This,she thought, but couldn’t say.
He couldn’t hear her. She’d gotten the email years too late.
Lydia continued reading:
“Dear Letty,
“I came pretty close today to coming to your home. See, I thought I had figured out what I could do to make this whole thing right. I lay up every night this week planning what I was going to say to you, and what I was going to bring for you—not flowers, because you fucking hate flowers. And not chocolates, because I know how shitty that would look. I was going to bring you a first edition ofThe Amber Spyglass,because I know you love that book. But then I got to the end of your street, head all fucking full of how forgiving you would be, and it just hit me hard in the gut. I was doing all that shit for me.
“So that I could be a different person, a better person, a person worthy of someone like you. I wasn’t thinking about you. I’ve never thought about you. You weren’t even a whole human being to me, not even back when I was a dumb kid with a crush. I just saw someone I thought I could be happy with, and when you laughed in my face after I asked you out I saw you as a thief. A girl who stole all my hopes for my own future. I never thought for one second about your future. About what you wanted.
“And I’m still doing it now.
“I want you to make things okay for me.
“When I need to think about what would make things okay for you.”
Even Lydia’s voice was wavering now—but that was cool.
It made Letty feel less crazy for clutching at her chest.
“Dear Letty,
“I know how difficult the task ahead is going to be. It might even be completely fucking impossible. It’s not like I can plan how to make sure you have a great life from now on. I can’t force you to have fun and will you to be happy. But I know that I have to try. Even if you never know I’m doing it. Even if you do scream and cry; even if you beat the shit out of me. I want you to beat the shit out of me, so I always know that when I’m doing this I’m only doing it for you. Break my arm and I’ll just keep on going. Call me every name you know of; I won’t give up. Put it all on me; I can take it.
“As long as I know you are one step closer to the life you should have had, I can take it.
“All my love, sweet one,
“Tate.”
She managed to hang on until the very last line, and then it was just too much. The sob she had held in pushed past her lips and broke out into the room, loud and ugly and stupid. It was fine though, it really was, because Lydia practically did the same. She covered her face with her hands as soon as thatTatewas out, so consumed by whatever she was feeling that she didn’t even stop to balance the laptop.
It slid off her knee and onto the floor, most probably fucked.
Not that either of them cared. The first thing that Lydia did in the aftermath was stand up, and wipe her eyes with her sleeves, and then clap her hands together.
“Okay, so basically you have to go to him immediately. I fully accept that I gave terrible advice, and that he is not Satan himself, and just come on, get your jacket on, brush your hair, wipe your face, we are going right now to wherever he is. Right now, come on.”
“We can’t go right now. It’s…he…he’s at that college with the name that sounds like a bodily function, for some big wrestling thing. Trumpen or Furtberger or—”
“Parper U, you mean Parper U, Letty.”
“Yes, that is the one, that is exactly the one and it’s like a million miles away andoh my godI fucked up. I fucked everything up. And you know what’s going to happen now? He’s going to fucking die. He’s going to be fucking killed without ever knowing that I know all of this and I just…I just I’m sorry and I—”
It was Lydia’s hands on her arms that stopped her babbling. That slow stroking, with the little squeeze on the end. The way she urged her to sit back down, even though she didn’t remember springing to her feet. And then came her soothing voice, like soft rain on scorched earth.
“Calm down. Breathe, okay. Breathe,” she said, and Letty breathed. She believed everything was going to be okay—until Lydia attempted to reassure her. “He’s not going to die. This isn’t a shitty novel written by Nicholas Sparks. This is real life, where we just sit down and wait for his triumphant return, at which point you then tell him you fucked up with as much beautiful vigor as you just told me.”
Now her voice was trying to rise again.
She was shrugging off those soothing hands.
“But you don’t understand. The reason this has been nagging me is because he’s not going to throw the match. He’s not going to throw it. I messed him all up and now he’s not going to throw it.”
“Okay, so you’re seriously going off the deep end. But that’s cool, because I have Valium that my mom gave me in case college was a nightmare, and we can just take half and then maybe talk about why not throwing matches is a good thing.”
“No, no, no, goddamn it’s not a good thing. He’s all mixed up with these…these…mobsters and he’s already fucked them once and if he does it again…if he does I don’t…I can’t breathe. I need to put my head between my knees.”
