Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

Minute eight: the day we met.

I almost didn’t approach you at all. Jesus. How scary is that? You were/are/always will be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. But before you even opened your mouth, I knew you were going to change me. Change my life. So it took me an extra eight minutes to get brave enough to come closer. I had to prepare for whatever you threw at me. And Ever, if you had told me, right there in the glow of the Knicks game, that you only did serious relationships, I know now that I still would have kissed you. Still would have brought you home, fucked up, tried again, fought to keep you, lost you, won you back. All of it. I would have done it all, even if I spent the whole time fooling myself into thinking I wanted casual and easy. Nothing is easy without you. And nothing is casual about the way I love you. I miss you so much. I’m sorry.



Minute thirty-two (roughly): the night of the day we met.

The second time we kissed was in the back of an Uber. It was raining, and we were stopped at a red light on Broadway—do you remember? The driver was listening to talk radio in his language, and it was the least romantic setting ever. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Because there were raindrops in your eyelashes, and you were freezing from the air conditioner after getting wet while running to the car. You were smiling and blowing into your hands. And you were so real. You were everything real and beautiful and I thought, maybe I should drop her off and leave, instead of coming inside like you’d invited me to do. Because I couldn’t imagine keeping my distance from you. I couldn’t imagine being casual. So maybe cutting it short was a good idea. But the idea of that bothered me so much, I kissed you instead. I tugged you close with the strap of your overalls and kissed your incredible mouth. I should have known then we were forever. You tasted like forever. I’m sorry, Ever. I’m so sorry. Come back to me.



Minute seventeen hundred and three: a Wednesday afternoon.

On my way to your place, I saw you through your window. From the street. Since I’d observed the layout of your apartment—I’m a cop in training, remember?—I knew you were at the kitchen sink. But you weren’t washing anything. You were just staring out at the neighborhood or the sky, looking a little sad. When I got to your door, though, you were smiling. You flirted with me, dragged me inside and let me take you against the door. There wasn’t a single trace of that sadness. And I knew you’d hidden it from me. There was so much more of you to know, and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see it anymore. From that point on, it got harder and harder pretending I wasn’t dying to know every tiny iota of thought and feeling that makes up Ever. I ignored how wrong it felt to leave you each day. I forced myself to focus on seeing you the next time, the next time. So when you broke it off with me, I panicked. There wasn’t going to be a next time to focus on. So I fucked up beyond any apology I can offer, but please know that being without you hijacked my common sense. I’m the world’s biggest idiot and I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.



Minute three thousand and eighty: the day I knew something was wrong.

I offered to fix your leaky pipes on this day, Ever. You really should have given me more shit about that, because it was about as smooth as a pothole. I saw you slipping away from me that day. Saw it in your eyes, the way you clammed up on me. You know how scary that was, when I never really had you at all? I had no foothold, no leverage. Nothing. And this scared asshole you hooked up with decided the best foothold would be friendship. To get you back. Becoming your friend was the greatest decision I ever made. The worst decision I ever made was lying to you, lying to myself, pretending the never-ending drive to be around you was all about sex. It wasn’t. It was about Ever and Charlie. And the fact that I’m so in love with you, your heart, your soul, your thoughts and words, that I can’t even breathe right while I’m writing this (day five of being without you . . . kill me now). Please take me back, cutie. Please.



Minute three thousand and six hundred: the day I joined DateMate.

I’d spent hours touching you, looking at your gorgeous face, licking your skin. Seeing you through the eyes of a billion other men was Armageddon for my sanity. They could have you now. I’d blown it. You stood in your kitchen and told me you wanted something serious . . . and I didn’t jump all over it. What was wrong with me, Ever? Jesus Christ. When you messaged Reve, I should have told you I was Charlie. We could have saved so much time and you wouldn’t have been hurt, if I’d just been honest and said, “This is Charlie, I’m talking to your pictures, I’m miserable, can I come over and apologize for the rest of my life?” Instead, I did something stupid. Something that hurt your feelings, when that’s the last thing I ever want to do in this life. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. P.S. Do you still have the pink bikini? I’m not saying you’ll definitely take me back (please take me back) but I’m just curious. If you still have it. Laying around.



And so on. In total, I think I’ve written ninety letters. Every time I finish one, I put a stamp in the corner, walk down to the blue post box on the corner of my block and drop it in. Looking like a fucking homeless mental patient in my grease-stained sweatpants. Jack and Danika have taken turns trying to haul my ass into the shower or convince me to go see Ever in person. But they don’t know my plan.

You would think I never wanted to form another plan as long as I live, right? Well this one is different. The letters are only phase one. I want her to open her mailbox and have it stuffed full of my heart on paper, every day. I want her to read them and think about them. To understand that I’m a fuckup, but I’m a fuckup with good intentions that loves her beyond reason.

Once I’ve convinced her of that? I’ll roll out phase two.

You don’t want to miss it.





Ever


Maybe I’m a pushover. I don’t know. But dammit if Charlie didn’t have me back with the fourth letter I opened. Sue me.