Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,26
and he simply didn’t want to acknowledge the clarity.
Candy’s e-mail arrived before the end of the documentary, and relief mingled with renewed terror as he clicked on the message.
But he should have known, really. Terror had no place and held no purpose in his relationship with her.
A heart as big as the skies, he’d said, and here lay further proof.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: An explanation and apology
Griff, you made me no promises, and you owe me no apologies. Any hurt I may feel, I’m experiencing because of my own choices. Thank you for caring about my feelings, though, and thank you for caring about me. Thank you for making your position clear.
Now let me do the same.
I understand that you may not be ready for a relationship in the immediate future, or conceivably ever, and I don’t want to force myself upon you or make your life more difficult than it already is. I also don’t want to interfere with your grieving and/or recovery processes.
Any boundaries you specify, I promise to honor. As you know, I am a woman of my word.
If you’d prefer to cease non-professional contact entirely, I will accept that too. In case that’s your preference, let me say this now:
I like you. I admire you. I care about you. I want you.
That’s why I kissed you. No other reason.
(It’s unrepentant plagiarism, I know. Write me up for an honor code violation at the front office, as desired.)
In my own words, I also want you to know something else: I don’t expect you to forget about Marianne. I don’t want you to somehow pretend that she, your marriage, and your love for one another never existed, or that they no longer possess importance, meaning, and emotional weight for you.
To misquote Whitman, our hearts are large. They contain multitudes.
I don’t expect yours to be empty of anyone but me.
My feelings toward you don’t erase my love and grief for Dee. I carry both with me. I always will. I don’t expect you to be any different.
Until you indicate a desire for further intimacy, that’s all I’ll say concerning non-professional matters. As to the poetry initiative: I am more than willing to continue working together, and we can do so via e-mail.
At the moment, I am contemplating whether we should add an Impromptu Haiku activity to our plans. With Tess’s permission, we could designate one specific day and time for all students to write a haiku about whatever class they happen to be attending. Kids in my class might write a haiku about Shakespeare, then, while kids in biology might write about the Krebs cycle. Kids in Mildred’s class might write, quite justifiably, about her ignorance when it comes to seminal literature in the science-fiction genre.
I am eager to hear your thoughts on the matter.
Take care, Griff. I would threaten you with mobster-style retaliation should you fail to do so, but that is no longer the language I wish to use when speaking to those I care about. Instead, I’ll simply say: I worry about you. If you wish to alleviate that worry, you’ll get more sleep and eat regular meals.
See? All carrot, no stick. I’m learning.
Yours,
Candy
He dropped his chin to his chest and took a few shuddering breaths. Then he sent a quick message back.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Thank you
I absolutely want to remain your friend as well as your colleague, Candy. I know you’ll honor your word and my boundaries, and I appreciate that. I appreciate you.
The Impromptu Haiku idea (and title) is brilliant. I’ll speak to Principal Dunn about it tomorrow.
Griff
A minute later, her response arrived. Then we have a plan. See you at school.
That was all she wrote, each word friendly enough but distant. Businesslike. Already, she was making good on her vows.
No physical intimacies. No emotional intimacies. Exactly as he’d requested.
He showered and changed his bed linens, always willing to indulge a metaphor. When he slid under the covers, they were gratifyingly unwrinkled. Pristine.
Also cold. Very cold.
Our hearts are large. They contain multitudes.
I don’t expect yours to be empty of anyone but me.
The words wouldn’t leave him be. All night, they chased him through the darkness, scrolling across his ceiling. Echoing in Candy’s stentorian boom, then whispering with Marianne’s gentle murmur. Haunting him, even though he’d never believed in spirits.
Or, rather, he’d always believed humans conjured their own ghosts, haunting themselves with creations born out of need and grief and anger and shame.
His restlessness rumpled those spotless sheets. They twisted around his legs in a