A photo strip from the boardwalk photo booth. Four frames: Levi making a face, me laughing, both of us looking at each other, and the last one—the one where he’s kissing my cheek and my eyes are closed and I look like someone who’s just discovered what happiness means.
A guitar pick. His favorite, worn smooth at the edges. He’d pressed it into my palm the night I left and said, “So you don’t forget me.”
As if I could ever forget him.
A pressed flower—a forget-me-not, because teenage Levi had been painfully earnest about symbolism—and beneath it, two envelopes. One with my handwriting, one with his.
“We wrote letters,” I say, and my voice sounds far away. “To our future selves. We were going to open them together when we turned thirty.”
“Thirty came and went,” Mom says gently. “I kept hoping you’d ask about it.”
“I tried not to think about it.”
“I know.”
I pick up the envelope with Levi’s handwriting.To Delilah, when we’re old and boring (30 is basically ancient).There’s a tiny drawing of a guitar in the corner.
“Have you read these?” I ask.
“Never. They’re yours.” She stands, gathering her tea. “I’m going to take Ruffy for a walk. Give you some privacy.”
“Mom—”
“I know I made mistakes.” She pauses at the kitchen door. “I know what I said that summer, and I know it influenced you. I was wrong about Levi. I was wrong about a lot of things.” She looks back at me. “But I’m not wrong about this: you’ve been running from that boy for twenty years, and it’s time to stop.”
Then she’s gone, Ruffy trotting happily at her heels, and I’m alone with a metal box full of promises I never kept.
I read Levi’s letter first.
His handwriting at seventeen was terrible—all sharp angles and cramped letters, like he was trying to fit too many words into too small a space. Some things never change.
Delilah,
Okay so we’re supposed to write about where wethink we’ll be in thirteen years (THIRTEEN. That’s insane. We’ll be SO OLD) and what we hope for the future and stuff. Here goes.
I think I’ll be playing music somewhere. Maybe not famous—that’s probably a stupid dream—but doing something with songs. Playing in bars or weddings or whatever. As long as I’m playing, I’ll be happy.
Actually that’s a lie. I’ll only be happy if you’re there too.
I know that’s probably too much. We’re only seventeen. People don’t end up with the person they meet at seventeen. That’s not how it works. I looked it up, and statistically it almost never happens.
But here’s what I know: when I write songs, I write them for you. When I think about the future, you’re in it. When I try to imagine my life without you, it’s just...blank. Like a song with no melody.
So here’s what I promise, future Delilah: I will wait for you. However long it takes. If you need to go to college and find yourself or whatever, I’ll be here. If you need to move to a city and have adventures, I’ll be here when you come back. If you need ten years or twenty or fifty, I will still be here.
Because some things are worth waiting for.
You’re worth waitingfor.
I love you. I know we haven’t said that yet, but I do. I love you, and I think you’re the bravest, funniest, most beautiful person I’ve ever met, and I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to be good enough for you.
See you when we’re old and boring.
Love,Levi
P.S. If I’m famous by the time you read this, please don’t tell anyone I used to write poetry this bad. I have a reputation to maintain.
P.P.S. I wrote you a song. It’s on the tape. Don’t laugh.
