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But what if Nolan hadn’t understood?
Worse, what if Nolan had understood and this letter was a gentle Thanks, but let’s just be friends?
Oh, fuck it. He was doing this. He blew out a breath, rolled his shoulders back, cricked his neck side to side. Ignoring the mix of excitement and dread in his stomach, he began to read.
Dear Eli,
First of all, twenty-five is not old, and since you’re twenty-six now, I figure you probably know that. And I swear to god, if you start claiming thirty-six is old, I’m going to hide your skates somewhere you’ll never find them.
Second of all, I do remember the day we met. I don’t remember our introduction, but I remember finding you outside, sitting on the bench while you waited for Michelle. Your leg was bouncing up and down, which I eventually learned is your default state when you have to wait more than three minutes for anything.
I also remember asking you about hockey.
For the record, I wasn’t trying to be rude. I only wanted to understand why someone would dedicate their life to being hit by large men with knives on their feet. I played hockey for a season, Eli . . . it wasn’t fun for me.
And your answer surprised me.
“Hockey makes me feel alive” wasn’t what I expected from a fifteen-year-old. “I like winning.” Sure. “I like skating.” Absolutely. “I like being the guy hitting other guys while wearing knives on my feet.” Wouldn’t have put that past a teenager.
But “Hockey makes me feel alive”? It was like you were trying to explain joy without understanding the language.
Mostly, I think I was trying to find that sense of “alive” myself, and I wanted to know what your secret was. What was it about hockey that made you feel alive? Could you articulate it now, a decade later? Maybe you can, I don’t know. Hell, maybe you could’ve articulated it back then. But whatever it is, that sense of feeling alive has always eluded me.
There’ve been temporary moments, of course. Digging my toes into the sand, watching a sunset over the ocean, sharing a meal with my best friend. Fleeting moments in time, whereas you . . . hockey is tied into who you are. I think the most alive I’ve felt recently was couch shopping with you. You made me feel like a part of your world without even trying.
You said I make you feel like you don’t have to be “on”?
Well, you make me feel like I exist right next to you, and not like I’m a step behind or looking at you from outside a dirty window.
Oh, and since you were wondering, the reason I didn’t question your decision to buy a couch the size of a hockey rink is because once I sat on it, I could see the appeal. My couch looks like it could have opinions about table manners, which tells you all you need to know about it. It says “Victorian aristocrat with inherited wealth.” Yours looks like it belongs in a sleep study.
Maybe you’ll let me try it out sometime?
From,
Nolan
P.S. $80 isn’t overpriced for a high-quality accent pillow. You’re just adorably cheap.
“Maybe you’ll let me try it out sometime,” Eli repeated to himself. Then, louder, “Maybe you’ll let me try it out sometime? Holy shit.”
If he was reading the subtext right, Nolan didn’t want to try out his couch . . . he wanted to try it out.
Horizontally.
With Eli.
Fuck, he hoped that was what Nolan meant.
There was a ton to unpack in this letter, not the least of which was Nolan admitting—in a roundabout way—that he was used to observing life instead of participating in it. Yet, for whatever reason, something Eli was doing made him feel like a participant.
Eli’s heart broke a little, but then his gaze snagged on Maybe you’ll let me try it out sometime? again and his heart skipped a beat.
Fuck yes. All the yesses. Yes to the moon and back.
He reread the P.S. again and couldn’t find it in himself to be offended. He knew he was cheap, but adorably so?
He’d take it.
