Date: January 5
Subject: It was definitely a confession
I love your nerdy history talk. The way you tell it sounds really fucking filthy, and I love it. Don't ever stop.
That was an exceptionally detailed way of telling me that yes, you definitely think about me. You should, since I think of you quite often. We've shared many showers, lovely.
* * *
To: Nick Acevedo
From: Erin Walsh
Date: January 9
Subject: It wasn't an admission of anything
I know my rights, sir, and I know that I confessed nothing.
Am I correct in assuming you spent the holidays with my family?
* * *
To: Erin Walsh
From: Nick Acevedo
Date: January 10
Subject: It was more than nothing
I was at Patrick and Andy's place for Christmas Eve. That girl can make tamales better than my grandmother, and it's sacrilege to even say that. My grandmother's probably going to climb out of her grave and haunt me now.
It's probably dangerous to ask this, but when is that ship heading to port? I need some motivation. A date on the calendar, a month, a moon phase, anything.
* * *
To: Nick Acevedo
From: Erin Walsh
Date: January 21
Subject: Confession
Hey, Dr. Hot Pants,
This ship is like a big old nerd carpool. We're always dropping people off, picking people up. If we could've gone straight to the research station, we'd be there by now. Once we arrive, I'm heading off the grid. I'm not going to have reliable internet access for a few weeks. I'm trying to get a first look at some samples from a new coring site, and it's really remote.
And here's my confession: I will miss you so damn much that I hate those words. They seem totally inadequate. I'm frustrated that I can't find anything better. I missed you when I left the Cape after Matt and Lauren's wedding. But now I want to tell you what I ate for lunch and how I didn't pack any matching socks and that I had a really strange dream about dolphins. I want to know what you ate for lunch, too, and I want to hear you talk about your surgeries, and the Adventures of Gastro Girl, and everything else you're doing. I want to share my good news or bad news with you, and tell you when I'm happy and sad, and tired and stressed, and all the feelings in between.
I guess what I'm saying is that I'd roast a chicken for you. At the very least, I'd get out of bed after sex and make you a sandwich.
I don't know when I'll be able to see you. I know I say that all the time, but I'm not avoiding you. I promise I'm going to make it soon. If it isn't winter, it will be spring—and before you ask, yes, spring in the Northern Hemisphere. I might have to commandeer this ship and sail it back to Iceland myself, but I'll do it.
* * *
To: Erin Walsh
