch. “We should be back just in time, then. You go help Mom, and then I’ll swing by and we’ll work off some cookie dough calories. Sound good?”

“I guess,” he whines.

“Good.”

Will takes off in a sprint, obviously racing me. I’m still taller than him, and stronger, so it’s easy to catch up.

“What’d you do today?”

“We went shopping. For some clothes, and for groceries.”

“Who?”

“Me and Max and Mom.”

“How was it?”

“Okay, I guess. She bought us a lot of stuff. It was cool.”

“Like clothes?”

“Clothes,” he says, “shoes.” I glance down and notice the new Nikes. “Pretty much anything we asked for. Ball caps, DVDs, some books. And then she bought a ton of groceries. So many that Aunt Patty was kind of mad.”

“Mad?”

“She said she was spending too much money.”

“I see. It does sound a little extravagant. I’ve never even owned a pair of Nikes.”

“They’re cool, right?”

“They’re nice.”

“Mom said it was payday, so she had a reason to celebrate.”

“Sounds like she may have some lingering guilt, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know she’s an alcoholic.”

“Yeah?”

“I think now that she’s sober, she’s able to see what she’s been missing in your lives. I think she feels like she has a lot of making up to do.”

“If I get new stuff out of it, that’s fine with me.”

“Don’t go all materialistic on me, Will. They’re just things. Things don’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not to you, but I’m tired of wearing worn shoes that don’t fit me and make me look like I’m homeless. I’m sick of kids making fun of me for wearing your hand-me-downs. I want something of my own. Something nice. Something that makes me look normal.”

Our run slows to a jog.

“Will, I know your life has been tough, but I’ve really tried my best to maintain some sense of normalcy with you and Max. I know I couldn’t always buy you the nicest things, or even new things all the time, but I never sent you out looking homeless. I tried to do right by you. I did.”

“I know, Jon,” he says. “But that wasn’t your job. It was hers.”

“You’re right. It was totally her job, but when she couldn’t do it, someone had to step in.”

“I’m glad you helped.”

“Well, I’d do anything for my brothers.” I shove him playfully. “What about you? Would you do anything for us?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Because after this summer, Will, I probably won’t be able to make any more trips like this. And I worry about Mom. I worry she’ll fall back into her old habits, and I need to know that you can take care of yourself and Max, if it comes to that.”

“How so?”

“You have Patty here, so even if Mom slips, you should be okay… but we don’t know Patty very well, and I know it’s tough to trust people you hardly know. I think you’d still feel on your own, even with our aunt here to help. Does that make sense?”

“How would I take care of Max?”

“The same way I’ve taken care of you. Make sure you have something decent to eat in the house. Play ball with him to keep him active. Give him books to read, and make sure he does his homework. If he has commitments, whether they’re school related, or games, or parties, make sure he makes them. And if he needs to talk, lend him an ear. Try to give him good advice. If you can’t think of any, then call me.”

“That sounds easy.” I think back to the past fifteen years. None of it was
ever
easy.

“Sometimes you won’t want to do it,” I tell him. “Sometimes you’ll want to hang out with your friends, or a girl, but you have to promise me you’ll keep an eye on him. Keep him out of trouble. Call me whenever you want if you need help, and feel free to go to Patty, too. She’s a good person who’s welcomed you into her home.”

“Do you think we’ll ever go back to Manhattan?”

“I hope so. When I graduate, I’ll bring you back out if you want to come. Hopefully your grades will get you into any college you choose.”

“What if I don’t want to go to college?”

“Why wouldn’t you want to go to college?”

“Because I don’t want to cost anyone money.”

“Nobody thinks of college as an expense that doesn’t have significant dividends, Will. It’s an investment. And I’ll send you all of my test prep books so you can start studying now. You could get a free ride to college if you put your mind to it.”

“You did it.”

“I did. I did it to prove that you could, too.”

“I’m not as smart as you.”

“I disagree with that. You’re just as smart as I was at fifteen.” That might be a lie, but he really has no memory to compare himself to. He was just a kid with kid things on his mind. But I see no harm in letting him believe that. He could be as smart as me, if he applied himself more. That’s what I need to convince him to do, and I think I’ve done a good job with the reading so far this summer. That’s key. “Just study. Focus. Don’t get too distracted by girls.”

He grins at me. I fear that girls may be his downfall.

“You’re allowed to get a little distracted. That’s part of growing up.”

“There’s a girl from school that I like.”

“Yeah?” I ask when we get to the front yard.

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll call her tonight.”

“You have her number?”

“She wrote it in my yearbook.”

“That’s a good sign,” I tell him with a smile. “Can you do me a favor first?”

“What?”

“Put in some time with Max tonight. I need him to trust you like he does me. Can you take him for a run?”

“I don’t know,” he hedges.

“Come on. Please?”

“He’ll be disappointed you aren’t taking him.”

“Initially, maybe, but once you start having fun with him, he’ll forget all about me. Please?”

“Okay,” he finally agrees.

“I’ll send him out.”

I’m winded, and finally feeling a little bit of exhaustion. I was wondering if the steroid shot had just kicked in late, but after the run, I’m finally starting to feel like I should feel after 8 hours of manual labor and a half-hour run.

“Max,” I pant. “I think my strep is lingering a little. I’m worn out,” I tell him. “Will said he wants to keep running, though. Go with him?”

“I wanted to go with you,” he says.

“If I could, I would, buddy, but don’t let Will down, okay? He wants to go with you.”

“He does?” Max asks, looking surprised. I nod my head. He hops up, bounding to his room to put on his sneakers. “Cool! Bye!” In his excitement, he nearly runs into the glass door on the way out, setting him into a frenzy of giggles when he gets to the front yard.

Catching my breath, I see the pile of mail on an old secretary desk in the dining area. I hadn’t received a letter since Wednesday. Finding nothing in the stack, I wonder if she finally gave up on me. A part of me thinks it’s about time. Another part wishes she hadn’t gotten over me so easily.

No sooner does the thought come that I notice an envelope on the floor. It’s from her. I feel relief… and then I feel depressed. Quietly, I make my way to my room and shut the door, sliding out of my shoes before lying down on the bed.

I love you, Jon.

Happy birthday.

That was
months
ago. We celebrated together. I remember the present she gave me. She’d taken me downstairs to the media room in her house, and hanging over the oversized reclining chairs was an illustration of The Getty Center done by Richard Meier, one of my idols. At first, I was jealous, wondering why the Hollands would have something like that hanging in their basement, but realizing its value, I figured it was some sort of investment for Jack. I’d never told Livvy about my interest in Meier’s work, so even though it was my birthday, the thought that it was my gift never crossed my mind.

But it was.

“It’s the only one of its kind,” Livvy had told me. “And it’s signed.”

And it was.

I’d seen his illustrations of the building before, but not from this angle and not with these colors. It was incredible. My heart was racing as I took in the details, eventually removing it from the wall to get a closer look.

“Do you like it?” she’d asked.

“How did you know?”

“I asked Fred for ideas,” she said. “He listed some names, and I went on the hunt for something good.” My roommate shared my fascination with Meier, and I couldn’t wait to see his face when I hung the rendering on our dorm room wall.

“I don’t know what you did to get this, Livvy, but this is the most incredible gift I’ve ever been given.”

“Really? This? I’ve given you other things,” she said softly, careful not to be overheard if anyone was listening from the foyer upstairs. “I’ve given you
better
things.”

I set the framed artwork down and pulled her into me. “Aside from you… but I don’t see you as a possession, Olivia,” I told her. “And anything I’ve taken from you, I hope you feel I’ve given equally in return.”

“I do,” she’d said. “You have.” I kissed her then, and I kept kissing her until her father came downstairs to wish me a happy birthday.

After that, she took me to a sushi place that the architect had once said was his favorite restaurant. The food was fresh and my company was perfect, but I’d greedily hoped that Livvy had found a way for us to be alone to celebrate after we ate.

“That’ll have to wait until your 20th birthday,” she said as I kissed her curbside in front of her home. “But I promise, I’ll make it happen.”

Another promise broken, I guess.
Putting the memories behind me, I finally delve into the letter.

We celebrated a couple things that day: your eighteenth year of life, and your acceptance into Columbia.

So we’ve gone back a year, I guess. I wish we were talking about my 19th birthday, because I don’t have a lot of great memories from my 18th. Some of it was my fault, for taking her with me to my uncle’s bar, but her actions the following day were totally her responsibility.
She
was to blame for that aftermath.

Nothing I said or did that day or the next was meant to hurt you. I definitely spoke out of turn and gave you false hope when it wasn’t mine to give. I just wanted all of your dreams to come true, because I knew how hard you’d worked for them. I just wanted you to be happy.

In the haze of tequila, I saw everything clearly. I saw our future together, and I was ready to leave my parents’ side to make that happen, no matter who got hurt in the process–as long as it wasn’t you.

But I ended up hurting you, too.

I never wanted that to become habit, or something you expected from me. I don’t want you to think that since I’ve hurt you twice now, I’ll keep doing it. I won’t, Jon. I swear I won’t.

No need to swear, Liv. You can’t hurt me if I stop caring about you. And I swear, I will. Someday, I will.

I haven’t forgotten my promise to you for your twentieth birthday, either. I hope you’ll let me keep that promise.

I want to spend the rest of your birthdays with you, and I want you there for mine. My eighteenth is coming up, and I’m hoping we will have worked through things by then–

How can she be so positive that we’re going to work things out!? I know if the tables were turned, and I’d sent her countless letters to which she never responded, I think I’d start to lose hope at some point. She obviously works differently, though. Maybe it’s time to compose a letter to her. Maybe it’s time to voice the words I haven’t yet said, and really never wanted to have to say to her.

Why? Because it would hurt her? Why spare her feelings any longer?

I’m hoping we will have worked through things by then and that this mistake I made and this pain I caused you will be things of the past. I hope you will someday forgive me.

We aren’t finished.

Eighteen

I decide to text Fred, and find out if he’d done what I asked him to do on the day I moved out.

“I couldn’t throw that drawing away,”
he says in his message.
“It’s priceless.”

“I understand,”
I respond, feeling relieved that he didn’t follow through with my rash decision.

“It’s hanging back in my room,”
he admits,
“and I’ll be happy to return it to its rightful owner when we move back on campus this fall.”

“Maybe I won’t want it,”
I reply.

“Maybe you will,”
he counters.

Maybe I will.