Authors: Taylor Jenkins Reid
I’m not sure you’d care, anyway. I mean, sometimes I think you don’t really see me anymore. I know you see me, see me. But I’m talking about the fact that sometimes I don’t think you listen when I say things. Sometimes I think you just assume you know what I’m going to say next, or what I’m going to do next, or what I’m going to feel next, and your eyes glaze over as if I’m the most boring person you’ve ever met.
You didn’t use to think that, though. I remember in college, one of the reasons it was so nice to be around you was that you made me feel like I was the most interesting person in the room. You made me feel like I made the funniest jokes and told the best stories. And I don’t know, I don’t think that was fake. I think you really thought that.
And now I don’t think you think that at all. I think I’m like looking at the back of a cereal box for you. I’m just something you sit and stare at because I’m there.
This is getting sad. I hope you are doing OK. Sometimes I think I should send you these just so you might write back and I can hear how you are. I wonder how you are all the time.
Love,
Ryan
• • •
September 9
Dear Lauren,
Do you remember when we moved in with each other for the first time? Right after we graduated from college? And it was such a hot day, and we moved into the shithole apartment in Hollywood, and it was way too small, and the kitchen smelled like some sort of weird chemical? And you almost started crying because you didn’t want to live in such a crappy apartment? But it was all we could afford. I was living off of the last of my parents’ graduation gift money, and you were starting your job in the alumni department. And I remember thinking, as we crammed into that small bed that first night, that I was going to take care of you. I was going to work hard and get you a better apartment. And I was going to be the man who gave you the life you wanted. And I mean, things don’t really work out exactly how you think. You were the one who made enough money so that we could afford to move out of that place and into Hancock Park. But I mean, I negotiated with the landlord. I did everything I could to convince her, because I wanted you to have everything you wanted. I really did think I did a good job of taking care of you. I always wanted you to feel safe with me, to feel loved by me, supported by me.
I learned how to stop trying to solve your problems and just let you vent about them. I learned that you need a few minutes in the morning before you can talk to somebody. I learned that you never leave yourself enough time to get somewhere and then you freak out about being late. And I loved it about you.
Why wasn’t that enough?
Doesn’t it seem like it should have been enough?
Back then, moving in together, lying in that tiny bed, I just thought that my job was clear. All I had to do was support you and love you and listen to you and take care of you. And it all seemed so easy back then.
Now it seems like the hardest thing in the world.
What am I doing sitting here writing to you? I’m wasting my time.
Ryan
• • •
September 28
Dear Lauren,
The last time we had sex was in April. Just in case you were wondering. Which you’re not. But you never seemed to care very much, and I do care. So if I ever do send these to you, I think you should know that the last time we had sex was almost five months before I moved out. That’s four months before you told me you didn’t love me anymore. Four months of us living in the same house, pretending to be good to each other, pretending to be happy, and not laying a hand on each other. I figured I’d wait until you noticed. And you never noticed. So, you know, in case you ever notice and you want to know. It was April. And it sucked.
• • •
September 29
Dear Lauren,
Happy Birthday! I know that you’re at a surprise party. Charlie called me a few weeks ago before he knew we were whatever we are. Anyway, I know your family is with you. I know you’re probably having a blast. It’s nine o’clock right now, so you’re probably living it up as I type this. I’m hanging out here at my apartment. There is only so much you can do to distract yourself from the fact that it’s your wife’s thirtieth birthday and you’re not with her. You know?
I gave up on that about a half hour ago, and now I’ve just been nursing a beer and thinking about you.
I almost got up off the couch and drove over to your mom’s place to be there.
But I figured that was a bad idea.
Because what happens? We see each other and we admit how hard this is and we end this crazy experiment, and then what? In two months, we’re back where we were. We haven’t changed. So nothing would change. You know?
So instead, I’m sitting here, doing nothing.
I just want you to know that I thought about it. I thought about showing up at the house with two grocery bags, ready to make you Ryan’s Magic Shrimp Pasta.
I didn’t do it, but yeah, I guess I just want you to know that I thought about it.
Happy Birthday,
Ryan
• • •
October 1
Is Thumper doing OK? It’s killing me being away from him. It’s so stupid, but I was in the grocery store the other day getting dinner for myself, and I remembered that I needed laundry detergent, so I went into the aisle to get it, and it was also where they kept the pet food, and I thought, “Oh, do we need food for Thumper?” and, you know, it just flashed into my mind for a split second before I remembered that I don’t live with him anymore.
Love,
Ryan
• • •
October 9
Dear Lauren,
I’m not going to take Thumper. This pain of living without both of you, it’s too hard. It’s too lonely. It’s too sad. I can’t do that to you.
Love,
Ryan
• • •
I can’t see through my tears anymore. Looking at these is sort of like standing in a burning-hot shower and seeing how long I can bear it. I’m way past the point of worrying about whether this is wrong. I know it’s wrong. I know he isn’t sure whether he wants me to see these. But I also know that I have to read them. They matter too much. I care too much. It’s too much.
These letters are the evidence of how ugly our marriage has become and yet proof that we are tied to each other. We can hate and love, miss and loathe each other all within the same breath. We can never want to see each other again while never wanting to let go.
He hates me as much as he loves me. I hate these letters as much as I love them. The pain and the joy are locked together, tightly bound. I read the letters over and over again, hoping to separate one from the other, hoping to discern whether love or hate wins out in the end. But it’s like pulling on the ends of a Chinese finger trap. The more I try, the tighter they cling to each other.
When I finally get hold of myself, eyes dry, nose running, light-headed, I go into the kitchen and pull a piece of bacon out of the fridge. I put it in a pan. I wait for it to sizzle and pop. When it does, I put it in Thumper’s bowl. He comes running as he hears the sound of the bacon hitting the stainless steel. He eats it within half a second. I pull out another piece and put it in the pan as he waits. That’s when I really put the pieces together. If Ryan sends me that e-mail about me keeping Thumper, then I won’t see him in a few weeks. I really will be on my own for the foreseeable future.
O
n a scale of one to ten, how bad is it to log into someone’s e-mail without them knowing?” I ask Rachel over the phone. I’m sitting at my desk at work. I’ve read the e-mails tens of times. Some parts I even know by heart.
“I guess I’d need to know the particulars,” she says.
“The particulars are that I logged into Ryan’s e-mail and read some of his e-mails.”
“Ten. That is a ten out of ten. You should not have done that.”
“In my defense, they were addressed to me.”
“Did he send them to you?”
“They were in his drafts folder.”
“Still ten. That’s really bad.”
“Wow, you’re not even going to try to see my side of it?”
“Lauren, it’s really bad. It’s dishonest. It’s rude. It’s disrespectful. It completely undermines—”
“OK, OK,” I say. “I get it.”
I know what I’ve done is wrong. I guess I’m not really wondering if it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong. What I’m looking for is for Rachel to say something like,
Oh, yeah, that’s wrong, but I would have done the same thing, and you should keep doing it.
“So I should not keep doing it?” I ask her. Maybe if I go about this directly, I can get the answer I’m looking for.
“No, you absolutely should not.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I say. I should not have done it. But what can I do? I already did it. And does it really matter if I keep doing it? I mean, it’s already done. If he asks,
Have you logged into my e-mail account and read my personal e-mails that were addressed to you?
I will have to answer yes whether I did it once or one hundred times.
“Let’s say he addresses another one to me, though,” I say. “Then it’s OK to look.”
“It’s not OK to be checking in the first place,” Rachel says. “I have to get back to work,” she adds. “But you better cut it out.”
“Ugh, fine.” It’s quiet for a moment before I ask my final question. “You’re not judging me, right? You still think I’m a good person?”
“I think you’re the best person,” she says. “But I’m not going to tell you what you’re doing isn’t wrong. It’s just not my style.”
“Yeah, fine,” I say, and I hang up the phone.
I walk over to Mila’s desk.
“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it to log into someone’s e-mail without them knowing?”
She looks up from her computer and frowns at me. She picks up her coffee cup and crosses her arms.
“Is the person you? And the other person Ryan?”
“If it was . . .” I say.
She considers it. “I can see where you’d think I was the person to help you justify this, because really, I would probably read them if I were in your position,” she says, swiveling back and forth in her chair. A victory! “But that doesn’t mean it’s OK.” Short-lived.
“He’s writing to
me
, Mila. He’s writing
to
me.”
“Did he send them to you?”
“WHY IS EVERYONE SO PREOCCUPIED WITH THAT?”
Everyone turns and looks in my direction. I switch to a whisper.
“The letters are
for
me, Mila,” I say. “He didn’t even change his password. That’s basically like he’s admitting he wants me to read them.” I’m now too close to her face, and my whisper is breathy. I’m pretty sure she can tell I had an onion bagel for breakfast.
Mila politely backs away a bit. “You don’t have to whisper. Just don’t shout. A normal tone of voice is fine,” she says in an exemplary normal tone of voice.
“Fine,” I say, a bit too loudly, and then I find my rhythm again. “Fine. All I’m asking is that if you were me and you knew that he was writing to you, baring his soul to you, saying the things that he never said when you were married, saying things that broke your heart and made you cry and made you feel loved all at the same time—if that was happening, are you telling me you wouldn’t read them?”
Mila considers it. Her face turns from stoic to reluctant understanding. “It would be tempting,” she says. I already feel better just hearing that. “It would be hard not to read them. And you have a halfway decent point about the password.”
I pump my fists in the air. “Yes!” I say.
“But just because something is understandable doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.”
“I miss him,” I say to Mila. It just comes out of my mouth.
Mila’s resolve fades. “If it was you writing the letters, would you want him to read them even if you didn’t send them?”
My gut answer is yes. But I take my time and really think about it. I stand and look at Mila and consider her question. I put myself in Ryan’s shoes. The answer that keeps coming back is yes.
“Yes,” I say. “I know that answer seems self-serving, but I really mean it. He said in his letters that he feels like he often didn’t tell me how he really felt. That he kept a lot of stuff inside just to make things easier, and then he started to resent me. I did that, too! I would sometimes choose to just go along with what he wanted or what he said so that I didn’t cause a fight. And somewhere along the way, I started to feel like I couldn’t be honest. Does that make sense? Things became so tense, and I started to resent him so much that I was suddenly furious about everything, and I didn’t know where to start. I think he feels the same way. This could be an opportunity for us. This could be what we need. If it were me writing to him, trying to bare my soul, trying to show the real me, I would want him to read it.” I shrug. “I would want him to see the real me.”
Mila listens, and when I’m done, she smiles at me. “Well, then, maybe it is the right thing for the two of you,” she says. “But you’re taking a huge risk. You need to know that. This
could
be exactly what he wants. He may be happy to know that you can understand him better and that you know the deepest parts of his soul and you accept him for that. That might be what he’s hoping for.” From her tone, I can tell that she’s not done, but I wish that was the end of the sentence. “But he also might be furious.” Here we go. “He might be livid that you betrayed his trust. He might not trust you again. It could be a terrible way to start off this new chapter in your lives together. When the year is over and he comes back, how can you tell him all that you know? Are you going to admit what you did? And do you really, truly, in your heart, feel like he is going to say, ‘OK, sounds good’?”
“No,” I say. “But I do think that more good will come from it than bad.”
Mila looks unconvinced.
“I feel like I have an opportunity to learn who my husband is in a whole new way. I have an opportunity to get to know him without a filter. I can learn what I did wrong. I can start to understand what he needs from me. What I can do better the next time around. I’m going to learn how to love him again. I’m going to learn how to be a better wife to him, how to give him what he needs, how to tell him what I need. This is good. I have good intentions. This is coming from a good place.”
I set out to convince Mila. I just wanted someone to tell me that it was OK to do something I knew wasn’t OK. But in doing so, I’ve convinced myself somehow.
“Well, I wash my hands of it, then,” she says. “It sounds like you know what you’re doing.”
I nod and head back to my office. I have no idea what I’m doing.
Mila calls to me just as I’m almost out of earshot. “Mexican?” she says.
I look at the clock. It’s twelve forty-seven. “Give me five minutes.”
When we get into the elevator to head downstairs, I ask Mila if she likes Persian food.
“What is Persian food? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”
“It’s a lot of rice and saffron. A lot of stews.”
“Stews?” Mila says, making a face. “No, I’m not one for stews.”
“Greek food?”
She shrugs. “It’s OK.”
“Vietnamese?”
“Don’t think I’ve ever had it. Is it like Thai?”
“Sort of,” I say. “It’s mostly noodles, meats, and broth. Sometimes stuff is served with a fish sauce.”
“Fish sauce? A sauce made of fish or a sauce for fish?”
“No, it’s made of fermented fish. It’s delicious.”
“Why don’t we just stick to Mexican?” she says as we get off the elevator.
I nod my head. It’s that simple. Why didn’t Ryan ever just say,
Why don’t we stick to Mexican?
Why sit through all of those foods he didn’t like? I would have gone out for a burrito instead. I wouldn’t have even minded. Why didn’t he know that?
“You know,” Mila says. She’s walking a bit ahead of me and trying to find her keys in her purse. “If you think Ryan will be happy with you reading his e-mails and spying on his most vulnerable moments, then it’s only fair that you subject yourself to the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“What scares you? What do you want?”
“I don’t know. I guess I—”
“Don’t tell me,” she says. “Put it in an e-mail.”