Chapter 24

The last time I talked to Ryan, his voice was clipped. His answers were curt. He didn't seem like he wanted to talk to me, like it was some obligation he felt he had to fulfill for our relationship. It's becoming so much work, and I already have a full-time job. When we first started, everything was easy. I can't recall when it changed. So, my communications with him seem to have stopped, and I'm not sure when that even happened.

So where do we go from here? Can I ask him that or do I have to figure it out for myself? I want to know what to do next, like an action step list, but relationships don't come with detailed plans. They should. Like some kind of manual I can refer to when I'm wondering what to do about things like this.

I order a car to go home. I hadn't felt like driving in myself today and dealing with parking since we don't have valet at the office. As I watch the city go by, I feel lonely. I want Ryan to be here with me, but I can't ask him to endure my fast-paced life when I know he wants his life to be calmer.

The doorman greets me with a cheerful "Hello," and I muster the energy to return his smile. After I get through my door and put down my briefcase at the kitchen table, I pull a meal from the fridge from the box kit I've been ordering recently. It's supposed to be healthy even though it's a heat-and-eat microwave meal. While I wait for it to cook, I pour a glass of red wine, a routine I've done a thousand times.

Before I can dig in to my meal, I get a call up from the intercom by the front door. They have a package for me, and I have to sign for it. I'm confused because I don't remember ordering anything. Maybe someone else sent something to me?

I slide on my house shoes and head to the elevator. The security guy is waiting for me with a bike messenger who has a large envelope in hand. He hands me a stylus and holds a small tablet out to me.

"I need you to sign here," he says without preamble.

I sign and take the envelope. It's from Ryan. His name and the address for the ranch are printed on a return label stuck to the corner. It's about the size of a regular sheet of paper and has a bit of weight to it. I'm excited to find out what it might be. I thank the security guy and head back up to my place in the elevator.

Should I text him to tell him I got the package? No, if I had to sign for it, he should get a notification that I received it. I'm resigned to find out what it is first, then I'll send him a message. Or maybe I'll call him. I think he'd like that.

The envelope has a seal on the back with a large sticker and a piece of tape over the opening. Ryan wanted me to know that it hadn't been opened in transit. I use my fingernails to pry up the tape and the seal and find two sheets of heavy cream-colored paper, all filled with writing in Ryan's large loopy letters, front and back.

I get butterflies as I start to read, but after a few lines I realize this isn't a love letter, and my world blurs. I have trouble making it to the end. The paper drops to the floor as I sink to the couch. How did I let this happen?

The letter reads:

Julia,

When we first met, I saw you as the person I didn't want to be anymore. All business and executive lifestyle. But getting to know you during our time together that first week on the ranch, I also saw something that compelled me to want to get to know you more. I thought that there was something beyond the corporate image you projected to everyone else. I thought there was something that could grow between us.

But after the countless missed phone calls, the dismissal of my affections, the interrupted dates, and all the ways you made me feel like I was nothing more than a warm body for you to use, I realize that the corporate image surpasses all. That's who you are, and I was wrong to hope that you could be anyone else.

I know how hard you've worked to get to the place where you are today. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud to have known you so intimately. I wish I could have known you further. I see now that this is simply something you're not capable of doing at this time.

You don't know how to let anyone in, not really. Your walls are carbon steel, and you've spent a lot of time fortifying them so that no one else can get in. I truly hope that one day you'll be able to open a door or a window or even a tiny crack in that wall. I don't want you to live your whole life in that darkness.

For my own happiness, I have to let you go. I can't ask you to change, and I wouldn't want you to do it just for me. I want you to choose to let me in because you want it for yourself. And I don't think you'll be able to do that anytime soon. I can't wait in the wings forever, hoping you'll choose me.

I wish you all the happiness in the world, and my greatest hope for you is that you choose to see it and let it in when it comes to you. I don't regret knowing you. Or losing you.

Yours truly,

Ryan

The worst part about these words, is that he's absolutely, one hundred percent, unequivocally right. He wrote this down, committed it to paper with his own hand. He felt so strongly about his decisions that he sent this by certified mail to make sure he knew I'd get it.

I lose. It's over. There's nothing I can do about this now. I missed the mark and now I've driven away the one man who actually understands me for who I am. This letter proves that he knew me better than I imagined he did.

I call my CFO and tell him that I'm not feeling well. I won't be in tomorrow, and I don't want anyone contacting me. I can't do business as usual after this. My immediate future plans include climbing into a bottle and never coming out.

I can't believe I fucked up this badly, and I never noticed it was happening.