“Whatever. What are you doing Lucas?”
“Don’t bother him, Madeleine. Go back upstairs, or play outside.”
She doesn’t listen. Instead she walks over and crouches down in front of Lucas. Before he can stop her, she holds up one singular daisy made of white and green construction paper. It wilts in her hand. “Are these for—you can’t be serious!”
“Madeleine!” Mrs. Thatcher drops the video camera; the room turns sideways and then the video goes black.
I realize then that I remember that day. I recognize the soft blue t-shirt and cargo shorts Lucas is wearing. Madeleine and I played outside, waiting for dinner so we could scarf down our food and then walk to get ice cream.
I remember Madeleine running out of the house with Lucas hot on her heels. She wanted to tell me something, was desperate to get it out, but Lucas spoke first. He told me that since I would probably be going to the dance alone, I’d better go with him so people didn’t point and laugh. I walked up and punched him in the eye, right underneath their oak tree, and I got into a hell of a lot of trouble. Even still, I was allowed to go to the dance with Matt Del Rey, and Lucas never showed. All these years, I assumed he’d been grounded for being mean to me. I liked to imagine him at home with cold peas pressed to his bruised face.
The truth…
The truth is much worse.
I notice there is a leak in Lucas’ ceiling, and then I realize that it’s me. I’m crying, because I am too late. Because Lucas loved me all along and I sent his CV to Hawaii.
I call him again. And again. I dial so many times, I fear my phone company will think I’ve gone nuts and cut off my service.
After a while, I realize he must have his phone on do not disturb because there’s no way anyone in their right mind would ignore this many calls. I try Madeleine and his parents, but they don’t know where he is. I’m tempted to check the Lone Star Motel, but it’s a long walk from Lucas’ apartment and the sun set hours ago.
It becomes clear that I won’t reach Lucas tonight.
And then my email pings.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: #352
Over the years, I’ve written you 351 emails. The first was the week I left for college. I was miserable without you and too much of a coward to ever say it out loud, so I typed it up and saved it to my drafts folder. 11 years later, 351 emails have been added to that folder. Sometimes I treated the emails like a journal, but in reality, I just needed to feel the type of connection with you that one click of the mouse could provide. This is the first one I’ve ever sent, and it will probably be the last.
Let me tell you what I should have told you then.
For 18 years, I loved you.
Now, I’ve loved you for 28.
It sounds like quite the accomplishment, but it’s always been so easy for me to love you. Through all the pain, all the conflict, I’ve always known the truth. We cared about each other. Nobody fights over something that doesn’t matter—they just walk away. And so, I’ve always known that if you ever really wanted me to suffer, all you would have to do is just that.
Walk away.
Now I see I was na?ve. We were never on the same page. You think I wanted to fight with you because I hate you? Because I want to win? What does it even mean to “win” at this point? What are we fighting for? The job? Hometown hero? Over the years I’ve lost track, and I never really minded because for me, it was never about the war and it was never about beating you. I just wanted to have you any way I could.
I regret letting it go so far. I should have said something ten years ago. I should have never come back to Hamilton. Instead of writing that very first email, I should have walked out of my dorm room and met a girl. Any girl. But it was already too late; not one girl I dated over the years ever challenged me like you did. How could they? My heart, my fight was with someone else.
I know you never asked me to sacrifice so much to love you over the years. You proved as much by signing that offer letter. But as you bask in the winner’s circle, Daisy, I want you to look back at the doors you’ve closed behind you and ask yourself one thing.
Was it all worth it?
-Lucas
___
For as long as we’ve been in conflict, it strikes me that this could be the first real fight we’ve ever had. Lucas’ raw hurt and anger leaps out from the computer screen and slices right through me. It’s an unrestrained honesty from him that I’ve never felt before.