14. Juan

14

JUAN

Divorce minus 96 days

T here was a letter in Juan's post office box a few mornings later. He'd had the box for a few years and never got anything there but bills and ads, so it was something of a shock to see an old-fashioned envelope that was handwritten in stuttering blue ink.

He knew as soon as he touched it, even before he saw the return address, that it was from Deirdre, and his heart gave a crazy little leap. This was better than an email, this was something that she'd touched, that she'd labored over personally. It wasn't the same as characters in a computer, distilled into little shots of data hurtled over the distance between them. It even smelled a little like Green Valley, faintly of sunflowers and corn.

He didn't let himself open it immediately, tucking it into his briefcase like a prize for getting through his day. His willpower got him through to lunch, when he could resist no longer, and he carefully peeled up the seal of the envelope .

There was a comic strip folded into the letter of an IT man explaining to his boss that he couldn't make an email scratch-and-sniff.

Dear Juan,

It occurs to me that I will probably send you a dozen emails and texts between now and the time you get this, so I'm not entirely sure what to put down on paper. It is probably silly to send a letter in this age of electronics anyway! But I saw this in the paper and remembered my mom getting comic clippings from Mormor (my grandmother) and hanging them on the fridge. It was a little like having her there with us.

There was a change of ink there, like the letter had been set aside for a time and a new pen was used.

Don't feel obligated to waste the money on a stamp to write back. I'll ‘see' you on email!

Yours,

Deirdre.

Not his , though. Not yet.

Juan wondered if she counted the days like he did. It was undoubtedly harder on her than it was on him, because he didn't come with attachments to navigate. He just had to navigate how empty his life felt without her, and how horny he got thinking about her. He put the letter back in his briefcase and ate the rest of his sack lunch.

He wrote back on a piece of company letterhead at the end of the day, folding a promotional bookmark in with a chatty letter that he didn't let himself read over again, sure that it was unspeakably inane, much like his emails. Once it was sealed, he wouldn't be able to read it again and again and wish he'd worded parts of it better. He bought a book of stamps and a box of envelopes when he was grocery shopping that week.

Writing back and forth with letters didn't decrease their other forms of communication. They still shot each other impulsive texts and longer emails, but their written letters got longer and more intimate as they went, as if they both knew that they were once-and-gone, and they could say all the complicated feelings there that they didn't dare commit to electronic forms. All of them together were a tapestry of coming to understand each other without being able to meet.

I don't understand how I can love you like this, Deirdre wrote candidly. We've barely met and yet I find myself nodding along as I read your words, anticipating your next statement. You write something that makes me laugh and I think ‘how very Juan of you!' But how would I know that? This is all very unsettling…and at the same time so very right.

Juan sat down and wrote his return letter at the post office.

It doesn't make sense, but so very much of our lives fails to toe the line of logic anyway. Where is the reason for being who—what—we are? It is a beautiful piece of magic and hope in a wide, wild world and I am trying to be glad for it, without trying to overanalyze it. And I say this as a man whose dream job is to over-analyze the absolute hell out of everything!

They never committed in writing—electronic or otherwise—that they were shifters or mates, but they skirted the topic carefully and Juan could read and write between the lines. He always asked about Aaron and Dean, though not always by name. How is your family? Give the dog a pat for me.

They spoke about their work. Deirdre was applying for jobs in Milwaukee, and Juan was driving for Doordash between his internship and working as an evening waiter. Tips were good this week, he wrote. Might be able to afford a can of the fancy olives!

She texted him a frantic account of Aaron falling down the stairs and knocking one of his baby teeth out prematurely, but wrote later about her fear on stationery. I try not to be a helicopter mom, but it is so terrifying watching him try things that I know could hurt him. How do I resolve that with letting him discover the world?

Juan wrote back three pages of praise for the impossible job of being a mom. I've bought six parenting books, he added. They all contradict each other on nearly every topic except that it's a hard and thankless job!

At first they signed off politely: sincerely, yours, be well, regards.

But as the months went on, they gradually intensified: yours forever, thinking of you always, and finally, I love you.