tomorrow. You aren’t to blame for my being so flighty. I realize I’m acting like a tease and that’s not right. I like you, so much really—in fact from the moment you walked in to the office I’ve thought about you constantly. And then last night we had so much fun, and again tonight.
“I see what goes on in your life. You make things go, people vie for your attention, you make them believe that anything is possible. I don’t know anyone like you. Your friends adore you, and you can’t fake that. Secunda would take a bullet for you. But even though I’ve known you for all of five minutes, I’ve made up all these bad roads we’ll take if we get together.
“I’ve waited for what seems like forever to get out of Plymouth and start a new life. What’s in it for us to fall for one another? A few weeks of summer fun and then a sad September goodbye? I want my new life to start with a clean slate with nothing holding me back. That makes me afraid of you. You’ll break my heart and I’ll pine for you when you do. I can’t do that to myself. I have simply been through too much. My life is not here. It is down a new road and not with a boy who is just passing through.”
I looked at her intently and thought how my parents got married two days after they met. A few days ago I had never heard of Veronica Chapman. Tonight I simply wanted to hold her hand and know her better, and she was closing the door on feelings that would linger long after she had gone. Give it a breath, give it a chance , I thought. Don’t say goodbye to something before you’ve finished saying hello.
I ceased my inner monologue and spoke quietly to her. “You know, Veronica, when I was in school some of my friends and I would get together at the start of each semester to look at the incoming directory of freshman girls. We called it the ‘pig book’ because it had pictures of the frosh girls and their hometowns and such, and we would discuss who was a ‘pig’ and who was worth calling. Then we’d set out to get dates with anyone who well . . . measured up. We all thought it was pretty funny and clever on our part.
“But now after some of the life lessons you’ve unexpectedly and regrettably taught me, I realize that the pig in that whole equation was me. I’ve grown up as such a narcissist, and why? What have I done to merit that sort of self-indulgence? I said to my dad the other night that I want to learn to do the right thing in my life, but here I am a few days into being a grown-up and I feel like I’m on the verge of becoming an asshole and chasing you when you clearly don’t want to be caught.”
“I like that you called your dad for advice,” she said quietly. “Being caught by you would be a blessing for any girl.”
“Just two nights ago you told me that our lives were there for the taking and anything else would be a disappointment. Aren’t you guilty of just that?”
“I’m guilty of a great deal more,” she said sadly.
The night felt very still. I needed to take a deep breath, but there seemed to be no air in which to do so. “You know it’s not about doing something, it’s about doing the right something. I want to read Lizzy Barrows’s letter to you.”
I retrieved Lizzy’s missive from my back pocket. From inside the bar we could hear Linda Ronstadt on the jukebox singing “When Will I Be Loved?” The breeze rustled the trees gently, and laughter from the bar found its way outside. The neon bar light blinked on and off, lighting Veronica’s face intermittently in blue.
I opened the expensive, scented envelope. It smelled like Lizzy Barrows’s silk robe, but I thought it best not to mention that. Inside was letterhead that read T HE B ARROWS F OUNDATION , D EDICATED TO THE A RTS AND H UMANITIES OF P LYMOUTH , M ASSACHUSETTS , E STABLISHED 1947 . Neatly typed below that was the following:
Dear Mr. August:
The Barrows Foundation regrets to inform you that we have ordered a stop on the
“I see what goes on in your life. You make things go, people vie for your attention, you make them believe that anything is possible. I don’t know anyone like you. Your friends adore you, and you can’t fake that. Secunda would take a bullet for you. But even though I’ve known you for all of five minutes, I’ve made up all these bad roads we’ll take if we get together.
“I’ve waited for what seems like forever to get out of Plymouth and start a new life. What’s in it for us to fall for one another? A few weeks of summer fun and then a sad September goodbye? I want my new life to start with a clean slate with nothing holding me back. That makes me afraid of you. You’ll break my heart and I’ll pine for you when you do. I can’t do that to myself. I have simply been through too much. My life is not here. It is down a new road and not with a boy who is just passing through.”
I looked at her intently and thought how my parents got married two days after they met. A few days ago I had never heard of Veronica Chapman. Tonight I simply wanted to hold her hand and know her better, and she was closing the door on feelings that would linger long after she had gone. Give it a breath, give it a chance , I thought. Don’t say goodbye to something before you’ve finished saying hello.
I ceased my inner monologue and spoke quietly to her. “You know, Veronica, when I was in school some of my friends and I would get together at the start of each semester to look at the incoming directory of freshman girls. We called it the ‘pig book’ because it had pictures of the frosh girls and their hometowns and such, and we would discuss who was a ‘pig’ and who was worth calling. Then we’d set out to get dates with anyone who well . . . measured up. We all thought it was pretty funny and clever on our part.
“But now after some of the life lessons you’ve unexpectedly and regrettably taught me, I realize that the pig in that whole equation was me. I’ve grown up as such a narcissist, and why? What have I done to merit that sort of self-indulgence? I said to my dad the other night that I want to learn to do the right thing in my life, but here I am a few days into being a grown-up and I feel like I’m on the verge of becoming an asshole and chasing you when you clearly don’t want to be caught.”
“I like that you called your dad for advice,” she said quietly. “Being caught by you would be a blessing for any girl.”
“Just two nights ago you told me that our lives were there for the taking and anything else would be a disappointment. Aren’t you guilty of just that?”
“I’m guilty of a great deal more,” she said sadly.
The night felt very still. I needed to take a deep breath, but there seemed to be no air in which to do so. “You know it’s not about doing something, it’s about doing the right something. I want to read Lizzy Barrows’s letter to you.”
I retrieved Lizzy’s missive from my back pocket. From inside the bar we could hear Linda Ronstadt on the jukebox singing “When Will I Be Loved?” The breeze rustled the trees gently, and laughter from the bar found its way outside. The neon bar light blinked on and off, lighting Veronica’s face intermittently in blue.
I opened the expensive, scented envelope. It smelled like Lizzy Barrows’s silk robe, but I thought it best not to mention that. Inside was letterhead that read T HE B ARROWS F OUNDATION , D EDICATED TO THE A RTS AND H UMANITIES OF P LYMOUTH , M ASSACHUSETTS , E STABLISHED 1947 . Neatly typed below that was the following:
Dear Mr. August:
The Barrows Foundation regrets to inform you that we have ordered a stop on the
Similar Books
