Page 181 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“You know, someone wise said that love doesn’t ask you to change.” I reach for her, pulling her against my side. “True love wouldn’t ask you to be smaller. It doesn’t make you apologize for just being you.”
She turns a smile up at me. “Is that what you’re learning in therapy?”
“That’s what I’m learning from you.”
I see a flash of tears in her eyes, but she quickly blinks them away.
“You’re secretly charming, Huxley. Under all those muscles and that rough attitude, there is a prince.”
My lips twitch. “Only for you, Monroe.”
She gives me a kiss, then heads to the bathroom for a shower. I watch her go, her hips swaying slightly. That’s my fucking dream girl.
And I finally got her.
Later, while she’s in the shower, I sit at the kitchen table and write her a note. Not typed, not rehearsed. Just raw and honest, written in my terrible handwriting on a piece of paper torn from my notebook.
Juliet,
I want to be the man you see when you look at me. I want to be worthy of the way you care for me.
I’m sorry it took me so long to get help. I’m sorry for all the ways I’m still learning how to be better. You deserve someone who has his shit together, but you’re stuck with me instead.
Thank you for seeing something in me worth saving. Thank you for not giving up on me when I wanted to give up on myself.
I care about you. More than I know how to say.
H
I leave it on her pillow before I brush my teeth.
We’re making dinner together when she brings up my public image again. I’m chopping vegetables while she stirs something on the stove. Both of us move around each other in the simple rhythm we’ve developed.
“Mollie, the team’s social media manager, wants to rebrand you,” she says, tasting the sauce and adding more salt. “Move away from The Chainsaw thing.”
“Into what?” I can’t imagine.
“That’s up to you. What do you want to be known for?”
I think about Dr. Chen’s words earlier. Choosing who I want to be instead of just reacting to what I’ve always been.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
“What about The Artist? You’re always sketching and writing in that notepad. It’s this whole other side of you that people don’t see. Oooh, or maybe you could be The Poet.”
The suggestion catches me off guard, and I snort. “You think people would buy that?”
“I think people would love it. The tough guy with the secret creative side? That’s compelling.”
I watch her move around the kitchen, talking animatedly about narrative arcs and public perception. Something settles in my chest.
“I stopped sketching for a while,” I say. “A few years ago, some fan found one of my sketchbooks and put pictures online. Made fun of the whole thing. I’ve always written letters, though.”
Juliet stops what she’s doing and turns to look at me, her expression fierce.
“Anyone who makes fun of your drawings has no taste. They’re beautiful, Hunter. You’re an artist. And a fucking poet. I mean it.”
The certainty in her voice, the way she’s looking at me like she means every word, makes my chest tight.
