My jaw drops when I see West’s familiar handwriting. The words are smudged from his left hand dragging across wet ink. It’s dated eight years ago in December. Before Martha’s Vineyard, before the article.
Dear Mars,
I’ve found myself writing this letter more times than I’m willing to admit, and each time, I’ve thrown it away—crumpled it in the trash, buried it beneath drafts of stories that never turn out and endings I’m trying to rewrite. As embarrassing as this is to admit, even more humiliating is the circumstance that has led me to write it. There’s an indie bookstore on Fulton that agreed to carry a single copy of my book, and I return every couple of weeks to see if it’s been purchased. Last time I stopped in, an employee who I suspect feels sorry for me told me that she was holding it for a customer—“a famous writer!” she said with a wink and a smile. The store had a stack of freshly signed copies ofTorchedon the front table, and, well, here I am—with regrets piled up and a pen in my hand.
There are a hundred million things I want to say to you—a lifetime’s worth of words built up over a handful of years. I kept track of them in a notebook for months: books I read and loved, books I read and hated, stupid jokes that I thought would make you laugh, things I should have said before you left. Even now, I have so much to say, but I’m scared it will come out wrong. We both know how words are, how easily they slip into a shape that’s not quite the one you meant.
I live in the city now, and I think of it asyourcity; I can’t help but imagine that you moved here and immediately stepped onto the path of world domination. I still find myself envious of the strength of your convictions. You knew that you belonged here from day one. You never questioned if you could keep up with the pace of NewYork. Meanwhile, I spent years in limbo, unsure which path to take, searching Tucson for something that was no longer there, trying to make sense of something that has no shape or resolution.
I should be writing about other things—new ideas, new worlds, new characters. But no matter how hard I try, you slip through the cracks of every story I write. I should be reading new books, but instead I reread yours and find you tucked between the pages. I hear the words in your voice. My mind is a maze of haunted hallways. I drive myself crazy, remembering.
It was easier to be happy then, don’t you think?
Do you remember the morning we hiked Sabino Canyon and watched the sun rise over the horizon? You had a way of infusing magic into my ordinary world—like how the sound of your voice transformed the dry, brutal heat into something soft, almost sacred. Or how your smile turned the desert into an ocean—I was always a little lost in it. The mole above your lip was my religion. Losing you, my crisis of faith. I think, deep down, I never expected that the horizon would change, but it has, and I’m still trying to find the edge of it.
I have this dream that feels like a memory, of running into you in our old spot on campus. Some coincidence or twist of fate has brought us both back to Tucson, and I find you in the place where we met and had our second first kiss. Sometimes I let myself believe it’s possible.
If we ever find ourselves there again, I’ll look for you under the palm trees.
The critique I always get is that not enough happens in my stories. They need more plot. With that in mind,Mars, I’m getting to the plot: I think about you all the time, and I miss you more than is reasonable. I assume that as the years have stretched on without anything to hold us together, you don’t feel the same. That’s okay, but I’ll close with this.
If you ever find yourself thinking of me, I’m asking you to call.
Love, West
Tears roll off my chin onto the letter, blurring the already-smudged ink. I move it to a safer position and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. I read it again and again until the words are hazy to my exhausted eyes. Each time I finish, I’m drawn back to the same sentence.
If we ever find ourselves there again, I’ll look for you under the palm trees.
He held on to that sentiment for years, and on my first return to Tucson in nearly a decade, he went straight to our spot. He was waiting for me, even after all that time.
It was easier to be happy then, don’t you think?
Yes, it was.
I’ve been hunting “happiness” for so long that I forgot what it feels like. I expected that when I hit whatever goal I was chasing, my life would magically transform into a “happy” one.
But happiness has always been in the fleeting moments that occur between all the other necessary shit that causes the world to turn. It’s stargazing with West and making him laugh. It’s falling asleep on his chest. Writing something I’m proud of.
It’s not the immediate, suffocating pressure of getting a book deal or the relief of hitting the bestseller list or even theoverwhelming moment of seeing my characters on-screen. It’s a feeling that comes with no strings or angst attached, and that, for better or worse, has never, ever been related to my success.
I can’t believe it took me more than thirty years to understand something so painfully obvious.
I gather the letter, my signed copy ofDrought, and the unsent apology that I never bothered to unpack. I trace my fingers over each one, marveling at the fact that West has been writing me love letters and sending them out into the universe for the better part of a decade. What a tragedy that it took me so long to receive them.
It was easier to be happy then, don’t you think?
No wonder it’s easier to write when West is in my life.Everythingis easier with him. My natural state is one that is tightly wound with equal parts ambition and anxiety, but his presence unspools me like a typewriter ribbon.
If you ever find yourself thinking of me, I’m asking you to call.
It’s the middle of the night, and I have a red carpet in twelve hours, but I pick up my phone and I call.
38
11 Years Ago
Junior Year, Second Semester
