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Authors: Katharine Grubb
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was one of the things that bugged me about Trey. His job with the Red Sox was administrative. It’s not like he actually played the game. When he traveled with the team, he carried himself with a new swagger that was impressive in April, but by the end of the season, I found it exhausting. “I’m home now and want a new distraction. Wanna go to dinner tonight?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
“What’s a matter Laura-loo?”
Should I tell him? When David asked me questions, there was no doubt in my mind that he was interested in me. I knew I was going to be heard. With Trey though, there was always this sense of him tolerating my answer and not really listening. What is wrong with me? I’ve got to stop thinking about David!
“Listen. Let’s talk about it over dinner. I want all the details. You want to go to that place on Beacon Hill? Indigo? Hey, maybe that waiter is there and we can pretend we’re tourists looking for Cheers again. That was hilarious . ”
“Yes. Sure. Why not.” The first step in not thinking about David was getting back to the old way of doing things. Like having no rules and eating at different restaurants and having different conversations. “Pick me up at seven?”
“Yup. Okay. No wait. Can I meet you there, 6:30? I gotta thing. You know, stuff.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you there at 6:30.”
I put the phone down and tried to get back to my work. Then the doorbell rang. What I didn’t expect was to see Merle, under a brolly—I mean, an umbrella, with a bouquet of white roses and a letter.
“Miss Laura. These are for you. I am supposed to wait for an answer.” He handed me the flowers and the letter; then I realized that I couldn’t open the letter and hold the roses at the same time. The roses were gorgeous. They weren’t a true white, but they had a yellowish tint. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen anything quite like them. Stupid David. Why did he have to send me such beautiful flowers? I gave the roses back to Merle and tried to open the letter, but I was standing in the rain, and he made no effort to lean the brolly over me to keep me dry. I was beginning to see why David hated him.
“Come in.”
I stepped into the hallway. The letter was sealed with wax. Oh, you pompous, pretentious blowhard. The seal was intricate, like a coat of arms. I broke the seal and opened it. The top of the stationary was embossed with his initials. DJAB. It was written in black ink, the very pen I drew my first drawing with. I had never seen a letter like this in my life.
121 Commonwealth Avenue, Apt 2
Boston, Massachusetts
September 29, 2012, 10:42 a.m.
My dearest Laura,
Words cannot fully describe to you how utterly mortified I am at my behaviour Friday night. While I do not regret protecting you from that ruffian, I do wish that I had fled the scene immediately, as was my original intention. Merle was late; he apparently thought that seeing a film was a good idea. He takes a bit of the blame, but in my opinion, not nearly enough.
I once told you that I had a specific way of doing things, that I live by a set a rules. This code is not something that I made up; it is an ancient code of knighthood, and I am bound to it body and soul. The code makes the correct assumption that only married couples should have intimate moments alone. This is why I requested of you, when we first met, that I not ever come to your apartment, at least not until we were engaged, and even then, for only minutes at a time. If you recall, earlier in the evening, you and I had an interesting conversation about who has the most power in a relationship. You said men. I said women. Sadly, you proved to be right when I chose not to stop my odious behaviour. Dear lady, I was proved to be right too. You do have a power, and you have no idea how it controls me. It is this power that compelled me, in a selfish, beastly, arrogant
“I don’t know. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
“What’s a matter Laura-loo?”
Should I tell him? When David asked me questions, there was no doubt in my mind that he was interested in me. I knew I was going to be heard. With Trey though, there was always this sense of him tolerating my answer and not really listening. What is wrong with me? I’ve got to stop thinking about David!
“Listen. Let’s talk about it over dinner. I want all the details. You want to go to that place on Beacon Hill? Indigo? Hey, maybe that waiter is there and we can pretend we’re tourists looking for Cheers again. That was hilarious . ”
“Yes. Sure. Why not.” The first step in not thinking about David was getting back to the old way of doing things. Like having no rules and eating at different restaurants and having different conversations. “Pick me up at seven?”
“Yup. Okay. No wait. Can I meet you there, 6:30? I gotta thing. You know, stuff.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you there at 6:30.”
I put the phone down and tried to get back to my work. Then the doorbell rang. What I didn’t expect was to see Merle, under a brolly—I mean, an umbrella, with a bouquet of white roses and a letter.
“Miss Laura. These are for you. I am supposed to wait for an answer.” He handed me the flowers and the letter; then I realized that I couldn’t open the letter and hold the roses at the same time. The roses were gorgeous. They weren’t a true white, but they had a yellowish tint. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen anything quite like them. Stupid David. Why did he have to send me such beautiful flowers? I gave the roses back to Merle and tried to open the letter, but I was standing in the rain, and he made no effort to lean the brolly over me to keep me dry. I was beginning to see why David hated him.
“Come in.”
I stepped into the hallway. The letter was sealed with wax. Oh, you pompous, pretentious blowhard. The seal was intricate, like a coat of arms. I broke the seal and opened it. The top of the stationary was embossed with his initials. DJAB. It was written in black ink, the very pen I drew my first drawing with. I had never seen a letter like this in my life.
121 Commonwealth Avenue, Apt 2
Boston, Massachusetts
September 29, 2012, 10:42 a.m.
My dearest Laura,
Words cannot fully describe to you how utterly mortified I am at my behaviour Friday night. While I do not regret protecting you from that ruffian, I do wish that I had fled the scene immediately, as was my original intention. Merle was late; he apparently thought that seeing a film was a good idea. He takes a bit of the blame, but in my opinion, not nearly enough.
I once told you that I had a specific way of doing things, that I live by a set a rules. This code is not something that I made up; it is an ancient code of knighthood, and I am bound to it body and soul. The code makes the correct assumption that only married couples should have intimate moments alone. This is why I requested of you, when we first met, that I not ever come to your apartment, at least not until we were engaged, and even then, for only minutes at a time. If you recall, earlier in the evening, you and I had an interesting conversation about who has the most power in a relationship. You said men. I said women. Sadly, you proved to be right when I chose not to stop my odious behaviour. Dear lady, I was proved to be right too. You do have a power, and you have no idea how it controls me. It is this power that compelled me, in a selfish, beastly, arrogant
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