had no desire to play—it would hurt like a motherfucker to be accompanied by the memory of Thea watching as I sang at the open mic in New York, her eyes brilliant and full of love for me.
I picked it up anyway, because I had memories still—even if they stabbed me in the heart. Soon, Thea wouldn’t have any. I owed it to her to feel them. To remember.
Remember us… when I can’t.
I opened the case.
A piece of folded paper with my name lay on top of the guitar. I unfolded it with shaking hands. The ArtHouse was embossed across the top.
Dear Jimmy,
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.
Ha! I’m sorry, that’s bad, right? But I’m scared shitless and you know I make bad jokes when I’m scared shitless. I’m scared because I will be gone. Not dead, but it feels that way. Nothingness. No thoughts.
Anyway, I didn’t write this letter to talk about me. This is about you. I want you to know some things while I’m away. I want to put them on paper, in black and white, so they don’t go anywhere. Like how I wrote my word chains—so my thoughts could stay somewhere when my memory wouldn’t let me keep them for myself.
I see you, Jimmy. The real you. The loving, beautiful, honorable, sexy AF man you are. I know you think you haven’t done much with your life but that’s not true. You help people every day. You help the world even though the world hasn’t been kind to you. You could’ve let your childhood make you bitter. You could’ve ruined yourself with drugs or alcohol, or become a violent, raging asshole. Because why not? No one gave you a reason not to. But you didn’t. Your desire to help burns so strongly, it can’t be put out. It’s a spark in you that won’t ever die. It’s the kindness I saw in your eyes every time we met.
You helped people at Blue Ridge. And you helped me. You saved me. You brought me back to life.
I’m petrified down to my soul to go back. But the only thing that makes it bearable is if I know you’re out there, in the world, being what you were born to be, someone who helps kids that had it tough like you. I think if I know you’re doing that, I could be happy in whatever way the amnesia lets me.
But no pressure, or anything. ;-)
Okay, no more bad jokes. Read this letter and the next time you see me, tell me that you promise. That’s all. I might ask what the heck you’re talking about, but deep down, I’ll know. Somehow, I’ll know. And you know that I can know, in my own way. You were the only one who ever did.
I see you, Jimmy Whelan. And I love you. It makes going away again that much harder, but I’ll take my love with me if you promise to take yours out into the world and share it with those kids. They need you. They’re waiting for you.
And speaking of waiting, don’t. Not for me. It’s too much to ask. If they ever make another magic pill to wake me up and you’re not there, I’ll know, deep in the place beneath thought, you are doing what you were put on this earth to do.
I’ll remember, and I’ll be happy.
All my love to you, forever and always,
~Thea
The letter crumpled in my fist as the tears spilled over. I tried to hold them back, but it was too much. Too much love for her, too much pain at the thought of what she faced so goddamn bravely. For the first time in ten years, I cried. For her. For me. For the kid who’d been shoved against a fence all his life. I’d been afraid if I faced that pain, I’d drown in it.
Doris and her fucking malevolent taunting were drowned instead.
When I was wrung out, a simple truth remained in the sodden debris: losing Thea was fucking agonizing, but it was better than never having her at all.
But I’m not giving up on her. Not fucking ever.
I grabbed my jacket off the hook and was halfway out the door before I realized I had no truck or motorcycle to get to Roanoke. I whipped out my phone to call an Uber, when it rang in my hand, Rita’s name on the display.