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J.

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July 4th

Dearest Marcus,

Happy Independence Day! Are you enjoying your freedom?

Me, not so much.

I'm writing because I'm thinking about you. I'm thinking about you because of the postcards, which is what you want, isn't it? I've waited this long to write you about them, which is pretty miraculous for me because I rarely show restraint when I should. I won't even ask you what you're trying to tell me because I know you won't reveal your secrets until you're good and ready, whenever that may be.

And so, I'll reveal mine.

I'm thinking about the first time we ever spoke. I was leaving the Pineville High professional counselor's office, having just convinced that desperately bubbly woman that the LIFE SUCKS, THEN YOU DIE graffiti on my book cover wasn't a death wish, no, but the name of an indie funk band with a hit called “Tongue Kissing Cousins.” You were on the other side of the door, listening to my lies, slouching in a plastic chair with your legs spread wide, waiting for yet another disciplinary meeting with the principal for some serious transgression that I imagine involved underage drugging or sexing or both, which would explain why you seemed so tranquil in a narcotic and/or postcoital way. Not that I would've even known what either was, being sixteen years old, with only a few half-finished beers and one sloppy kiss to my credit. Before I could flee—Oh! How I wanted to run away from you!—you called out to me, “Hey, Tongue Kissing Cousin . . .” in that undisturbed way of yours, eyes half-shut as if you'd already seen most of what the world had to show you. You called me a natural con artist and asked me what other secrets I was hiding. I didn't answer because I already knew, in some deep, primal way, what furtive truth you were referring to:

That I was destined to fall in love with you.

I'm thinking about a lot of moments like that. There's not enough paper and ink for them all. But I'm also thinking about how annoyed I was last Fourth of July when Bethany and Marin horned in on what I had envisioned as a very amorous holiday weekend.

If only I could be so annoyed right now.

Marin loved you. She may not be able to put her stubby little finger on what's missing—MMMAAAHHHCUUUUUUSSS!—but she feels your absence. She doesn't say your name, but her bottom lip curls in disappointment when I show up at Grandma and Grandpa's house alone. It's a good thing she and Bethany didn't show up for the Darling family BBQ, because I don't think I could have handled that pout today. But no worries. From what I've learned about babies and long-term memory in Child Development, it will only take a few more months before thoughts of you vanish completely. She's a lucky, lucky girl.

I'm still thinking about you. Yes. You. (Sorry. I couldn't resist this reference to our brief, beautiful halcyon days.) I think about you all the time, even when I'm contemplating having an affair with a married Spaniard. (“Nuestro mundo.” You couldn't have possibly known about the Spaniard before you sent that postcard, and yet . . .)

So.

How are you? I shouldn't care, but I still do. I just wanted you to know that. I'm still curious about everything I don't know about you. Buddhists see this unknowing as a positive aspect of long-term romantic love. It creates surprises and serves as an antidote to any boredom that sets in. The trouble is, most people don't make an effort to stay interested in their lovers, and mistakenly seek excitement elsewhere . . .

Irony: The only reason I know this is because I took a standing-room-only Buddhism lecture last semester. A lame too-little-too-late attempt to understand you better.

I got an A.

You believe in the economy of words. That's a lesson I could have stood to learn from you, obviously, judging by this letter. One lesson of many, actually. If you had let me.

Love,

Jessica

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the fifth

When I stepped off the bus from New York City yesterday, I was convinced Pineville was the nexus for Armageddon.

“It's the end of the world!” I shouted.

“It's not a