Dirty Letters by Vi Keeland
CHAPTER 2
LUCA
You suck.
You suck.
You suck.
I couldn’t concentrate on anything else ever since opening that letter.
As I packed more of my father’s stuff, thoughts of a boy—well, now a man—who had once been near and dear to my heart flooded my mind.
A text from Doc interrupted my mental trip down memory lane.
Doc: I could have sworn I just saw a tit in Central Park.
A tit?
Luca: What?
Doc: A Eurasian blue tit. One of the most exquisite birds in the tit family.
Luca: Ah. Bird peeping. I should have known.
Doc: It’s a nonmigratory bird found overseas, so it couldn’t possibly be one. But if not a tit, then what is it? Last time I saw one, I was in England!
The fact that he’d mentioned England was strange—almost like a sign from the universe, given the letter from Griffin. Although technically the letter came from California. I really needed to take a breather and talk to Doc about this. I’d never mentioned Griffin to him before.
Luca: I need to talk to you about something. Can you come to me?
Doc: I think it would be good for you to try to venture out.
Sighing, I knew he was right. I needed to make sure he wasn’t in a congested spot, though.
Luca: Is the park crowded right now?
Doc: No. Not where I’m sitting anyway.
Luca: Okay. Can you let me know exactly where to find you?
Doc was sitting on a bench surrounded by pigeons when I arrived at The Falconer statue in Central Park. His binoculars were facing up toward the sky, and when he lowered them down to eye level, he jumped like I’d startled him.
“Well, looks like they found their spirit animal,” I teased. “I guess word got out that the biggest bird lover to ever visit New York City was in town.”
“I wish. It was the bread. Doesn’t take much to get their attention. The problem is, they don’t understand once you run out. The next thing you know, you’re in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.” He turned to me and examined my expression. “What’s going on, Luca? You seem a little anxious. Is being out and about bothering you?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Is the packing stressing you out? Do you need my help?”
“No. I’ve actually been pretty productive in that regard.” I carefully opened the coffee I’d just bought from the food truck around the corner and blew on it. “Something else has come up, though.”
“Oh?”
Taking a sip, I nodded. “I received an unexpected letter from an old pen pal. His name is Griffin. The letter was in the pile of mail that’s normally forwarded to me in Vermont.”
“What’s bothering you about the letter?”
“It was the first time I’d heard from him in many years, and it was . . . a little bit abrasive . . . taunting. Basically, he told me I sucked. It hurt because . . . he’s right in a way. I never really properly explained to him why I’d stopped responding to his letters eight years ago.”
Doc briefly closed his eyes in understanding, seeming to know exactly where I was going with this. “Eight years ago . . . the fire.”
I simply nodded.
Eight years ago, my entire life changed.
At seventeen, I’d been a normal teenager. Friday nights were spent sitting in the packed bleachers watching my captain of the football team boyfriend throw touchdown passes, going to the mall with my friends, and attending concerts. I couldn’t have even told you what agoraphobia was back then. I didn’t have a fear in the world.
My life as I knew it ended on the Fourth of July, senior year. It was supposed to be the summer of my dreams, but instead it became my worst nightmare.
My best friend, Isabella, and I had gone to see our favorite band, The Steel Brothers, in concert in New Jersey when some nearby fireworks landed on the roof of the venue, igniting a fire that engulfed the building. More than a hundred people died, including Isabella. My life had been spared only because I happened to be waiting in line in the concession area, which was downstairs and away from the site of the explosion.
“Well, you know how long I’ve spent feeling like I didn’t deserve to live when Izzy had to die,” I said. “If she had just been the one who’d gone to get the sodas, she’d still be alive. My mental state back then was so bad that for a while, I didn’t allow myself to enjoy any of the things that brought me happiness. One of those things was writing to Griffin. He lived in England, and we’d been writing to each other since second grade—a decade. Over the years, we became more than just pen pals. We were trusted confidantes to each other. When the accident happened . . . I just stopped writing to him, Doc. I fell into my own world and stopped responding. I let our friendship die along with all the other parts of me I felt were dead.”
Soon after that time, I’d also started to avoid crowded places, and over the years, my fears had only grown worse. Now at twenty-five, my list of phobias was long. The only good thing to come out of being an antisocial recluse was that it afforded me endless hours of solitude to write. My very first self-published novel ended up going viral a couple of years ago, and before I knew it, I had penned three bestselling thrillers under the pen name of Ryan Griffin and landed a deal with a major publishing house.
“Did you say his name is Griffin? Isn’t that your—”
“Yes. Ryan was the last name I used in my letters to him—it was my teacher’s last name. And the Griffin comes from that Griffin.”
He was intrigued. “That’s so interesting, Luca.” It had been a long time since I’d given Doc new material to ponder and analyze.
Around the time my books started doing well, I realized I wanted to take charge of not just my career but my life. That was when I’d found Dr. Maxwell, who was semiretired and the only shrink in Vermont who made house calls for the agoraphobic. What I didn’t know at the time was that Doc was even more peculiar than I was—which of course meant he eventually became my new best friend. Totally odd patient-client relationship, I know, but it worked for us. It helped that my tree-lined property was a bird lover’s haven.
“When was the last time before this that Griffin wrote to you?” he asked.
“He wrote a few times that first year after I stopped responding before he finally gave up on getting another letter from me. I was just numb back then. And by the time I realized what I’d done—that I’d sabotaged one of the most precious things in my life—I was too ashamed to write him back.” I sighed and admitted the painful truth. “In many ways, losing Griffin was my self-punishment for surviving the fire.”
He stared off for a bit to absorb everything. “Well, your pen name is certainly evidence that you’ve clung to Griffin in some capacity.”
“Absolutely. I’ve never forgotten him. I just didn’t think I’d ever hear from him again. I’m shocked. I can’t even blame him for having an attitude, though. In his eyes, I deserved it. He doesn’t know what really happened.”
“What’s to stop you from explaining now? Writing him back would surely be therapeutic and long overdue.”
“He hates me, Doc.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He wouldn’t have written to you all these years later if he did. Clearly, you’re still on his mind. He might be angry. But you don’t let anger get to you like that unless on some level you care.”
I knew Griffin had cared about me at one time. I’d cared about him deeply, too. Stopping our communication was probably one of my biggest regrets in life. Well, aside from offering to get the sodas at the concert.
As I recalled some of my memories of Griffin, I managed a chuckle. “He was so funny. I always felt like I could tell him anything. But the weird thing is, while he didn’t know my identity and vice versa, he probably knew the real me better than anyone at that time. Well, he knew the person I was.”
“You’re still her, Luca. Just a bit more . . .” He hesitated.
“Extra?”
“No.”
“Nuts?”
“I was going to say vulnerable.”
Doc turned his attention to a bird that had landed on the bench across from us. He immediately brought the binoculars to his eyes. “A northern cardinal!” He turned to me. “Do you know what they say about cardinals?”
“What?”
“They’re messengers from our loved ones who have passed. Perhaps you might want to ponder what our little red friend might be trying to tell you at this very moment, Luca.”
We stayed in New York for five days before the long ride back to Vermont.
Walking into my precious house—my safe haven—after being away for so long brought me a great deal of comfort.
I’d picked up my pet pig, Hortencia, from a local farmer who agreed to watch her. How does a homebound girl end up with a pet pig, you ask? Well, a couple of years ago, there was a fire at a farm down the road from my house. When I’d heard about some of the animals dying, naturally it triggered me. Doc thought it would be a good exposure exercise to visit the site of the blaze. When I had, I learned that not all the animals had died. Some of them were still there, housed in a temporary barn. When I looked into my pig’s eyes, I basically saw myself: a sad, lonely being. She’d probably lost her best friend, too. So I did what any person who’d found her soul mate would do: I took her home. Ever since, she’d been like my child, definitely spoiled. Since I never planned to have kids, I figured I could get away with treating her as such.
As I tried to get back in the routine of being home, I continued to be haunted by Griffin’s letter.
You suck.
You suck.
You suck.
He was never one to mince words, but after all this time—that was harsh.
It felt like I should want to cry over this, but I couldn’t actually cry anymore. In fact, Doc and I often joked about the fact that I was incapable of shedding tears. He’d urged me to try to cry, to let everything out, but I never could—not since the accident. Not even when my father died.
Venturing down to my basement, I went in search of the plastic-covered container that I’d put Griffin’s old letters in—I’d kept them all.
Maybe if I could somehow reconnect with him by rereading one or two, that would help me decide whether or not I should write him back. Responding to his abrasive letter could be opening a massive can of worms. It might be better to let sleeping dogs lie, to let my memories of him remain mostly positive. I supposed responding could also bring me some much-needed closure, even if he never wrote me back again.
Opening the container, I closed my eyes while selecting one. I didn’t want to manipulate fate by choosing a particular letter to read. I just picked one at random.
Upon recognition of the date, I realized it was one of the older ones, from when we were probably about ten.
Dear Luca,
How have you been?
I feel sad because my mum and dad told me that they are getting a divorce. They said it’s not my fault.
How was your dance recital? Did you get flowers after, like you wanted? I would send you some if I had money. It costs a lot to send things to America.
I wrote you a song. It starts like this:
Luca. Luca. Luca.
I want to buy you a bazooka.
I’m not done yet. Looking for more words that rhyme with Luca.
Later, gator,
Griff
Clutching the letter to my chest, I thought about the image of him I had in my head. Somewhere in the box was the one picture of himself he’d ever sent me. When we were around twelve, we broke the unofficial “rules” and finally exchanged photos. I’d chosen one where I was dressed up for a dance competition, wearing makeup and with tap shoes on. He’d sent me a photo of himself standing in front of some building in London. At that age, I was just starting to be boy crazy. It definitely surprised me to learn that Griffin, with his big brown eyes and dark hair, was quite the cutie.
I’ll never forget what he’d written back to me after receiving my photo.
Turn this letter around for my reaction to your photo on the back.
And then when I did, it said:
Wow, Luca. You’re really pretty!
I don’t think I had ever blushed so much in my life. That was the first moment it hit me that maybe my feelings for Griffin could be more than just platonic. Of course, I’d kept that thought deep inside because it wasn’t like anything could have happened given the distance between us. Neither of us had the money to fly to see each other. The distance only made it easier, though, for us to open up to each other.
Remembering the words of that sweet young version of Griffin and comparing them to the harsh ones I’d received a week ago was a tough pill to swallow. Still no clearer on whether to contact him, I pulled out another letter.
This one, according to the date, was from when we were probably around fifteen or sixteen.
Dear Luca,
I’m gonna tell you a secret. Don’t trust boys. Like ever. We’ll tell you anything to get into your pants. And then when we do, we’ll blow it—literally—in like two seconds.
Okay . . . you can trust me, but no other guys. (And that’s only because I’m far away and can’t try anything anyway, otherwise I might not trust me, either.)
Anyway . . . I had sex. I guess maybe you figured that out already.
It was good, but not as great as I thought it was going to be. It was a little awkward, really. Mostly fast. You haven’t done it yet, right? I hope the answer is no. It better be no, Luca. If it’s yes, don’t tell me. I couldn’t handle knowing. (Actually, no, I do want you to tell me. I just might need to steal some of my father’s scotch first before you do.)
My mum is doing better. Thank you for asking. They said the cancer hasn’t spread beyond her ovaries. So that is good. (That’s good, right?) Do you know anything about ovarian cancer? I need you to tell me it’s going to be okay. I would trust that if it came from you. I guess I just need to hear it. Because I can’t lose my mum.
Don’t take too long to write back. Hearing from you always puts me in a good mood.
Later, gator,
Griff
I sighed and put that letter back into its rightful envelope. So many feels.
Okay maybe just one more.
Taking another one out, I opened it and read.
Dear Luca,
Listen to me. If there’s one thing I ever tell you that you actually believe, believe this: once a cheater, always a cheater. How do I know this? Because my fucking father is one, that’s how! I come from cheating stock.
So if you’re looking to get cheated on again, stay with that bloody loser you’re dating.
Did you hear that? That’s me fucking yelling from England! Do NOT give that fucker a second chance. I don’t care how sorry he says he is.
He doesn’t deserve you, Luca. He doesn’t.
He’s lucky there’s an ocean between us, because I would have broken his face for hurting you the way he did. I’d be in jail, and then my letters would come with a disclaimer that they’re being sent to you from a correctional facility.
Can you tell I’m mad? Because I’m fucking mad.
Anyway . . . (now that I’ve gotten that out) what else is new with you?
I have some news, actually. I joined a band. It’s with these guys from school. Don’t laugh, but it’s sort of like—a boy band. Except I’m much cuter than Harry Styles. But you wouldn’t know that because you haven’t seen me recently. Should we change that soon? Show me yours and I’ll show you mine kind of thing? Just kidding. No pressure. Just food for thought. I know you like to remain a mystery. And I sort of like that, too. (But for the record, if given a choice, I would like to see what you look like now.)
Write back soon.
Later, gator,
Griff
P.S. Still cracking my knuckles over here.
I shut my eyes and smiled.
There was only one letter I’d never read. It was the last one that had arrived almost a year after I’d stopped responding. By that time, I was so ashamed for not writing back in so long that I couldn’t even bear to read them anymore. I didn’t know at the time it would be the final letter.
I broke my rule and sifted through the pile looking for that one unopened letter until I found it. I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, but I opened it anyway.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I actually discovered inside, though. Nothing.
Luca,
Did you notice I left out the “Dear”? You’re not dear to me anymore. Because you fucking stopped responding to my letters. You’d better be dead. That’s all I have to say.
Wait. I don’t mean that. I would never wish you were dead. Ever. I’m just so fucking confused. I’m writing to tell you that this is the last letter you’re ever going to receive from me.
That’s a damn shame, because I could really use a friend right now, Luca.
My mother died.
I can’t believe I’m even writing that.
We found out two months ago that her cancer returned and that it spread. Everything happened so fast after that.
My mother DIED, Luca.
She’s gone.
I couldn’t read what else the letter said because the ink was stained from his tears.
And now, without warning, my own tears were pouring out in an endless stream—tears I didn’t even know I had the capacity to make anymore.
An hour must have passed before I finally stopped crying my eyes out.
I hadn’t cried since Isabella died in the fire. I’d thought my tears were all dried up. Apparently it was just that nothing had affected me enough to make me cry since.
He’d lost his mother, and I didn’t even know.
I was certain now beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had to write to him. I owed him a full explanation of what happened to me and why I’d stopped responding.
Even if he continued to hate me after, at the very least he deserved an apology.
This couldn’t wait anymore.
I knew that I’d be up all night pouring my soul out to him.
I only hoped he could forgive me.
