Thanks for joining me yesterday for lunch. I enjoy your company.
I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but they say honesty is the best policy, right? I hadn’t expected us to dredge up our past, and I’m sorry that I reacted the way I did. So much happened back then, things I can’t really explain, or even understand anymore. But there were moments yesterday, sitting there with you, that were so familiar to me. And in the car, it would have been so easy to lean over and kiss you, just like before. All those years ago.
On the plane, I thought about everything that happened. I think I buried so much back then. I took real, genuine feelings and purposely twisted them into something negative to make it easier for me to let go. I am so, so sorry for that now. I did love you, Liz. Honestly, I did.
I know it’s inappropriate for me to say these things to you. But you seemed so confused about what had happened that I thought you deserved an explanation of sorts. I was pretty messed up back then. I’m sorry. And regret, after all these years, that I hurt you. I don’t think I ever thought I had the power to hurt you then. I’m sorry.
Anyway, please don’t read into what I’m writing. I’m just having a weak moment. (Not something I admit to easily.) We can pretend I never sent this e-mail, okay?
Grace
p.s.
Picked up City Magazine at the airport. Impressive stuff, my dear. You’ve come a long way from those
pictures you used to take of the old dilapidated farmhouses. Remember those?
I read the message three times before I believe that she’s actually written the words. I stare and stare, waiting for my reaction, an emotion of some sort, and find that I’m stuck between elation and sadness, carefully not feeling a thing. Her words are too unexpected. Maybe too late. Maybe I don’t believe them.
I agonize over how to reply for a good twenty minutes before giving up and typing.
Grace
I was never very good at pretending, but promise I won’t hold your confession against you. In fact, I’ll even admit that I felt it too, in the car. I’ll admit that it isn’t easy to see you, and spend time with you, without thinking of the past and wondering why we didn’t work out. For the life of me, I don’t understand it, and probably never will. But it was good to see you. Really. Thanks for the afternoon.
Liz
p.s.
I love my dilapidated farmhouse photographs. (Please note that they’re referred to as photographs, and not pictures, now that I’m a professional.)
I hope I’ve ended the message with just the right touch of humor, and quickly send the e-mail before I can second-guess myself again.
I spend the rest of the day running errands, talking to Kelly Wagner, comparing schedules, and finally agreeing on the first city of our tour. San Francisco. We decide to drive up the coast together in two weeks.
Throughout the day, whenever I catch my mind slipping to Grace’s e-mail, I push the thought away. Focus. Her words replay in my mind, and I try my hardest to give them no meaning. But I can’t help the way my heart sings, or the smile that hovers on my lips. She felt something. Unbelievable. Maybe inconsequential. But after all this time, Grace still felt something. I wasn’t alone.
That evening, as Joanna and I prepare dinner toŹgether, my mind continues to be preoccupied, drifting toward Grace.
When the phone rings during dinner, I nearly jump out of my seat. “Let the machine pick it up,” I say, even though I am itching to pick it up. Just in case.
Joanna ignores my suggestion and brings the receiver to her ear.
“Hello?” Her brows pull together as she listens. “Sure. Hold on just a second.” She holds the receiver toward me and I take it, wondering if it really could be Grace after all.
“Hello?”
“Elizabeth? It’s Mona Kaplan.”
“Mrs. Kaplan.” I hope the disappointment doesn’t show in my voice. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve
Thanks for joining me yesterday for lunch. I enjoy your company.
I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but they say honesty is the best policy, right? I hadn’t expected us to dredge up our past, and I’m sorry that I reacted the way I did. So much happened back then, things I can’t really explain, or even understand anymore. But there were moments yesterday, sitting there with you, that were so familiar to me. And in the car, it would have been so easy to lean over and kiss you, just like before. All those years ago.
On the plane, I thought about everything that happened. I think I buried so much back then. I took real, genuine feelings and purposely twisted them into something negative to make it easier for me to let go. I am so, so sorry for that now. I did love you, Liz. Honestly, I did.
I know it’s inappropriate for me to say these things to you. But you seemed so confused about what had happened that I thought you deserved an explanation of sorts. I was pretty messed up back then. I’m sorry. And regret, after all these years, that I hurt you. I don’t think I ever thought I had the power to hurt you then. I’m sorry.
Anyway, please don’t read into what I’m writing. I’m just having a weak moment. (Not something I admit to easily.) We can pretend I never sent this e-mail, okay?
Grace
p.s.
Picked up City Magazine at the airport. Impressive stuff, my dear. You’ve come a long way from those
pictures you used to take of the old dilapidated farmhouses. Remember those?
I read the message three times before I believe that she’s actually written the words. I stare and stare, waiting for my reaction, an emotion of some sort, and find that I’m stuck between elation and sadness, carefully not feeling a thing. Her words are too unexpected. Maybe too late. Maybe I don’t believe them.
I agonize over how to reply for a good twenty minutes before giving up and typing.
Grace
I was never very good at pretending, but promise I won’t hold your confession against you. In fact, I’ll even admit that I felt it too, in the car. I’ll admit that it isn’t easy to see you, and spend time with you, without thinking of the past and wondering why we didn’t work out. For the life of me, I don’t understand it, and probably never will. But it was good to see you. Really. Thanks for the afternoon.
Liz
p.s.
I love my dilapidated farmhouse photographs. (Please note that they’re referred to as photographs, and not pictures, now that I’m a professional.)
I hope I’ve ended the message with just the right touch of humor, and quickly send the e-mail before I can second-guess myself again.
I spend the rest of the day running errands, talking to Kelly Wagner, comparing schedules, and finally agreeing on the first city of our tour. San Francisco. We decide to drive up the coast together in two weeks.
Throughout the day, whenever I catch my mind slipping to Grace’s e-mail, I push the thought away. Focus. Her words replay in my mind, and I try my hardest to give them no meaning. But I can’t help the way my heart sings, or the smile that hovers on my lips. She felt something. Unbelievable. Maybe inconsequential. But after all this time, Grace still felt something. I wasn’t alone.
That evening, as Joanna and I prepare dinner toŹgether, my mind continues to be preoccupied, drifting toward Grace.
When the phone rings during dinner, I nearly jump out of my seat. “Let the machine pick it up,” I say, even though I am itching to pick it up. Just in case.
Joanna ignores my suggestion and brings the receiver to her ear.
“Hello?” Her brows pull together as she listens. “Sure. Hold on just a second.” She holds the receiver toward me and I take it, wondering if it really could be Grace after all.
“Hello?”
“Elizabeth? It’s Mona Kaplan.”
“Mrs. Kaplan.” I hope the disappointment doesn’t show in my voice. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve
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