I’m the only one in our family who doesn’t have any ambitions, who isn’t good at anything and who doesn’t like rules.
Iaman anomaly.
But I didn’t call her to talk about my various flaws. I called because I wanted to know why. To maybe make her understand that this can’t be the end of her and Arrow.
“All I’m saying,” I begin with a determined voice, “is that there might be a way to fix this. You can’t give up on a relationship of eight years.”
Suddenly, something occurs to me.
Something glorious and wonderful.
Something that should’ve been obvious but wasn’t because so many things have happened in the past twenty-four hours that I didn’t give it more than a passing thought.
He is my coach now.
My new soccer coach.
“Maybe I can help you,” I blurt out to my sister. “Maybe I can do something about it. He’s here now. He’s my new soccer coach. Which means I’ll see him all the time and I can fix this. I can get you guys back together.”
My mind is racing with possibilities now –racing.
There’s so much I can do. So many ideas I can come up with.
“Salem,” my sister snaps and brings me out of my daydream. “You’re not doing anything. You’re not interfering, you understand me?”
“But –”
“No. Not a word out of you. Enough. You stay out of this. You stay out of my life. It’s my breakup. It’s my relationship. This has nothing to do with you. Do not meddle into things you don’t understand. And please don’t call me again, okay? Do not break any more rules, Salem. If Leah gets sick of you and kicks you out of that school and her house, I’m not taking you in. You’re on your own, you understand me? So please, just follow the freaking rules and keep your nose out of my business. And for the love of God, stop wasting your time on soccer. There are girls out there who can make something out of it, but you’re not one of them. Accept that and do something worthwhile for a change.”
I write him letters.
I’ve probably written him thousands of them ever since I started, when I was ten.
Because I wanted to tell him so many things.
I wanted tosayso many things to him. I wanted to answer the question he asked me in the kitchen. I wanted to promise him that his secret was safe with me.
But I never got the chance and so I resorted to other measures.
Since then, it has become my addiction.
Every night I write him a letter. I tell him about my day, about all the things I did, all the mundane details. Every night, I ask him abouthisday. About whathedid, all the places he went, all the people he saw.
Every night, I talk to him like a friend.
Every night, I call him my darling.
My darling Arrow.
That’s how I start my letters. Not ‘Dear Arrow’ or ‘Arrow’ or something conventional like that.
Because what I feel for him can only be expressed in certain words, in certain syllables and tones and rhythms. And ‘darling’ hits all the right notes.
Darling says he’s adored and loved.
But he also makes me hurt. It says that he’s both a delight to my heart and a needle to it.
Loving him is the most wonderful, most awful thing in the world.
