Dear Rhiannon,
I saw your post about saying something…but it’s hard to know what to say. I genuinely thought the best thing would be for us to be separate, to have our own lives, without any overlap or communication. That still might be the best thing. But I am also feeling doubt. And confusion. And sadness.
I want you to be happy. I am unsure I can ever be happy or make anyone else happy. Not with the way my life works. Not for any sustained period of time. And if you are happy, then I can absolutely go away again. But if you are not happy, and if you truly still miss someone, and if you truly want me to say something…then at the very least we can have this. Words. Overlap. Connection. I doubt that it will be helpful to tell you that I miss you, but I’m not strong enough to stop myself from doing it. I’m sorry. This may only make it worse.
A
“Wow,” I say.
The paranoid part of me is thinking: There’s no way to know for sure that A wrote this. Maybe it’s Poole. Maybe he found Rhiannon’s address. Maybe it’s just part of the game. There are no specifics here. It could easily be a trap.
The not-paranoid part of me is thinking: Don’t be stupid. No one else could have written this. A is the only person who can know how this feels.
“Yeah,” Rhiannon says. “Wow.”
“I guess this answers your questions,” I tell her.
“Some.”
“But it also raises new ones.”
“Lots.”
I can’t tell if she’s happy. Mostly she seems stunned.
“How are you going to respond?” I ask.
She takes back the phone. “I’m not sure. I want to know where A is. And I want to know what this means. The first will be easy to answer. The second—I don’t think A knows, either. And if neither of us knows what it means, how do we decide what it means?”
“But what can it mean?” I ask. “I don’t want to sound harsh…but it’s not like you can be together, right?”
And now the look she gives me—it’s like we survived that bus crash and I’m asking, Are you sure you want to go on another bus?
“I know the limitations, Nathan. I know that I am likely to be screwing my life up yet again. I know he’s probably right, and that the best thing is for us to be separate. But not silent. That’s the worst. So while I know what can’t happen, I do want to see what can happen—alright?”
“Hey,” I say, throwing my hands up, “it’s your life. Do what you want to do. Just please make sure he stays out of my body while you do it.”
Okay, now I’m really hoping nobody is listening to us.
“You sound mad,” Rhiannon says, sounding mad herself. “Why are you mad?”
“First I’m a mess, and now I’m mad. Thanks.”
“Okay, if you’re not either of those things, tell me what you are.”
“I’m mad, okay? I’m mad because even though I know it’s allegedly not his/her/their fault, what A does bothers me. In a way that it doesn’t seem to bother you. You’re so excited to have gotten an email from A, but while A was writing it, someone else—someone like you, someone like me—was completely blanked out.”
“What do you mean, allegedly? None of this is A’s fault. A didn’t choose this.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because if A could choose, A would be with me now.”
The moment she says it, she can’t believe she’s said it.
She backtracks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know that. At all. I don’t know anything. This is a lot at once. At the very least, we can agree on that, right?”
I don’t tell her that what she’s said has scared me. A would be with me now. What can that even mean? In whose body? I’m too nice to ask. But the question is there. Just like Poole is there. Somewhere.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s definitely a lot at once.” I think about what A wrote. “Do you think you’re happier now than you were before? I mean, compared to when we sat down in this booth and you hadn’t heard from A—are you happier?”
“Can I give you the honest answer?”
“No, I’d prefer you to be dishonest.”
There’s a second when she thinks I’m serious. Then, when she realizes I’m not, she goes on.
“I think this is one of those situations when the word happiness—or even the concept of happiness—is pretty meaningless. Because I think when people want you to be happy, they mean you’re not anything else—the happiness is so big, so bright, that all you are is happy. And there are definitely moments like that. I’ve definitely felt that way. But hearing from A—if I were to list the adjectives it makes me, happy wouldn’t be in the top hundred. I’m sure it’s in there, as part of some of the other words. Like, happy is definitely an ingredient of relieved, and I am definitely feeling relieved I’m not crazy and making it all up in my head. But when A says happy, I think A really means hopeful. And that’s much more complicated. While I’m relieved and excited and glad, I’m not sure that I’m hopeful. Which is probably what you’re getting at. Or what you’re afraid I’ll be. But no—I’m not happy and I’m not hopeful. I just feel…better.”
“Well, good. I don’t want you to feel worse.”
Her phone rings. Both of us are surprised. I’m guessing both of us instantly think it’s A calling.
But, reality.
Rhiannon looks at the screen. “It’s Alexander. I should probably get it. He never calls.”
She answers, and even though I try not to listen, I can get the gist of it. Something about plans.
After she hangs up, she explains, “His parents aren’t home. And he wants to make me dinner.”
“That sounds nice,” I say.
“I know.”
“So the problem is…?”
“There’s no problem,” she says. “Except for, you know, all the problems.”
“I wish I could help you.”
“Believe me, this helps. Just being able to talk about it.”
“How fortunate that your body-changing ex found his way to me!” I joke.
“He’s not an ex,” she says, not joking.
“Then what is he? Besides, you know, not a he.”