Page 43 of Over the Edge

“Yes, of course, since you’re an expert on girls’ lockers from your time at anall-boys school.” I slide him a glance.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. But you’re still wrong,” I say. “I wasn’t unpopular in school, but I had a tendency to scare guys off. I had dates to dances and friends, but there was no line of suitors knocking down my door with bouquets of wildflowers.”

I didn’t hate my high school experience. I’d even say I had fun. But that was back before I knew how to reign myself in. I was constantly in trouble for talking too much in class or being disruptive. It probably had something to do with having a famous brother and needing to feel seen in my own right, but back then I didn’t think about it that way. I just wanted to be noticed at full volume. I was fun at parties, but never the girl anyone wanted to sweep off her feet.

“What about that guy you were with who always looked like a Labrador who downed a shot of espresso?” he asks.

It takes me a second to realize first, that he’s talking about Oliver—who yes, always had this energy that verged on feeling artificial until you got to know him. Second, there’s the fact that he’s aware of my dating history. I don’t know how to feel about that.

“No love letters there either. That wasn’t our type of relationship,” I say as I walk over to the single letter in the room. One that’s never been opened, its rose-embossed crimson wax seal still intact. Alice scrawled on the front in looping cursive, the intricate penmanship like a fingerprint. Whatever is inside, it never got to Alice and I can’t help but feel sorry for the long dead lovers.

“But you wrote love songs about him?” he clarifies.

“He doesn’t know they are about him,” I say, as if that makes it better.

“And how exactly does that work?”

I’ve only confronted that question in my head, so it takes a moment to find any words. “We kind of had this low grade happiness. It was good, good enough that it made both of us satisfied that we weren’t settling. Our relationship wasn’t risky and I think that was a big part of the appeal of it. I think both of us knew that if we really wanted to, we could find someone else to make us happier, but we didn’t. It’s why after we broke up things were off, but we could still be friends.” Or at least, that’s why I think so.

Oliver and I had something important in common. We both wanted to belong somewhere stable. He’s the oldest and only boy in a slew of half-siblings. I’ve gone with him to three of his father’s nine weddings since we met. Oliver was never resentful. He always had this hope that it would work and always got along with his sisters. But, like me, he wanted something that wouldn’t be pulled out from under him. In a world where I didn’t have music, I think we would have lasted.

We almost did.

I kept music from him and Quinn because I knew what that type of career could do to people. I saw it happen with Wes and Avery. I saw it with Drew and his bandmates, with Garrett. I saw it with my family. I opted to not talk about music and hoped that would somehow limit its effect on my relationships.

“You still love him?” Garrett asks.

“I always will. Just not that way.” I take in a deep breath, ready to move onto something other than the past. “Enough about that. This is a research trip, let’s research.”

We split off because there’s nothing we’ve established that mandates that we have to spend time together. Still, there’s apart of me that is cleaved in two like someone has torn a letter off the wall and ripped it down the middle. Beyond Avery, there’s no one else I’ve been able to tell the truth to, and with Garrett I feel like I can tell him anything. Not because I think he’ll care, but because he doesn’t.

Unfortunately, the idea causes an old fear to bubble to the surface. I think I need him more than he needs me. He can take pictures all around town without my help. I, on the other hand, really am fucked if I can’t finish this album.

These thoughts follow me as I wander through the museum. It’s not large. There are five main exhibits with informational materials scattered through the long halls that connect them. The downstairs has three of the rooms. One holds donated letters from the last hundred or so years with words from soldiers to their lovers and sweethearts who maintained their affection across long distances.

There are newer letters too, some from this last year collected from visitors to the town. Another is a room painted from wall to wall with the words of a letter from the town’s founder to his wife. I spin around the room reading the words in their clear block letters that thank her for staying with him despite his faults and the time that is spent away.

I have been gone most days, yet you stay. Behind closed eyes I carry your image with me to meetings and across miles. When I return I rest my head next to yours. It is a gift to be the one you trust in sleep. There is no fruit as sweet as the charity you grant me in remaining by my side.

The letter is simple, but it pulls at something in my chest.

The last two exhibits are upstairs. The first has displays discussing how love letters can come in many mediums, music, paintings, monuments. I find Garrett in the last room filled withhistoric replicas sitting and looking down at his phone. The old wooden floors creak as I walk, calling his attention to my entrance.

“You could leave, if you don’t actually want to be here,” I say, acknowledging his disinterest.

“It’s disingenuous to send pictures pretending I’ve gone somewhere. And for all I know I’ll have a damned quiz waiting for me to recap all of our adventures.”

“I just love how desperate you are to spend your days with me,” I say as I take a seat next to him. “Enlighten me, then. Why are you so averse to being in the moment?”

“Asking me to ruin it for you?”

“I’m not a five-year-old at a puppet show.” I know things are a performance, but that doesn’t take away all the joy.

“Sure, but we all have things we’d rather pretend aren’t there.”

“I promise not to blame you for causing me to get a headache from thinking too hard.”

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