Category: The Emails

the kitchen counter

“rainy days and coffee breaks are my personal excuses to reminisce. and today I have both which is perfect because I saw you last night. I knew I would see you at some point again in life, but I didn’t think it was going to be last night.

it might’ve been the alcohol but my heart began to flutter before I even saw you walk into the bar. my body still has that intuition, it’s still connected to you somehow, catching the rays that you’re radiating. but tell me how do you keep weaving your way into my life even though it’s been four years of college and thousands of miles between us? you used to say I was always an “unfinished business”. you always wanted to claim me, but could never just appreciate me being there. then you left for school and I stayed here. I didn’t wait around, but we never did fully said goodbye to one another, we just avoided it. but here we are, our paths skirting next to each other on these high school streets. regret and words left unsaid create a fog that loves to choke the air from the room. flashbacks of us light this old and damp road into the past. and my heart tightens up at how we messed up our plans and our chance to be together. how we messed up each other. but when I see you I see second chances. I see us doing it right this time.

but now I’m sitting at my kitchen counter, wearing my flannel from last night and holding my mug of coffee that has gone cold. I’ve reheated it four times already and now I’m giving up. the rain has stopped and so has the feeling that we were supposed to work out. and that there’s nothing for me to miss anymore. catching your gaze from across the bar stirred an urge to take back those years in blazers and plaid skirts. but it was only a gaze. a fleeting moment. a break from reality. something that isn’t supposed to stay. and neither were you.”

Agloe, New York

“You’re different than any other man I’ve dated.

Normally they swoop in with their sweet talking and I build a case for them. I sit down for too many coffees with too many people and I list out the reasons why I should be in this relationship.

”The feelings will come eventually,” I say. “Right?”

I don’t build a case when it comes to you. I just come home to you. You’re where I feel safe. You’re where I feel at ease.

You built your life just right before I came along and I’ve been pleased to find you left a space for me. You give me the same feeling I get when driving home for the holidays— 900 miles— and I pull up to the driveway and see the lights left on for me.

You’re like the lights left on.

If I had to build a case then I guess it would be this: you choose me. Over and over, you choose me. You choose my ugly. You choose my beautiful. You choose what I know you will find attractive. You choose the things I try to hide.

If you are reading this right now:

Hi. I’m staying.“

Denver, Colorado

“It’s 8:07pm… I’ve been waiting all day for a Happy Birthday from the man I unproudly love. A Happy Birthday text never came, but one saying “I don’t love you, I never did.” Came through. I’m going to assume he forgot my birthday.”

New Jersey

“My friends call me a serial dater. One suitor walks out and another quickly steps up to take his place – I don’t think I go out of my way to find a guy but I definitely don’t do anything to prevent a relationship if I feel like he’s a good person. During my short single periods, it’s always been easy to fill my time with someone cute, someone funny, someone smart, someone kind until “boyfriend material” comes along. But, inevitably, the whirlwind romance comes to an end. Usually a messy end. And I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt – oh, it does. Every single time, every relationship, in the quiet moments of comfort, around month 9 or 10, I let my mind wander into the possibility of “the end.” I’ll be okay, I think. I don’t need them, I tell myself, I just WANT them. But, when I empty my box of collected clothes and toiletries and books and condoms that I’ve taken back from my drawer at their place, a tornado touchs down somewhere near my navel. It takes my breath away and rocks my stomach. I cry until I throw up. I sleep on the bathroom floor because it’s the one place I know won’t smell like them, feel like them. Slowly, day by day, week by week, I scrap myself from the tile. It’s the same cycle every time – I tell myself I won’t, I tell myself I’ll wait, but every time I let myself fall into a relationship. All the while, I ache for you. I’ve never wanted an ex back. I’ve never had resurfacing feelings for anyone I once dated. But for eight, long years, I’be dreamt about your lips and the fleeting moments I got to taste them. I wake unsure of whether we fucked the night before or if had just been my imagination running wild during my sleep. I screenshot our text conversations, plan out hours for our skype sessions, and leave a pile of discarded outfits before I find the perfect one whenever we’re about to hang out. We say we’re best friends because we don’t know what else to call one another – I know you feel it, too. You’re the only one I’ve pictured at the altar and you’re the only one I never let myself fall in love with.”

Atlanta, Georgia

“Tonight, he looked me straight in the eyes and told me he was disappointed in me. My grandfather. The one who used to tell my cousins and me Bible stories whenever he babysat, the one who used to forward me all those chain emails of funny pictures, the one whose fridge was always full of ice cream, the one who picked us up from school in his beat-up old truck.

I’m at that age where you realize everyone you’ve looked up to your whole life might not be perfect. My grandfather falls shorter of that standard every day. I had a concert at school on my eighteenth birthday, and he and my grandmother drove there, couldn’t find a place to park, and left. Didn’t call me or anything. I had the opening number on my birthday, and they didn’t even show up. I keep getting my hopes up and feeling let down each time. It’s funny, but not really: the main reason that he doesn’t meet my expectations is that I don’t meet his. I will never be the Southern Baptist, uber conservative, hymn-singing granddaughter he wants.

So tonight, when he told me he was disappointed in me, it wasn’t as much a slap in the face as it was confirmation of what I already knew.

Bobby, I’m sorry that I want to eat my food before everyone else sits down because, when you’re eating with ten people, it gets so cold and I get so hungry. I’m sorry that I don’t know your hymns and I don’t want to. I’m sorry that I love gay people. But even as I write these apologies, I know they are not true. I’m not sorry for who I am, even though it’s who you’re disappointed in. You’re breaking my heart every time I see you. You want me to be different; I want you to be different. And the sad reality is, we’ll keep going round in circles like this. The first time someone called you a crotchety old man behind your back, I defended you. Now, I feel like you’re the one attacking me, and it hurts. Why can’t you just accept me for who I am? I love Jesus and I love my friends and I love the kids I volunteer with and I love what I write on my blog, even though your comments always preach at me. I love who I am, and no matter the way you feel about me, you can’t change that.

You’re disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in you. And I don’t think it’s going to change.”

Woodstock, Georgia

“I slapped you in the face the night before, because I was drunk and you had been mean to me.

You were my constant friend for years. I’d seen you through so much and you returned the favor. Relationships, death, jobs, travel. We’d meet every couple of months and just catch up. Never spoken, always assumed, you were my person.

The next day we met because you wanted to clear the air, “I’ve always liked you, if things were different I would want to date you.”

I looked at you as we walked, the words tasting bitter as I said them “I think we’d make a terrible couple.”

New Orleans

“I feel immense pressure to succeed. To climb the ladder. To progress. To be an example for all the women who will come after me. In my career, there are few women at the top, and I feel a lot of people looking to me. I often wonder why there aren’t more women. The more tired of my job, I realize the smart women move on because they realize their lives aren’t about being a martyr to change the cycle. I can’t decide if I want to be a model, or have my own shot at happiness. But it can’t be both.”

somewhere in Michigan

“I put the ring back on today. It’s heavier than I remember, but it feels like hope squeezing my finger tight, drawing me back into the vow I made three years ago…before we started hurting and losing and stonewalling.

We’re gonna find [fight] our way back, baby. It’s us against ourselves, and I think we’re finally winning.”

Nebraska

“I lost count of the times I heard “Y’all are so perfect for each other”.

The truth was, it was all an illusion. No one knew we were putting on pretty faces in public and barely speaking in private.”

Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania

“Somewhere along the way he stopped looking at me like he did when we were 16. What I would do for him to just take a minute and really look at me. I don’t think he’s called me beautiful since our wedding day.”