Jordy army, p.13
Jordyn's Army, page 13
“I’m about to write a letter,” I tell her, keeping the facts simple. She might lecture me if she knew what I was truly doing. We have helped each other mourn our marriages and have vowed only to look forward. It’s the only way to survive heartache.
“To whom is this letter for?” she inquires with a raised brow and a cheeky smile.
I squint through my eyes. “His name is No-Name,” I respond.
“Oh, Rose. No-Name doesn’t deserve your attention,” she reminds me.
We refer to our ex-husbands as no ones. They don’t deserve to be referenced by their given names.
“I’m writing for therapy. I will not send him the letter,” I assure her.
“I hope not. You have been doing so well these last few months. It’s just another small hurdle you have to get over.”
Suzette was married for five years longer than I was, and her husband walked out on her. She hasn’t had any major breakdowns since I’ve known her and I wonder how she’s made it through the passing time with what looks like so much ease. I’m jealous of her ability to shut the pain out.
I lost ten years of my life.
I lost my first love.
I lost my best friend.
To me, heartache is like an addictive drug that needs to be numbed to feel better. I’ve never written a fake letter or a letter to someone who wouldn’t read it, but it’s worth a shot—if maybe this might free the pain.
“I have to run to the gallery. I forgot my book there last night. I’ll be back shortly,” she says.
Suzette’s father, Harry, owns the art gallery, where she helped me secure a job. She works there too, but only one night a week, and it’s mostly to support her father. Since Suzette works for the village clerk four days a week, she has no time to spare. “Tell Harry I said hi,” I offer.
“Will do, and I won’t mention what you are doing right now, you silly woman.”
“I appreciate that,” I tell her with a soft snicker.
I pull out a lined piece of notebook paper and a pen from the drawer of my writing desk. Here goes nothing.
Dear ...
I will not address this letter to you because I don’t know what to call you. Though, if I tried to come up with a name, it wouldn’t be very nice.
Despite the pain you have caused me, I can’t bring myself to hate you, but I think it’s because I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you can tell me you love me—look me in the eyes and say those words—yet, hate me enough to tear my heart out and step on it as if it were a pesky bug.
The day I first met you, I knew how ridiculous it was that you asked me to step out of my car because you thought you knew me from somewhere. You made me believe we were long-lost friends, and you needed to find out for sure.
I knew very well we had never met before. I would remember a face like yours in a small town. Still, I stepped out of my car and sat down on the front step of your farmer’s porch. You even offered me a glass of lemonade so I would stay a little longer.
No one had paid that kind of attention to me before, yet, there you were, looking at me like I was fascinating—like I was beautiful. It was unreal. It was the best moment of my life.
But, now that’s ruined.
You ruined that perfect moment.
I bet you wouldn’t believe this, but I’m angrier at myself than I am at you. I was the one who had on blinders. Nothing in life can be as perfect as you pretended to be. I should have known right from the start that you were too good to be true. I worshipped the ground you walked on—even the ground where I laid down and allowed you to walk all over me, instead. I saw forever in your eyes. I saw my future. I saw kids. I saw it all, Frankie.
Then, it was like a mac truck hit me, stealing every part of my life, leaving me with only the essentials to survive. I’m here. I’m alive, but my heart—it’s not doing so well.
Were you playing me from day one? Were you always in the process of breaking my heart without me knowing day after day? Was I just that naïve?
I never worried that you would leave me for someone else. The thought never crossed my mind until the few months that led up to when I caught you. You were just that devious that you made me believe you would never do something so awful.
Did you feel like a ball of fire was burning your insides when you made love to that woman? Did your heart feel like a lead weight? Did your chest threaten to cave?
I wish it did, but I know better. I wish you could take my pain and own it as if it were your own. It’s what you deserve.
All I want to do now is hate you—hate you for all my remaining days. Except, my hate is fading, and I’m questioning why my heart still hurts because of someone like you. You’re a con artist; you know that?
I hate you.
That’s all.
Love, Rose
No, scratch that—no Love. Just—
Rose
I fold up the paper and shove into an envelope. On the front of the envelope, I write Frankie’s address. If I’m not sending it, there is no real purpose to write his address down, but now that I’ve fed my heartache, there is a larger desire to mail this letter.
Maybe I’ve lost my mind as I walk out the front the door, down the street, and open the mailbox flap. I toss the letter inside. As the letter drops to the bottom of the empty mailbox, my heart falls at the same time.
Frankie should know how I feel about him.
He should have to live with what he did.
Sending me junky emails to make my heart hurt again ... he deserves this. He deserves a lot worse than this.
3
“Thank you for coming in this morning, Rose. You’re a doll,” Harry says as I make my way toward the back of the art gallery. “We have a leak in our roof and Mary is changing out the buckets every five minutes.”
“I heard. Suzette explained it all. She’s on her way over to your house so she can help Mary. It’s no problem at all to ask me to come in … anytime. I’m grateful for this job,” I tell Harry.
Harry is also the brilliant painter behind most of the artwork on the walls. He’s older than my parents and has grandkids from Suzette’s older sister. The entire family frequents the gallery daily. It’s one of the reasons I love the environment of being here. Their family treats me like family, and they have only known me just less than a year. I’m even invited over for their Sunday night dinners.
“Before I leave, I’ve been meaning to ask you, how is therapy going? You seem to be a little more troubled these last couple of weeks than you were before. You were doing so well. Did something happen?”
I suspect I might be a topic of conversation at dinner for Harry and his wife, Mary. Mary is the one who will bring me tea, sit down beside me, place her hand on mine, and ask me millions of personal questions. She’s very much like Suzette in that way—or Suzette clearly takes after her mother. Mary’s voice is so soft and soothing that I easily comply and comfortably share all the nitty-gritty thoughts going through my head. Therefore, I wonder if Mary asks Harry millions of questions after working a shift with me.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I tell Harry. I say it’s nothing, but Suzette may have tipped him off.
Harry raises an eyebrow. “I have two daughters, Rose. I know a lie when I see one.”
“You mean, hear one?” I correct him, laughing to lighten my statement.
“No, I mean, see one,” he says, pointing at my face. “You looked up to the right when you answered my question. That means you are lying, Miss Rose.”
I sigh. “It is nothing. It’s just received an email from Frankie. I’ll be fine. I just need to move past it.”
“Oh bother, why don’t you let me respond to the chap. I’ll take care of him once and for all.”
I laugh because I think Harry is serious. He walks back over to me rather than leaving through the front door, and places his hands on my shoulders. “I know, it’s only been a year since you’ve been in our family’s lives, but I look at you much like I look at my two daughters, Rose. You deserve happiness, and you don’t deserve what that man did to you. Plus, you came here to London to fix your heart—you can’t fix something that’s broken when there is an object lodged in the cracks.” Harry leans forward and places a father-like kiss on my forehead and turns to walk away. “Listen to the old man. I’ve been around the block a few times.”
How do I explain to anyone that sending that letter yesterday made me feel good? It’s my way of having the last word, which is why I brought another piece of paper here with me today. Eventually, I will run out of words. It might be what heals me.
I place the paper down onto the glass countertop and reach for the pen that’s on top of the order form beside me.
The second the tip of the pen touches the paper, relief washes through me.
Dear No Name no-name,
I wonder if “no-name” should use capitalization. It’s supposed to represent your name, so I suppose I should capitalize it. However, I remember learning that capitalization is meant for important proper nouns. You are not important to me. Therefore, I change my mind.
I have decided to let you know that I have moved to London, a place far away from you. I’m happy here. It’s beautiful and quiet. People are friendly and loving here.
I bet you there are no cheaters living in this small town. Maybe that’s because someone outlawed all cheaters from this place. If that’s the case, I would be safe from you finding me here, wouldn’t I?
I woke up this morning with the urge to tell you: I hate you.
There it is. I hate you, Frankie.
I plan to continue writing you these letters until I feel it’s clear how much I hate you. Funny enough, I had no intention of sending you the letter I did yesterday, but as soon as I signed my name and slipped the paper into an envelope, the urge to finish the job was incredible. I’m supposed to trash the letter and feel better, but I knew I wouldn’t feel as good as I do knowing you see these hateful words.
I doubt you have realized this yet, but I stole your 1952 Mickey Mantle baseball card. Last night, I lit it on fire and threw into the metal trash bin in front of my house. I feel like you may have mentioned that it was worth over a million dollars at some point. So, that sucks.
Anyway, I hope Amber is treating you well, making you your favorite meals, cleaning up after your sloppy ass, and bringing in matching income. I know you loved all those aspects of our marriage.
I hated those aspects of our marriage. I hated all the meals you loved. I hated cleaning up your gross socks and underwear because you couldn’t manage to drop them into the laundry bin just two feet away. I hated that you wouldn’t agree to me starting a blog, making it profitable so I could become a freelance writer rather than working at a low-paying newspaper job. I supported you all those years, and you didn’t care about anything I loved.
Therefore, now, I can easily tell you: I hate you.
I know I’ve already said so once in this letter, but it’s important for you to know that I don’t miss you at all. I’m having the time of my life here. Thank you for breaking my heart and setting me free.
Love,
Rose
4
Two Months Later
“Oh, Rose,” Suzette sighs, walking in through the front door. She isn’t due to be home for another hour.
“What are you doing home so early?” I ask.
“We’re supposed to get some nasty storms tonight, so we closed down early for the night. Is this what you do when I’m not home?” She’s referring to the handwritten letter I’m completing. If I was working, I would be typing on my laptop. She knows exactly what I’m doing.
“It’s—”
“This isn’t therapy, Rose. You’re pressing pause on your life. You are not moving forward, and you must stop sending … No-Name … these letters. He hasn’t even responded.”
“I haven’t left a return address,” I tell her, hoping it makes her realize I’m being truthful about this being a selfish act of therapy.
“Rose,” she says, chuckling. “The postal service will stamp it with the county origin. Frankie knows your last name. Therefore, he could find you if he wanted to, sweetie.”
I didn’t think of that.
“Fine, this will be my last letter.” It’s so easy to say this will be my last letter, but I hadn’t considered the fact that there hasn’t been a response from the dozen letters I have sent in the last two months.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll believe that one when I see it,” she teases.
“Truthfully, I’m signing off in this letter.”
Dear no-name,
I am running out of things to say to you, so this will be my final letter. Did you know my parents have been together for thirty-two years, and they still love each other just as much as they did when they first met?
Throughout their married life, they have argued, they have said hurtful things without intention, and they have walked out of the house to take a long quiet ride. While growing up, I can recall the days they had arguments. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, I was very aware, and it hurt me to see their love tarnished, even if it was just for a few hours. However, you want to know the best part about taking part in an argument? It’s the part when you make up. It’s the part when you remember all the reasons why you love the other person and wonder why there was even an argument. Couples argue because they are full of passion—it is important for their partner to understand them because understanding makes up a very large part of a relationship. Understanding is like the glue between a couple, and without understanding, everything will eventually fall apart.
I still don’t know why you did what you did, but if I had done something wrong, I would have hoped you would have had some understanding for me. Understanding would have kept us together. On the contrary, someone could be the most understanding person in the entire world, but if the pieces of a relationship have already broke, even the strongest glue—understanding—won’t work because when something as gentle and vulnerable as a relationship breaks, it doesn’t just break, it shatters like glass. There isn’t a type of glue in the world that can fix that.
I have shattered. I will never be the same, regardless of the understanding I have maintained. You broke me, Frankie. You broke us, and forever, the us part will always be in thousands of pieces that can never find their way back together.
This is my final goodbye. I hope you find some understanding for the next person you love, and I hope the understanding is stronger than glue—enough to hold you through the hard times.
I understand, Frankie. I understand you weren’t strong enough to be faithful, but your weakness has, in turn, become my strength.
That strength is this goodbye. Forever.
Love (for the last time),
Rose
“Feel better?” Suzette asks as I slip the letter into the envelope.
“I do feel better,” I tell her.
Suzette smiles and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “I knew you’d come around, eventually,” she says. “I’m proud of you.”
“How are you so strong?” I ask her. “I don’t understand why it has taken me so long to say goodbye.”
“I put a picture of … No One … inside of my closet door, and I throw darts at his head each morning when I wake up.” Suzette is as serious as I’ve ever seen her.
“Are you joking?”
She takes my hand and leads me down the short hall into her bedroom where she opens the closet door that showcases a picture of her ex-husband with thousands of little dart holes all over his face. “That is a piece of art,” I tell her.
“Right? I think so too. Look, sweetie, we all grieve in our own way. I just want to make sure you’re heading in the right direction—that’s all.”
“I am now,” I say, releasing a deep exhale.
“I know.” Suzette pulls me over to her bed where she plops down on the edge. She pats the space next to her for me to take a seat. “So. I have a date tomorrow night.”
“You do not!” I yelp. Suzette has sworn off men since I moved in with her. “I thought you were never going to date another man again.”
“I know what I said,” she gushes. “But he’s a lovely man, Rose. I like him. He comes into the clerk’s office once every few days just to bring me afternoon tea. Who does that?”
“How did you meet?” I question.
“It’s quite embarrassing really,” she begins. “A few weeks ago, he came in with a tea in a to-go cup, and he needed a paper notarized for his business. I went to grab the paper he needed marked and knocked his tea over. I don’t know how I managed to do so, but that tea covered every inch of my workspace and Rodrick’s clothes. It was mortifying.”
“Oh my gosh,” I say, trying my best not to laugh because she isn’t laughing.
“Basically, he had to come back the very next day so I could notarize a clean copy of his document. He spent about thirty minutes teasing me about my mishap. There was a spark, Rose. I can’t explain it, but he has come back several times since, requesting that I pretend to notarize blank pieces of paper.” Now, Suzette is laughing. “It’s very sweet.”
“I’m happy for you,” I tell her. She deserves to meet someone new.
“Are you going to be okay if I start seeing Rodrick? I don’t want to be bringing a man around the house if it’s going to make you upset or feel lonely.”
“No. Oh, God, no, never stop your life for me, please. I would hate to think you do that.”
“Okay, I just wanted to make sure.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” I tell her, wrapping my arms around her neck. “You deserve this.”
“You know,” she sighs. “Maybe Rodrick has a friend.”
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “Everything will happen when it’s supposed to, right?”
Who am I kidding? My ex-husband doesn’t even want to track me down enough to make things right anymore. Twelve letters, and nothing in response. I didn’t realize he could trace my mail.
