The next morning, I gave up on texting and decided to try emails. Even if he didn’t necessarily want them, even if he didn’t read them, I found it sort of therapeutic to write them.
* * *
Epic,
I know we said goodbye, but that was supposed to be for temporary. I wish you’d been more honest with me about things. There are goodbyes and goodbyes. I’d have liked the opportunity to say the right one, which is:
I’m so glad we met. I’m so glad I got to know you. I had a wonderful time with you in Santa Barbara, despite my misgivings about attending Luis’s wedding.
You’re an amazing person, and I can’t wait to see all the important things you’re going to do. I wish I could have done more to help the situation with your parents.
I hope you make your dreams come true. Fight for yourself—for what you want to do. If that doesn’t exist already, then get out there and invent it. I believe in you.
Best,
Ryan
* * *
I hit Send, packed up, and left St. Nacho’s at noon. The drive north on the cloudy coast gave me plenty of opportunity to think. I didn’t stop for many breaks, but when I did, I checked my email for any sign Epic had written me back. By the time I got to Santa Cruz, he’d sent something. I read it eagerly.
* * *
Ryan,
I wasn’t going to answer this. I went back and forth because we did say a kind of goodbye, which was:
I’m glad we met too. I wanted more. You didn’t. The end.
That’s fine, honestly. As you pointed out, I’m very young still, and things can’t possibly be as meaningful to me as they are to someone with as much worldly experience as you have.
While I’m sure you already know this, you should probably take your own fucking advice.
Best,
Epic
* * *
Stung badly, I replied right away.
* * *
Epic,
It’s a pity they haven’t yet invented the sarcasm font. That would have made it easier to spot at a distance just how much of your note would hurt. You should wear several warning signs: “Caution, sharp edges,” being only one. Others might say, “Contents may be habit forming,” “Deep water,” and the ever-popular “Slippery when wet.”
I’m sorry, again. I know saying “I’m sorry” without resolving the thing you’re sorry for sounds like, “Sorry, not sorry.”
How did we get here of all places?
Of course my feelings for you are more. And as Cam and Dan rightfully pointed out to me, I punked out on you disastrously by not facing your parents when you asked me for help. I should have had your back, made the argument that you can—and should if it’s what you want—find work outside the financial sector.
Your math skills are useful in a range of applications, and you’re a competent adult. You don’t need to go into the field they chose for you if you don’t want to.
I should have backed your play, and I’m sorry I didn’t.
Instead, I got tangled up in what your parents might think of me. How they’d treat me after I took you away for a weekend of tuxedo-clad debauchery.
I let my ego take over my conscience, and I’m sorry.
I’m on my way north. I could meet you when I pass through the Bay Area. If you want to give me a second chance to do the right thing, I’ll do my best to help you persuade your parents that places like StolenLives would be lucky to have you. I’ll also give you the direct line of our chairperson, Lila Newcastle, and a great recommendation.
With warmth and best wishes,
Ryan
* * *
I stopped in San Francisco for the night a couple hours later. Normally, it was one of my favorite cities. I traveled there a lot on business. When I wasn’t strictly on the job, I spent time shopping, walking, or eating in the many great restaurants. This time, I stayed in my hotel room, waiting for Epic’s reply.
* * *
Dear Ryan,
I don’t need you to persuade my parents of anything.
Now that you’re being all nice and shit, I’m forced to admit I shouldn’t have asked you to go with me to confront them in the first place. You’d have been a serious distraction. Things would more than likely have gotten ugly.
And okay, maybe you were right to press pause too.
I probably misread things between us. I can honestly say I wished for things that are just impossible if you aren’t on the same page. I pushed too hard too fast. But you’re mine. I know you’re mine, and I guess I have to wait for you to figure it out too.
I love how important your job is to you. That’s one of the things I find so attractive about you. I’ve never met anyone who feels so passionately about their work. Not anyone whose work is worth that passion anyway. But if you’re going to be Sisyphus, then you have to understand the things we are supposed to learn from him. There’s a reason for the myth. Yes, sometimes we’re destined to fight a losing battle. You've obviously embraced yours. You need to pace yourself. You need to take care of your body, mind, and spirit if you’re going to fight uphill all the time.
I love that your job is not just some rock you’re rolling.
I love the possibility that you might be saving human lives.
I want to be part of that. I will find a way, just you wait.
I can’t meet you while you’re here. I don’t need you to hold my hand with Steven and Chloe. This is my hill. My battle.
I have to invent the thing I need.
When I do, you’ll be the first to know.
With warmest wishes,
Epic
P.S. Next you’ll be trying to slide all up in my snail mailbox. Only boomers write actual letters anymore.
* * *
In the morning, I ordered an American breakfast, a fruit bowl, and a pot of coffee. I felt strangely good—relieved—despite being on the road all day the day before. I guess the fact I didn't drink myself to sleep the night before had something to do with my positive mood, but Epic’s willingness to forgive me and an open line of communication between us made all the difference.
Before I left the hotel, I sent another note.
* * *
Dear Epic,
You know I’m a millennial, right? There’s nothing boomer about me.
And just because your kind can converse in one hundred forty characters or fewer with no punctuation doesn’t mean you should.
There was a time when the manly arts included painting and poetry. Have you never watched Chinese palace dramas?
At any rate, I’m going to defend my email writing because I like feeling connected to you even in this small way. I hit Send, and then I stall out while waiting for you to reply. It’s as if my heart comes to life when I see your name in my inbox.
Going to your place and finding you gone hurt. I’m not going to lie.
I miss you. I miss us. That’s the truth.
But I don’t know what I could have done differently.
Whatever you do, wherever you are, at least take my words with you. Give me your words in return.
Yours,
Ryan
* * *
The next reply didn’t come until I was back in Vancouver.
I keyed the lock on my apartment door. Inside, I found the same serviceable, monochromatic design scheme. Gray walls, charcoal couch, wood floors with a gray rug in a geometric pattern.
My place could have been a page in any furniture catalogue. Well lit, nice windows with natural light. Archeologically themed knickknacks were all that said decor. Without those, my place could be interchanged with any other apartment on this floor.
The living room smelled of lemon cleaner and beeswax candles.
In the bedroom, I placed my suitcase and garment bag on the bed where I emptied them routinely. I filled a laundry hamper, hung up the suits, and placed my toiletry kit under the sink for the next trip.
The air tasted staler in there. Musty and smoky from my clothes. The bedding needed changed. I opened a window to let in fresh air.
In the bath, I sat on the lip of the tub, listening for the longest time.
I don’t know what I expected to hear. Plumbing sounds. A door opening or closing in the hall. The occasional honk of a horn from the traffic on the street below. Nothing human. No children’s laughter or barking dogs. No wind or waves. No music drifting on the breeze from Nacho’s Bar.
The world I lived in seemed sterile and uninhabited by comparison. How had I never noticed?
I went to my home office and booted up my desktop computer where I checked for messages from Epic. My unread emails numbered in the high fifties, but the only one I cared about was his. I opened it first.
* * *
Dear Ryan,
You miss us?
Now you’re going to say that? Now, when I’m a thousand miles away?
I told you so. I goddamn told you so. You’re such a fucking tool sometimes, I swear.
What do you want to do about that?
Epic
* * *
Oh, Epic. The moment we met I lagged a thousand miles behind you. Didn’t you see me, always trying to catch up?
* * *
Epic,
What do you want me to do? Obviously, shutting us down the way I did hurt both of us, but I honestly couldn’t see a different path. I’m entrenched. My last serious relationship failed, not because I didn’t love my partner or because he didn’t love me, but because I couldn’t walk away from my job.
It wasn’t right for me to put my work before his needs.
How would it be any different with you?
Ryan
* * *
Ryan,
This is why I shouldn’t have left the way I did.
I was hurt, and I wanted to hurt you back.
Still, I’m glad I didn’t do things differently because distance is what makes this conversation possible. There’s an economy to words in written form. I think about what I say before I say it. Plus, I can fake the mature-adult thing pretty well when I have time to edit. I probably would have kicked you in the shins if I’d stayed.
You said to find what I want to do and fight for it, and if that thing didn’t exist, I should invent it.
Were you serious about that?
Because what I want is to live in St. Nacho’s, dedicate my skills to the work you do, and pursue you, even into hell if I have to.
Tell me now if the answer is no.
The rest is details.
Yours? You are [still] mine.
Epic
* * *
My hands shook when I read his message. I wavered between giddy and indignant. How could he be so brash? How was he so confident when I’d obviously tried the thing he was so certain of and failed?
He was young, so he thought he could have it all. And of course life would beat sense into him eventually, but I wished it wouldn’t. I was ambivalent about him winning in the end—I wanted what he wanted, so of course I hoped we could find an answer. But I was keenly aware that if he was able to make things work, that would mean I couldn’t because I was a failure, not because things were impossible.
I couldn’t answer. I feared putting what I wanted—the things I deeply, sincerely, and with all my heart yearned for—into writing so goddamn badly that I worked through my other fifty-seven emails first.
Not only did answering those emails take me the better part of Sunday, the blank futility of their contents swept me into the undertow of my work mindset.
The following morning I was expected to be back at my desk, ready to wade into all the evils of the world. The time I’d spent away was already behind me. The magic of it dissipating like so much fairy dust.
Except for the deeply hidden place in my heart where Epic had carved his initials, things had already started back to normal, but for the first time in my entire life, normal wasn’t going to be good enough.
I would never be content again, unless I asked for more.