gifted me with my fortune and my lifestyle give security to someone else who deserved it more than I did. Was happily ever after reasonably anonymous sex—no strings attached, no emotions involved, just an orgasm as a promise in the end? Was happily ever after me traveling the world alone, experiencing new things by myself, as I had when I’d visited New York to try to get my life together?
I thought I was happy. I thought I had set myself up for happiness. I had an enormous nest egg, one that would send me around the world several times over. I’d built this life. Was it not the one I wanted?
Whenever I started questioning myself, questioning everything, my resolve completely melted away. I tossed the surprisingly heavy box on my bed before plopping down beside it and upending it, spreading the letters in a mess over the comforter.
I liked them this way, disjointed, out of order. I could drift through Marcus unabated by time, unrestricted by circumstance. Here, he was just a kid, writing to me not long after he’d been sent to military school. Marcus had found the letters our parents had kept from me after his father had died, sending them to me as a friendly laugh, as in, “hey, remember this time when we were apart and miserable but so in love?” I didn’t know whether they were a gift or a curse. The letters were full of angst and loathing for our parents. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had received those letters. Maybe I would’ve stayed on the West Coast, eager for both of us to turn eighteen, for Marcus to leave school, for us to be together no matter what.
Here he was upon starting his business, getting in after a lucrative summer internship while he was in the military academy, eager to launch his career in the business world, away from the Armed Forces of his father. There was so much hope then, and the desire that I would be proud of him once he’d made it. He had to focus on everything right now, but we’d be together soon, just as soon as he started making money. Even back then, so young and driven, I doubted that Marcus at that point even dared to dream of how much money he’d have at this point of his life.
And here was a letter written soon after the debacle with Ron, when I was tentatively exploring the idea of it being easier to be friends with Marcus than it was to be romantically attracted to him. I thought that if I could shut down that portion of our relationship, it would be fine.
And it was. To a point. It had been easy to focus on myself, on getting myself to the place I needed to be after everything had gone so wrong. I didn’t need the added distraction of the unrequited relationship I had with my stepbrother. That wasn’t a point of drama I could address or mull over.
I’ll always be your friend, Marcus had written. You’re my very best friend, Parker. I hope that won’t change whatever you decide you want to do in life. Best friends last forever, I hear, and if it makes you smile, I hear that family never splits. Ha—probably shouldn’t joke about incest. And a reminder: We’re not related by blood. Never were, never will be. I love you deeply. Do what you need to do.
It wasn’t easier to just be friends with Marcus. It wasn’t easier to watch him smile and laugh with my escorts. It wasn’t easier to imagine what they did once they left my club, Marcus never making mention of it, my employees under no obligation to disclose what happened while they escorted. And yet it haunted me, my platonic relationship with the man I loved, the man I had always loved.
Here, another letter from military school.
Sometimes I can’t understand why things happen , he’d written, his handwriting still round, sloppy, childish. There’s nothing about life that’s fair. We should be together, and we aren’t. People who don’t understand us keep us apart. And then I remember how simple love is, how simple it is to love you. It’s all I have to know. I don’t give a shit
I thought I was happy. I thought I had set myself up for happiness. I had an enormous nest egg, one that would send me around the world several times over. I’d built this life. Was it not the one I wanted?
Whenever I started questioning myself, questioning everything, my resolve completely melted away. I tossed the surprisingly heavy box on my bed before plopping down beside it and upending it, spreading the letters in a mess over the comforter.
I liked them this way, disjointed, out of order. I could drift through Marcus unabated by time, unrestricted by circumstance. Here, he was just a kid, writing to me not long after he’d been sent to military school. Marcus had found the letters our parents had kept from me after his father had died, sending them to me as a friendly laugh, as in, “hey, remember this time when we were apart and miserable but so in love?” I didn’t know whether they were a gift or a curse. The letters were full of angst and loathing for our parents. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had received those letters. Maybe I would’ve stayed on the West Coast, eager for both of us to turn eighteen, for Marcus to leave school, for us to be together no matter what.
Here he was upon starting his business, getting in after a lucrative summer internship while he was in the military academy, eager to launch his career in the business world, away from the Armed Forces of his father. There was so much hope then, and the desire that I would be proud of him once he’d made it. He had to focus on everything right now, but we’d be together soon, just as soon as he started making money. Even back then, so young and driven, I doubted that Marcus at that point even dared to dream of how much money he’d have at this point of his life.
And here was a letter written soon after the debacle with Ron, when I was tentatively exploring the idea of it being easier to be friends with Marcus than it was to be romantically attracted to him. I thought that if I could shut down that portion of our relationship, it would be fine.
And it was. To a point. It had been easy to focus on myself, on getting myself to the place I needed to be after everything had gone so wrong. I didn’t need the added distraction of the unrequited relationship I had with my stepbrother. That wasn’t a point of drama I could address or mull over.
I’ll always be your friend, Marcus had written. You’re my very best friend, Parker. I hope that won’t change whatever you decide you want to do in life. Best friends last forever, I hear, and if it makes you smile, I hear that family never splits. Ha—probably shouldn’t joke about incest. And a reminder: We’re not related by blood. Never were, never will be. I love you deeply. Do what you need to do.
It wasn’t easier to just be friends with Marcus. It wasn’t easier to watch him smile and laugh with my escorts. It wasn’t easier to imagine what they did once they left my club, Marcus never making mention of it, my employees under no obligation to disclose what happened while they escorted. And yet it haunted me, my platonic relationship with the man I loved, the man I had always loved.
Here, another letter from military school.
Sometimes I can’t understand why things happen , he’d written, his handwriting still round, sloppy, childish. There’s nothing about life that’s fair. We should be together, and we aren’t. People who don’t understand us keep us apart. And then I remember how simple love is, how simple it is to love you. It’s all I have to know. I don’t give a shit
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