Sweet Filthy Boy

The envelope is thick in my hand, heavy, and stuffed with what feels like a hundred pages. But when I tear it open and look, I realize it’s because my handwriting is so huge and slanted and drunk, I could only fit maybe twenty words on each narrow page of hotel stationery. I’d spilled something on it, and a few of the pages are torn slightly as if I could barely fold them correctly before giving up and shoving them in a messy pile inside.

Ansel watches me as I sort them and begin to read. I can practically feel his curiosity where his eyes are fixed on my face.

Dear Mia self.Miaself.Myself it starts. I bite back a grin. I remember tiny ticks of this moment, sitting on the toilet lid and struggling to focus on the pen and paper.

You’re sitting on the toilet writing a letter to yourself to read later because you’re drunk enough to know you’ll forget a lot tomorrow but not so drunk that you can’t write. But I know you because you’re me and we both know that you’re a terrible drinker and forget everything that happens when you’ve had gin. So let me tell you:

he’s ansel.

you kissed him

he tasted like lemon and scotch

you put his hand in your underwear and then

you talked for hours. yes, you talked. i talked. we talked. we told him everything about the accident and our leg your leg my leg.

this is confusing.

I’d forgotten this. I look up at Ansel, a prickling blush rising beneath the skin of my cheeks. I can feel my lips flush, too, and he notices, his eyes smoothing over them.

“I was so drunk when I wrote this,” I whisper.

He only nods at me, and then nods at the paper, as if he doesn’t want me to be interrupted, even by myself.

you told him you hate speaking but love moving

you told him everything about dancing before the accident and not dancing after

you told him about how it felt to be trapped under the hot engine

you told him about two years of physical therapy, and trying to dance “just for fun” after

you told him about luke and how he said it felt like the old Mia died under the truck

you told him about dad and how you’re sure he’s going to change Broc and Jeff from sweet kids into dickheads

you told him how much you dread the fall and moving to boston

you actually said “i want to love all of my life as much as i love this night” and he didn’t laugh at how stupid you sounded

and here’s the weirdest part

are you ready

I close my eyes, weaving a little. I’m not ready. Because this memory is sliding back into my thoughts, the victory, the urgency, the relief. I’m not ready to remember how safe he made me feel, and how easy he was. I’m not ready to realize that he’s witnessed something no one in my life has ever seen before. I suck air into my lungs and look back down at the letter.

you didn’t stutter. you BABBLED.

I meet Ansel’s eyes when I read this, as if seeking confirmation, but he doesn’t know what the letter says. His eyes go wide as he searches my expression, barely holding back from speaking. Does he remember everything I said?

so that’s why you proposed and he said yes really fast with this drunk smile like it was the best idea he’d ever heard because of course we should get married! now you’re headed there but i wanted to write this first because you might not remember why, and that’s why. don’t be a jerk. he might just be the nicest person you’ve ever known.

xo

Miaself

ps. you haven’t had sex with him yet. but you want to. A lot. Please have sex with him.

pps. you just asked him if you guys were going to and he said “we’ll see.” :/

I fold the papers up as neatly as I can and push them back inside the envelope with shaking hands. My heart feels like it’s doubled in size, maybe conjoined to another, a new one that prefers the staccato of panic. The doubled beats bounce and reverberate in my chest.

“So?” he asks. “You know I’m dying of curiosity.”

“I wrote it before we . . .” I hold up my left hand, displaying the simple gold band. “The last time I wrote myself a letter . . .” I start, but he’s already nodding. I feel like I’m spinning beneath the weight of this.

“I know.”

“And I proposed to you?” I suppose what actually surprises me is that there was a proposal at all. It wasn’t just drunk stumbling. I remember his teasing the night before that I should go with him to France, but this took discussion, and planning. Getting a car, giving directions. It required us to sign papers, and pay, and select rings, then repeat vows coherently enough to convince someone we weren’t drunk off our asses. I’m actually a little impressed by that last part.

He nods again, smiling.

“And you said yes?”

Tilting his head slightly, his lips pout the words, “Of course I did.”

“But you weren’t even sure if you wanted to have sex with me?”

He’s already shaking his head. “Be serious. I wanted to have sex with you the first time I saw you, two nights ago. But last night, we were really drunk. I didn’t . . .” He looks away, down the hall. “You left to write yourself a letter because you were worried you would forget why you proposed. And you did forget.” His brows rise, as he waits for me to acknowledge he’s made a decent point. I nod. “But we got back to the hotel, and you were so beautiful, and you . . .” He exhales a shaky breath. It’s so jagged, I imagine I can see the slivers of it fall from his mouth. “You wanted it.” He leans closer, kisses me slowly. “I wanted it.”