Dear Patrick
Letter Twenty-Five
Friday, November 29, 2013
Dear Patrick,
I guess I have some explaining to do. I've been thinking about it. I thought about it my whole way to the doctor's office today. When you came to get me that first time when we got into a huge fight before my mom died, you were just following the orders and respecting the promises we made. Patrick, when I said, "I can't wait to get out of this fucking house," I didn't mean it- ever. I never meant that I wanted to actually leave. It's what people say when they're mad. It doesn't mean they actually want to leave, Pat. But that's completely my fault. I should have told you I wasn't being literal. I just thought you'd fucking get it.
That's what I was thinking. But then the thought occurred to me: you can't fucking get it because I never explained it to you. I never explained why I didn't have a dad growing up. I never explained anything and you always hinted me to tell you. "Because that's what best friends do, Lana," you would say, "they fucking tell each other things." You told me that after you found out that I said yes to Adam's invitation to prom and didn't tell you. I still don't know why I didn't tell you. I still don't even know why I said yes to him. You're the guy I left with anyway, shouldn't that be all that matters? Anyway, before I get off track like I always do, I'm sorry that I never told you about my dad and everything else. I am a pretty bad friend but there's some things that just don't come out as easily as others. It's a lot easier to write to you and spill everything because you can't read this because I won't send it.
I'm pretty psychotic, Patrick, writing letters that I won't send to a guy that I won't see. That made me laugh out loud, really. Anyway, I have another stupid doctor's appointment. I feel like they're every other damn day. I really wish you could be here with me, Pat. I miss you so freaking much.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Dear Lana,
Tell me. What'd your dad do? Is that why there's scars on your side? You told me it was from a surgery you had when you were younger. Did you lie about that, too? Lana. Lana, please. You should have just sent me these letters. Everything could have been so much better. Should I take Adam as a hint? You keep bringing him up to me... you never ever used to bring him like this. Even when he asked you to prom and you told him yeah after we'd already planned out the whole day.
I remember prom night, Lana. I remember prom day and prom morning. I even remember two weeks before when I made my mom and sisters go get you a dress because you refused to shop for one. I was so happy that you went through with the bet. They got you a white one and made you fix up your hair. You refused to wear heels, though. You wore toms. You said it was because "there was absolutely no fucking way in hell you were going to wear heels." "Over my dead body," you ranted on and on and I laughed and laughed. I like to believe that you only wore toms because heels would have made you taller than me. You still looked gorgeous.
Absolutely beautiful.
Honestly takes my breath away every time I remember it. But you didn't dance with me much- until the end. There we sat, me and Paige and you and Adam. I don't even remember who else sat on that table. I couldn't concentrate on anything except you. You look gorgeous in white, Lana, you do. I don't know how Jacky, Jess, and Erica got you to let my mom put make-up on you, but they did and I don't think I ever thanked them. I didn't know you could be more pretty. Then Adam went to get you Pepsi (that dumbass, you don't drink pop) and Paige went to the bathroom. So it was just me and you. Then you got up and walked over to me and your legs looked amazing. You didn't even have that clear, material thing girls put on their legs to make them look smoother. I don't know what they're called but you know what I mean.
You sat right by me, thigh to thigh. And then you said, "Thanks for asking me to dance. I really wanted to shed some of my dancing skill on you." I laughed. You sucked at dancing. Then you said, pausing between words, "I... want... you... to... ask... me... to... dance... Jeez, Patrick, I can't be any more blunt." All I could think was "beautiful" because I swear by everything that that's exactly what you were. I didn't reply and you said, "Why do I have to tell you to ask me to dance?" And I thought about it for a little and I told you, "Because that's what best friends do, Lana, they fucking tell each other things."
Patrick
P.S. You're so beautiful.
Dear Patrick,
I guess I have some explaining to do. I've been thinking about it. I thought about it my whole way to the doctor's office today. When you came to get me that first time when we got into a huge fight before my mom died, you were just following the orders and respecting the promises we made. Patrick, when I said, "I can't wait to get out of this fucking house," I didn't mean it- ever. I never meant that I wanted to actually leave. It's what people say when they're mad. It doesn't mean they actually want to leave, Pat. But that's completely my fault. I should have told you I wasn't being literal. I just thought you'd fucking get it.
That's what I was thinking. But then the thought occurred to me: you can't fucking get it because I never explained it to you. I never explained why I didn't have a dad growing up. I never explained anything and you always hinted me to tell you. "Because that's what best friends do, Lana," you would say, "they fucking tell each other things." You told me that after you found out that I said yes to Adam's invitation to prom and didn't tell you. I still don't know why I didn't tell you. I still don't even know why I said yes to him. You're the guy I left with anyway, shouldn't that be all that matters? Anyway, before I get off track like I always do, I'm sorry that I never told you about my dad and everything else. I am a pretty bad friend but there's some things that just don't come out as easily as others. It's a lot easier to write to you and spill everything because you can't read this because I won't send it.
I'm pretty psychotic, Patrick, writing letters that I won't send to a guy that I won't see. That made me laugh out loud, really. Anyway, I have another stupid doctor's appointment. I feel like they're every other damn day. I really wish you could be here with me, Pat. I miss you so freaking much.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Dear Lana,
Tell me. What'd your dad do? Is that why there's scars on your side? You told me it was from a surgery you had when you were younger. Did you lie about that, too? Lana. Lana, please. You should have just sent me these letters. Everything could have been so much better. Should I take Adam as a hint? You keep bringing him up to me... you never ever used to bring him like this. Even when he asked you to prom and you told him yeah after we'd already planned out the whole day.
I remember prom night, Lana. I remember prom day and prom morning. I even remember two weeks before when I made my mom and sisters go get you a dress because you refused to shop for one. I was so happy that you went through with the bet. They got you a white one and made you fix up your hair. You refused to wear heels, though. You wore toms. You said it was because "there was absolutely no fucking way in hell you were going to wear heels." "Over my dead body," you ranted on and on and I laughed and laughed. I like to believe that you only wore toms because heels would have made you taller than me. You still looked gorgeous.
Absolutely beautiful.
Honestly takes my breath away every time I remember it. But you didn't dance with me much- until the end. There we sat, me and Paige and you and Adam. I don't even remember who else sat on that table. I couldn't concentrate on anything except you. You look gorgeous in white, Lana, you do. I don't know how Jacky, Jess, and Erica got you to let my mom put make-up on you, but they did and I don't think I ever thanked them. I didn't know you could be more pretty. Then Adam went to get you Pepsi (that dumbass, you don't drink pop) and Paige went to the bathroom. So it was just me and you. Then you got up and walked over to me and your legs looked amazing. You didn't even have that clear, material thing girls put on their legs to make them look smoother. I don't know what they're called but you know what I mean.
You sat right by me, thigh to thigh. And then you said, "Thanks for asking me to dance. I really wanted to shed some of my dancing skill on you." I laughed. You sucked at dancing. Then you said, pausing between words, "I... want... you... to... ask... me... to... dance... Jeez, Patrick, I can't be any more blunt." All I could think was "beautiful" because I swear by everything that that's exactly what you were. I didn't reply and you said, "Why do I have to tell you to ask me to dance?" And I thought about it for a little and I told you, "Because that's what best friends do, Lana, they fucking tell each other things."
Patrick
P.S. You're so beautiful.
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