Page 152 of Pretend You Love Me
He doesn’t look up. He flips to the next letter and continues reading.
Brooklyn,
Therapy sucks.
Kip
I let out a loud laugh and then cover my mouth. Without looking up, his mouth quirks a little, and he just continues reading.
Brooklyn,
Blue misses you. So do I.
Kip
He sets down the papers and says, “He sends his apologies for tripping you.”
“I forgave him a long time ago. Keep going.”
He looks at the next one and flinches slightly before he starts to read.
Brooklyn,
You know what I did the first time I met with the therapist? I cried...for forty five minutes. I didn’t cry when my dad died. I didn’t cry when my sister or my mom died. I didn’t cry during my divorce. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I must have been a child. My father didn’t believe in men crying or even little boys. I remember him smacking Hawk for crying after he fell off his bike.
I don’t know how I feel about any of it. Well, I do know how I feel. I feel like shit now, but I know it’s the only way out. I know it’s the only way back to you.
Kip
I want to be closer to him. I want to wrap him in my arms. I want to take away the pain he carries, but I stay still and let him continue.
Brooklyn,
I asked Hawk to eat dinner with me at Head and Tail once a week. He’s confused as hell. I’m trying. It’s not easy.
Kip
He moves to the next page and resumes reading.
Brooklyn,
I keep wondering when I’ll send you these letters. Not yet. I’m not ready yet. I’m not close to being ready. You deserve so much more than I can give you right now. I want to be the man you need, and I know I’m not. I met with my therapist again. This time I spent thirty minutes crying and fifteen minutes talking. Progress?
Kip
I smile and say, “Sounds like progress to me.”
He nods and turns to the next page.
Brooklyn,
I wrote for the first time in years. I’ve been staring at a blank computer screen for nearly four years, and I actually wrote something the other day. I started writing three days ago, and it just poured out of me. I’m not overthinking it. I haven’t worried about whether it’s good, or whether anyone will want to read it, or whether my publisher will ever want it. I’ve just let the words come. I’ve done nothing else for three days. I’ve had to force myself to stop and sleep. I’m running on black coffee and adrenaline, but it feels good.
Kip
There’s a glow spreading across my chest. My fingers are twitching to touch him, but I’m forcing myself to stay still as he reads the next letter.
Brooklyn,
