Frankie spent the first month after I left calling me, texting, and even emailing.
I changed my phone number when I made the trek across the pond. The phone
calls stopped, as well as the texts, but the emails have continued. A new email address helped for a while, but curiosity will always get the best of me. Sometimes, late at night, I will sign onto my old email account and read the first few lines of the emails Frankie has sent.
Apparently, he’s heartbroken and not giving up. He’s been searching everywhere for me, but no one knows where I’ve disappeared too. My parents vowed not to tell Frankie. Of course, I don’t think Frankie has the balls to knock on my parents’ door, no matter how desperate he has been or might still be.
The last email I snuck a peek at made my heart hurt, more than it has in the last six months. I only read the first line, but it was enough to knock the wind out of me:
You were my love at first sight. I wanted you to be my love at last sight too. Everything is wrong, and I can’t make it right.
If he was trying to make me hurt, it worked. Frankie wasn’t one for sharing his emotions or writing letters, notes, or emails. I knew he loved me by the way we kissed and the way he looked at me when we made love, or even the kind gentlemen-like gestures. Beyond that, he had a beautiful stone facade that I couldn’t see through. Maybe if he expressed his feelings more, I would have seen the downfall coming sooner.
This is when I start to blame myself.
However, as those thoughts cross my mind, I realize I never shared my feelings with Frankie. At least, not after he broke my heart. A therapist I see occasionally told me to write him a letter, pour my heart out, then trash it.
Trash the letter? That sounds like a waste of time.
“What are you doing over there?” Suzette asks as she descends the stairs from our small space on the second floor. We keep most of our storage boxes up there, but she’s admiring a bracelet on her wrist, which I’m sure she just dug out.
“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.