“Handwritten, on this thick stationery paper. This beautiful, long-form prose.”
Rain peeled open one of the envelopes. Had she told Greg she didn’t really read them? She did. She read them over and over.
His handwriting was neat and beautiful, still somehow masculine. His sentences, about his isolated house, his work, were somehow soothing as if he was writing about another place and time when things were quieter, more peaceful.
“The common mode of modern communication, especially among the dating set, is texting,” said Gillian. She picked up her phone, which was on the table beside her. She’d tapped on the home button at least three times since they’d sat down; Rain had done the same. Everyone was always checking, checking, checking. What were they all waiting for?
“You meet someone, you get a text,” said Gillian. “Maybe you hook up. Then it’s more texts. More hookups. Or not. You get ghosted. Or you stop answering.”
Gillian took her phone, tapped it a couple of times, then handed it to Rain.
Hey, we met last night. You said you wanted to connect again. Drinks tonight?
Can’t tonight. Tomorrow?
Sounds good. Where and when?
I’ll text you tomorrow.
Great.
What time tonight?
Sorry, can’t. I’ll text you.
Ok. LMK if you have time later this week.
Hey, what’s up? Are you out and about tonight?
Hello?
Hello?
Ok. Whatever.
“Sad, right?” said Gillian. “This hollow, stripped-down way we talk to each other now.”
“You blew him off?” Rain handed her back the phone.
She shrugged, looked at the phone, bit her lip. “I guess I did. I wasn’t that into him.”
She was still in love with Chris; Rain knew it. Gillian knew it. Everyone else fell a little short. They’d get into that whole thing in a minute. Gillian twisted a long strand of hair, looked out the window.
“But Hank’s writing letters—long, detailed, personal,” she said. “Expensive stationery, black ink.”
“He’s a psychiatrist, a writer,” said Rain. “Communication is important to him. He’s kind of a throwback, too. No smartphone. He had a flip phone when I knew him. He didn’t text.”
“Why is he still writing to you?” she asked. “What does he want?”
Rain knew the answer. He wants to be known. It’s what everybody wanted, wasn’t it? People want to be seen, to be understood, accepted. Hence the cultural social media addiction—everyone vying for attention, creating a persona posted for approval.
She put a finger to the thick ecru envelope. His letters, his poetic descriptions, his long, flowing sentences, his thoughts about patients (whom he never named), the world in general, they lulled her back to the place she occupied with Hank in those few torrid weeks when she was sneaking around behind Greg’s back, before she acknowledged that there was—another side to him. Gillian saw it immediately, warned her off. You have a good man who loves you, who you love. Don’t throw it away for this guy. He’s not right.
It was late when Hank’s call came in and she left her dorm room to go to his Lower East Side loft. Greg was studying that night. They’d had an early dinner together and she knew Greg wouldn’t call again that night; that he wouldn’t drop by.
She’d almost told Greg at dinner, almost broke up with him. Whatever was happening with Hank, it was getting more intense. Even when she was with Greg, she was thinking about Hank. It wasn’t right. Her feelings had swept her away, fast, downriver; she wasn’t sure she could get back. Wasn’t sure she wanted to. Hank connected her to a part of herself that she’d forgotten.
When she got to Hank’s building, he buzzed her in and she climbed the dingy stairwell, pushed through the open door to his place. He was standing by the window, his big, muscular body in silhouette against the blue-black night, the light coming in from the streetlamp.
“Hey,” she said.
He turned to face her. There was something hard about his expression. Something dead in the eyes. She felt a flutter in her chest, which was silly. Because she knew him. It was as if she’d always known him. Preschool through middle school. He picked her up after she fell off her bike and helped her home to her mom. She defended him against Max, the school bully, got a detention for swearing. She wrote his book reports; he helped with her math homework. Hank was in love with her, always had been. It was just something she’d always known, even before she knew what it meant to be in love with someone.
“What is it?” she asked, moving closer even though something