He’s drawn it lovingly and pretty accurately from memory with colored pencil and light shading for depth. The one noticeable difference is that the roof is separated from the rest of themain structure. From inside, dozens of colorful balloons float out between the gaps and up into the sky.
Above the drawing he’s written:It’s your birthday, so…Below the drawing:raise the roof!
I chuckle at his corny architecture pun before rushing up to my office to read this in comfort.
Dearest Patrick,
Happy early, or on-time, or belated twenty-seventh birthday! (I’m unsure if this will ever make it to you so I wanted to cover all my bases just in case.)
It feels wrong that we’re not together to celebrate. I know why we can’t be. I accept why we can’t be. But hurt can’t know or accept. Hurt just is.
I hope the magic is back to normal.
I don’t think I made it clear enough when I left, but I’m proud of you, Patrick. What you’ve done for the North Pole in the last year is nothing short of spectacular. I don’t think I’ve seen you that impassioned or inspired since college.
I guess what I’m saying is that if this truly is your calling, even if it means we can’t be together, I’ll understand. We had many beautiful years, and it would be selfish of me to demand more when you’re meant to be somewhere else.
Wow. This got depressing for a birthday card, but I already spent more hours than I’d like to admit drawing this, so… sorry for that.
Wishing you a joyous day and a successful run this Christmas.
I love you, Pat. Always will.
Quinn
I don’t even know how many times I end up reading the card. My eyes automatically loop back to the beginning each time I finish. A tear I’m unable to catch falls on the card and smudgesthe pen ink. That’s when I know I have to set it aside or else I’ll ruin this wonderful card from a wonderful man that I miss more than anything.
When I shift the clutter on my desk to write back, a hint of yellow pokes out from under a pile of papers. It’s my portfolio from New Jersey. I forgot that I sent Hobart after this ages ago.
When I open it, I’m greeted by those blasted toilet partitions and parking plans from Carver & Associates. I’m surprised they didn’t confiscate these when they fired me. Doesn’t matter, though, because beneath them both are the plans for Kacey’s nonprofit workshop.
“Damn,” I mutter to myself. I was supposed to have this built and functional for her by September. It’s December now. I’ve missed the mark by a long shot.
The next morning, earlier than usual, after sending off my next letter to Quinn, I return to headquarters, where I key in Kacey Ortega. A photo of her pops up. Tan skin, long black hair, chestnut-brown eyes.
In her saved core memories, there’s video of her working alongside her nonprofit volunteers (including, most recently and surprisingly, Quinn and Veronica) in a scrubby recreation center basement with a leak in the ceiling. It’s untenable and frustrating. It’s visible in the sets of their brows as they put together a ramshackle Halloween party. Not only did I mess up with Quinn, but I did wrong by Kacey.
Quinn’s words about my passion lying here assuaged some of my outstanding guilt, but now it’s back and uglier.
It no longer matters that I wanted to be the lead designer on a project or head my own firm. I wanted those things because they would be concrete markers of success that would force my parents to realize that architecture is a legitimate career.
As Bradley helped me understand, I’m tired of looking to them for validation. It’s time to look in the mirror and find it there instead.
51PAGEANT PRINCEQUINN
12 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
For almost two weeks, Patrick and I exchange letters.
Beautiful letters. Sweet letters. Sometimes sexy letters.
Today, I catch the postman pulling up to our mailbox right as I’m leaving for the first rehearsal of the Rainbow Connection Coalition’s Holiday Pageant. After the success of the Halloween party, Kacey reached out to me via email about doing more work with the group. “Paid this time, of course,” she’d said over the phone when we discussed the group’s upcoming interest in putting on a holiday production for their parents.
I set the new letter down on my passenger seat like it’s truly Patrick, here to visit. I drive over to the rec center buzzing with excitement. I’m eager to work with the teens again and thrilled at the prospect of finding a position at a place that values my unique skill set, allows me to connect and mentor, but doesn’t squash my sense of self or mandate me as much.
I’m walking across the parking lot with the letter in hand when Veronica shouts at me from across the way. “Guess what?!” She and Kacey hit it off after Halloween, going out on a string of successful dates. Their dogs have even met. A big step for Veronica when it comes to meeting people. “Ooooh, is that another love letter from your estranged husband?” she asks, eyeing the paper in my hands.
“We’re not estranged. That sounds too much like we’re characters in a period drama.”
