The Love That Is Parker Bowmen

29| His Letter

Deαr Emily Rose Shivers,

I'm guessing you're probably feeling confused, betrayed, or maybe, you hate me, which I'm sure you have every right to.

I didn't mean for anything to happen, truthfully I didn't. I'm not the best planner when it comes to these things, and I guess all I wanted was a night out with my girl before I left, but it turned into something more... Which is all on me, I must admit.

I wanted to leave you with something, something to remember me by or even to explain. I don't have that much time left and I'm trying not to waste it but it's hard.

It's hard not taking up every moment I have left to gaze at you in between my sheets. It's hard not dropping everything and just saying "fuck it" and crawling back in bed with you. It's hard not wishing that I wasn't stupid or that I didn't do stupid shit. It's so damn hard.

Looking at you and wishing makes me remember everything. Every-fucking-thing.

Did you know that the first time I met you wasn't in Kindergarten? No, it was at one of my mother's book club parties. The babysitter was sick and I was stuck with my mother, I kept wiggling out of boredom and she kept quietly scolding me. I thought I was gonna die, (even as a 4-year-old, I was still a dick) but then the door rang and your mother walked in, and with her, came you. She was new and wanted to join and you were there holding her hand. Two weird pigtails were in your hair and you wore a sparkly green dress with pink sneakers on. You hid behind your mother's legs so I couldn't get a good look at your face but I saw you. Your mother left after that and I didn't see you again until later but I hoped, I wished, and I prayed. I wanted to see you again, even if I didn't know why.

It seems like my 4-year-old self knew more than I do today.

You probably don't remember that, but I do. And trust me, I think I will for the rest of my life.

I know I'm rambling, but for some reason, I can't help it. I'm trying to say everything and nothing, all at once.

You started to stir and now I really know I'm fucked. You wouldn't make it that easy, would you, Polar Bear?

You always asked me why I gave you that nickname and I always ignored it. But this time I'll tell you.

In the 7th grade when I snuck through your window because my parents were arguing. Although you almost killed me for waking you up at 2 am with your math textbook, you still let me stay. You got me a pillow and a blanket and you allowed me to sleep in your room. Then you woke up early, to your dismay, got me a PopTart — and to a 12-year-old boy, that was the nicest shit that had ever happened to me — and you hugged me before sending me on my way.

You got tough skin, Emmie, but not that tough. So you gained your nickname, Polar Bear.

I know your wishing for me to explain where the hell I am and why I left instead of going through memories, so I will.

I got in some trouble, Polar Bear, and it's deep this time. Almost lead to a lawsuit from the state. Let's just call it, destruction of property, because vandalism sounds a little immature if I do say so. Don't draw shit on City Hall in the midst of a drunken haze, Polar Bear, trust me on this. Don't ask me what I drew, because I'm still trying to remember, but after it happened, I called my uncle, you know the rich but asshole one.