J.F.'s Letter

As I sat down in front of the computer, my hands froze. I couldn’t really think of what to write, but my brain was at full speed, spitting out bleak reasoning and curse words alike.

I’d like to blame this all on hate.

Let me just say that I suck at language arts. I can’t write an essay on the significance of J.D. Salinger’s use of italics or Sylvia Plath’s allusion to every other story in the Bible to save my life. I’m not a writer and I don’t pretend to be one; I just decided it best to spit out my feelings onto paper. But right then I just couldn’t think.

So I snatched my spiral from my half-way opened backpack, hastily grabbed a cheap Bic pen with bite marks at the top, shook it a bit, and scribbled overlapping circles in the corner of a page to see if it worked.

Satisfied with the thick, black result, I scratched out the first words:

TO J.F.,

“So, uh… I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” said the lanky brunette as he stabbed a piece of sticky orange chicken with his plastic spork. He haggardly bit off a chunk of dry meat and set his Batman-degrading utensil on the edge of his plate. As he silently chewed, he brushed a clump of overgrown band-boy bangs out of his eyes. “And I really want to change my name.”

The girl snapped her head from absent mindedly staring at the soda fountain across the nearly empty restaurant. Her face carried a blank expression. “Sorry, J.F. What did you say?”

J.F. rolled his pale green eyes and set his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “I said I want to change my name.You know. Mix it up a bit. I’m in a new band, I’m not singing anymore. So I think a different name will make me more…appealing.”

The girl raised an eyebrow and reached for her drink. Playing with the straw, she decided to humor him. “Have you thought of a name yet?”

J.F. nodded. “I was thinking ‘Kennedy Brock.’” He smirked in triumph and self-satisfaction.

“Isn’t that the name of a Pokémon trainer?” she asked, furrowing her eyebrows into a confused dot on her forehead.

“What?”

“’Brock’?”

He smiled and slid his elbows off the crooked table. “I think you’re right.” He brought the rest of the chunk of chicken to his mouth and bit off the whole piece. “Starh callun mh Kehee,” he mumbled through a mouthful of chicken guts.

“And why not J.F.?”

He swallowed and reached for his drink. “Just do it, ‘kay?” He sent her a questioning glance as he sipped his sweating glass of pop.

“Whatever,” she muttered, moodily stabbing some rice with her spork.

All that high-and-mighty power on stage was starting to get to his head. He was always cocky and conceited, but that whole new persona was something I’d never experienced with J.F.

Sorry. Kennedy.

I HATE YOU AND I THINK THAT I WILL FOREVER.

She didn’t yell, she didn’t scream. But her voice was still venomous all the same. Still and even, yes, but harsh and biting.

“Just go away, John. Get the hell away from me.” She kept her back against her bedroom door as she slid to the floor. Crossing her arms and folding her shaking knees, she told him again in monotone: “Go away, J.F.”

“A-”

“I said to go away.”

“Just hear me out, okay?” a muffled J.F. pleaded from the other side. He lightly pounded his fist once against the door in frustration. “Just listen for a sec, will you?”

“Fuck it, J.F. Just go away.”

“But-“

“I hate you, okay? I hate you. Just go away!”

J.F. sighed, running a hand through his cropped, greasy mess of hair. “I still love you,” he spoke to the slab of wood.

He hit his fist against the door once more before giving up.

I told him last night that I hated him. I told him I didn’t want to see him again. I told him everything that I thought of him, every last condescending thought in my brain that I could muster out and through my teeth.

And he told me he still loved me.

As if he ever did.

So I wrote a summary of all his transgressions in one sentence:

YOU BROKE MY HEART.

“You’re here!” J.F. shouted as he stalked across the packed living room. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it!”

“Boss let me off early,” she noncommittally explained, shrugging her shoulders. “’Sides, how could I miss this party? You guys just got signed.”

“I know, right?” He chuckled and swung an arm over her shoulders. “Want a gin and Coke?” He started leading her to the open-aired kitchen, light on his feet, his thin fall jacket smelling of cigarettes and strong alcohol.

“Can’t. Work tomorrow,” she said, suddenly gripping his arm as his Converse clad feet almost tripped over the corner of a fully occupied couch. “Whoa there, J.F.”

He gripped her shoulder tightly as his head swung back to find out what caused him to stumble. “Kennedy,” he corrected, looking back at her with his lips slightly parted. She could smell a mix of tomatoes and alcohol. The stench nearly made her gag.

“Sorry,” she muttered, taking a breath of air away from his offensive mouth. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?” she asked, letting go of his arm as she slid into the kitchen, Kennedy hot on her heels like an attention-craving puppy.

“Naw, just tipsy.” He chuckled as she reached for a can of Dr. Pepper. “You still drink Dr. Pepper?” he asked, pointing to the cold can. “Man, I remember we-we could down a twelve pack in one sitting.” He gave her a slanted, toothy grin.

She sent him a half-smile over her shoulder. “Never stopped.” She cracked it open and took a sip. “So, what’s there to do?”

That party was the one night where everything… I don’t know. I think it just went downhill from there, from what J.F. did. Sneaky bastard and his horny friends.

I never did think a virginal lead singer sounded right.

“Aren’t we a bit too old to be playing Truth or Dare?” she whispered in Kennedy’s ear as Garrett, his short, social friend, waved in a small group of indie-hipster kids ranging from slightly buzzed to punch drunk near the coffee table in the middle of the stuffy living room.

“Not in the slightest,” he mumbled back over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Garrett and taking a sip of his Bud Light.

Suddenly, Kennedy grabbed her hand and tugged her over to the fluffy leather lounge chair, surprisingly still unoccupied by their peers. He dropped down into the folds of the chair, pulling her down with him. The lumps of leather sucked them into a tight spot, stuck against each other with barely a hope to get out without any outside help.

A few juvenile dares and truths were called across the room, stupid stuff like throwing up Gushers, drunk texting, “first-times,” and kissing the Spin-The-Bottle way. But there was nothing that especially caught the girl’s attention. She was completely pushed into J.F. - the most anti-physical-contact person she’d ever met - thanks to the over-stuffed lounger’s haven, and he didn’t seem to mind one bit.

Kennedy noticed his situation, all right. But he let the alcohol in his blood turn his mood apathetic.

She didn’t pay much mind to the ongoing game until another scenester in a headband, skinnies, and acne held the floor with his reedy, drawn-out Southern accent. She thought he sounded baked.

“So… Kenny. Truth or Dare?” His lips pulled into a smirk on one side of his face.

“I don’t care, bro,” he called, trying to bring his beer to his lips. The bottle’s neck barely came past his elbow. “Dare me.”

“All’ight, uh…” He scratched at the invisible peach fuzz on his square jaw. “K-kiss your friend there.” He pointed to the blob of leather and nodded his head.

“Ha!” Kennedy attempted to sit up further on the lounge chair, but only managed to lunge forward and fall back again with a plop and an inaudible grunt.

“A-and not just kiss.” Kennedy’s friend smirked again, brushing his overgrown bangs to his temple. “We’re doing this Seven Minutes In Heaven style.” A few hipsters voiced their amusement in ooohs and stifled laughter.

Kenny finally succeeded in pushing himself off the couch, only to drop his near-empty bottle of beer on the trite beige carpet. He only shrugged and reached for the flustered, speechless girl, pulling her up and taking her hand.

“Lead the way, Johno.”

I still don’t know what I was thinking then. That whole night, even.

The door to the bathroom was shut in Kenny’s face. He blankly stared down his nose at it for a few seconds, a hand on his hip and the other grasping the girl’s, before turning to face her.

“Shall we?”

“J.F., shouldn’t…” She paused as he inched closer, biting his lip and slightly smirking. He still smelled of cigarettes. “Shouldn’t we talk about this?” she whispered as he set his free hand on her cheek. She let out a nervous laugh as her backside bumped against the tile counter.

There was no doubt I wanted to kiss him, but I was stupid enough to think he had held the same mindset.

“I thought I told you to call me Kennedy,” he teasingly whispered back before kissing her.

But when she kissed back just as thirstily, just as fervently, all she could think of was how J.F. was drunk. Her best friend was drunk.

I bit the pen – stupid nasty habit – and scribbled down one of his offenses:

YOU MADE FUN OF ME WHEN WE WERE FRIENDS.

“Yo, Bookworm!”

She looked up from her physics homework spread across her bed to the twiggish, lanky figure leaning against her doorway. “Hey, J.F. What’s up?”

“Movies. Now. You in?” He passed through her doorway and sat himself at the foot of her bed, peering over her notes, homework, and spread-eagled textbook with dismissive curiosity. “AP kicking your ass?”

“Yeah.” She heaved a sigh and set her graphing calculator on her notebook. “Test’s on Monday.”

“Can’t you take a break? You’re such a tight-ass when it comes to science.” He smirked and picked up a piece of worn notebook paper with scratch work and answers to her homework. “What’s this? Electro-magnetism?”

“No, silly.” She attempted to snatch the page from his grasp, but he held it above his head. “Electric circuits.” She reached for it again, but J.F. still wouldn’t give it back.

“Oh, come on. Take a break. Don’t be such a nerd for once.” He smirked as she reached for it again. “Aa-aa-ah,” he scolded, hiding it behind his back.

“Fine,” she huffed, turning off her calculator and sliding on its cover. “Give me back my homework, J.F.,” she demanded, holding out her hand.

“Here,” he said, setting it on her textbook instead. “Five minutes, then we’re out.” He stood up and brushed his short, choppy bangs from his face. “A sadistic murderer awaits our presence in the dark theatre.” He chuckled and walked across the room, but paused and turned around in the doorway. “Unless you’re too scared,” he taunted, a grin pushing up his skin into two tiny dimples.

The girl threw a nearby pillow at him, but J.F. caught it. “Just get the car started, Trotter.”

He laughed again before tossing the lumpy cushion on the desk chair next to him. “Hurry up, pansy. We don’t have all day, now.” With a final grin, he disappeared down the hall, keychain swinging and jingling around his finger as he walked.

That movie was scary. Honestly.

“Shit, you can’t even stand to stay in the theatre when there are bodies being chopped in half, can you?” J.F. laughed as he popped a cold kernel into his mouth. She pushed open the theatre’s solid metal door, letting the sunlight simultaneously warm her up and momentarily blind her.

“Shut up, J.F.,” she mumbled, sticking her hands in her pockets. “It was disgusting.”

“Yeah. Right.” He chuckled again before tossing the extra-large popcorn bucket into a nearby trash can. “Such a pansy.” He brushed his hands against his jeans and shrugged, giving her a sideways glance and sticking out his lower lip. “Or maybe… you just have an extremely weak stomach.”

“Just because you were raised on horror movies instead of Barney doesn’t mean I’m incapably scared of anything that jumps out from a closet,” she snapped, rubbing her neck out of frustration.

J.F. only laughed again before fishing out his keys and unlocking his old SUV.

BUT I WILL NEVER FORGET THE TIME YOU PUT YOUR ARM AROUND ME WHEN MY BEST FRIEND AND I WERE FIGHTING. PROOF THAT EVEN YOU AREN’T TOTALLY HEARTLESS.

The girl slumped on the couch after hanging up on a fuming former friend and their hopeless fight. Her lazy cream cat Lance sat in her lap as she silently let a few tears of frustration fall.

The doorbell rang downstairs and she could hear her mother answer the door. A short, muffled conversation flowed up to the second story before she heard quick footsteps bound up the stairway.

“Hey, what’s up?” J.F. excitedly asked, walking over to the coffee table and setting down a six-pack of sweating Dr. Pepper in glass bottles. When the soda softly slammed against the glass table, Lance jumped out of her lap and bounded out of the room. “Scaredy-cat,” he mumbled as he turned his gaze from the bedroom hallway to the girl sitting cross-legged on the couch, both fists set on his hips.

The second he saw her shirt sprinkled in a few drops of salt water and her cheeks blazed red, he quickly and noisily clambered to the couch and sat down next to her, pulling her into a hug.

“She won’t listen. She’s-“ She hiccupped and grasped his shirt in a fist as he ran his hand over her shoulder. “She thinks h-he loves her.”

“Shh,” he whispered, keeping her in an embrace.

“She’s just too stubborn,” she sniffled, leaning against his chest. “She doesn’t think he’s hurting her now just ‘cause-” She hiccupped again and continued, “-just ‘cause he hasn’t actuallyhit her yet.”

“I know,” J.F. whispered again. He reached a hand to set on her temple and kissed her hair. She hiccupped again to his amusement, causing a chuckle to run like a weak motor in the back of his throat. He grasped her close for a few minutes, letting her breath slowly even out. He didn’t usually like hugs or even having someone in close proximity to him, but she needed it.

In a way, he knew she needed him.

The girl sniffled again before letting go of his shirt and slowly standing up from the couch, wringing her hands in embarrassment. “Thanks, J.F.”

J.F. stood up as well and momentarily set a hand on her cheek before sticking it into his pocket. “Don’t mention it.” He chuckled and scratched the side of his head, glancing sideways to the TV. “How ‘bout you go wash up, then we’ll watch Beetlejuice.”

“Yeah,” she mumbled, leaving for the hallway bathroom.

Once she silently shut the bathroom door, J.F. collapsed down on the couch and rubbed his eyes. “Jeeze, I hate seeing her like that.” He lazily reached over for a Dr. Pepper and screwed off the top, taking a long swig. “I hate seeing her so sad.”

But Kennedy had his shining moments, though brief and few, just like any other emotional failure.

I’LL NEVER FORGET THE TIME YOU WERE SORRY FOR MAKING ME CRY…

She decided to walk to J.F.’s house that night to watch a movie. He said he’d just bought the last installment of the prequel Star Wars trilogy, and that she just had to see it since she didn’t get a chance to when it was in theatres. She vehemently agreed and immediately set out to walk to his house just so she could enjoy the cool desert night air while it lasted.

When she reached his back gate, she saw a small cloud of smoke billowing over the short fence near the back porch. “Probably just barbequing,” she whispered aloud, gripping her cardigan over her chest as a weak breeze came from the north.

But when she opened the gate with one hand, still gripping her thin cardigan closed, she saw J.F. smoking a cigarette in the twilight, the small dot of ash subtly brightening as he inhaled.

“J.F.?” she called.

“Oh, shit,” she heard him mutter as he tossed the cigarette to the ground. He quickly stamped on it while waving away the lingering smoke. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” she said, slowly walking to the patio.

“I thought you said you weren’t coming until seven.”

“I wanted to walk, so I left early,” she explained, demurely tugging on the edge of her sweater.

“Oh.”

“I…” She took a deep breath and nervously rubbed the back of her neck. “I thought you said you wouldn’t smoke anymore.” She bit her lip and opened her mouth to say something else, but stopped short. “Or-or at least you’d, you know…”

“I said I’d try,” he harshly cut in, shoving his hands into his hoodie and looking at the grass sticking out through the cracks in the patio’s concrete.

“J.F., what’s going on?” she said, stepping closer to him.

“Nothing,” he muttered, turning to open the screen door behind him. “Are we gonna watch that movie or what?” he moodily asked, holding the door open with one arm as he stood under the roof’s looming edge.

“Sure. It’s just nothing.”

An argument only escalated from there. They yelled at each other on the way up the stairs to the den. They bickered back and forth as J.F. searched for the DVD in between the cushions of the couch. When he couldn’t find it, he violently threw up his hands in frustration and told her to shut up so he could think of where he had put the Star Wars movie.

Only once tears started prickling her eyes did he calm down.

J.F. frowned, quickly crossed the room, pulling her towards him in a hug, and whispered a weak apology in her ear. He ran a hand over her hair as she tried to push him away, still completely silent despite her crying. In response, he only muttered a “Don’t.” She just shook her head and buried her forehead into his neck, still keeping her fists balled against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated in a whisper.

When she feebly nodded, he held her out at arms’ length, kissed her forehead, and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Do you want to watch that movie now?”

She only solemnly nodded, still slightly taken aback by his sudden outburst of affection.

J.F. inclined his head to the couch. “Go sit. I think I know where I left it now.”

It took him all of ten seconds to peer around the TV cabinet before letting out a triumphant “Ah-ha!” With a smirk, he held The Revenge of the Sith in his hand and tapped on the cover.

“Movie time.”

As the THX theme came from the TV, J.F. stumbled back to the couch and plopped down next to her, folding his legs Indian style like she had. He nudged her arm with his elbow and looked down his long nose to her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you-”

“J.F., movie,” she quietly interrupted, keeping her eyes on the TV.

“Right.” He smiled at her, feeling seemingly forgiven, and watched as dueling light sabers lighted up the screen.

But he wasn’t forgiven.

It took me a while to forgive him for going against what he said, but he never knew that. We never mentioned what happened that night.

Forgive and forget? Not quite – I sure as hell didn’t forget.

I put the cheap pen back against the notebook page and completed the nerve-calming sentence:

…OR THE TIME YOU BEAT UP THE GUY WHO WAS BULLYING MY LITTLE BROTHER.

“J.F., what the hell happened to you?” she asked as she slipped into the air-conditioned SUV. She tossed her boisterous backpack in the back seat and leaned an elbow on the center console.

“Huh?” J.F. turned from facing the oncoming line of teenage traffic as she buckled her seatbelt to face her. “Oh, nothing.”

“It’s always nothing with you. What? Did you punch yourself in the face?” she asked, hovering her index finger dangerously near his swollen eye.

“No,” he snapped, grabbing her hand and pushing it away. He flipped the turning signal and proceeded to weave out of the slow lane of cars.

“Then what? ‘Cause I don’t think you could manage a black eye without anyone’s help,” she said, turning off the radio. “I’m serious here, John. What happened?”

“Your brother,” he muttered, finally turning onto the crowded street and merging with the slow flow of traffic.

“My brother?”

“Yes, your brother,” he confirmed, keeping his eyes on the road.

“My little brother?Nice. I always knew I taught him well,” she mused, blowing on the knuckles of a fist.

“No, it’s, uh…” He flicked the turning signal again and peered to his left. “I got into a fight with some other freshman picking on him. Kicked his ass, though.” He smirked and glanced at her.

“You beat up a freshman?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yeah…”

She scoffed and hit his shoulder with the back of her hand. “J.F.! You’re in college, for Pete’s sake!”

“So?” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“So? So? J.F., you played soccer in high school. You’re fit. You’re older. That kid was smaller than you, wasn’t he?”

He just smirked.

“Wasn’t he?” she doubtfully asked again.

“Nope,” he bragged, popping his p.

“What? Explain. Now.”

“Footballer. A good five-nine or five-ten. ‘Round two-hundred pounds.” As he slowed and stopped at the stoplight, he clenched a red and bruised fist, blowing on his knuckles like she had just done. “Who’s the badass now?”

Even though he was arrogant about it, I was still grateful. He beat up someone four years his junior just for my little brother. He could’ve gotten arrested and spent time in jail, but he didn’t care, as long as my brother was safe.

Lil’ Bro doesn’t have any trouble with bullies anymore, though.

I quickly scanned what I had written so far and decided to write a one-sentence summary of why I was writing this letter in the first place.

I HATE YOU, I ALWAYS HAVE AND ALWAYS WILL, BUT I’LL ALSO ALWAYS LOVE YOU.

“You don’t understand, J.F. I always hated you. Always. Even when…” She folded her arms together and choked up, biting the knuckle of her index finger. “I just have. I always have…”

And she completely broke.

Without thinking, Kennedy crossed the few steps on her front porch and gathered her heaving shoulders into a tight hug. The contact with her hands-off friend made her step back in shock, but he kept his arms around her. Her fists balled up and hit against his chest, causing him to grunt once or twice. But Kennedy didn’t care.

“I-I still love you, John.” She hiccupped against his chest and pounded it again. “I-I…”

“I still love you, too. But I can’t.”

“John, it’s-” She hiccupped again and loosened her fists, bringing her hands around his neck.

“Shh,” he cooed, kissing her temple.

“I hate you,” she mumbled again. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I-”

“Shhh.” He kissed her temple again and reposed his lips against her brow. “I know,” he mumbled against her skin, kissing her forehead.

“I can’t, John. I just can’t.” She took another shaky breath. “You can’t.”

His response was only another solemn nod. “I know.”

I can only say that I hate him. I really, honestly do. I hate John Franklin Trotter; I hate Kennedy Brock. He’s a prick, a douche, a jerk, what have you.

Last night, I told him I hated him and I told him I still loved him.

And he explained that he did, too. But he just "couldn’t."

And why?

Well…

HOPEFULLY YOU THINK ABOUT THE WAY OUR FRIENDSHIP USED TO BE, SITTING AROUND, DRINKING POP, AND MAKING FUN OF THE WORLD, AND YOU MISS IT EVEN A FRACTION OF HOW MUCH I DO.

He stopped the SUV with a sudden jerk.

“So then I told him I switched his vodka and Coke with just plain water and Coke. He nearly spit out what was in his mouth!” Kennedy obnoxiously laughed, hitting the steering wheel several times with his palm. “I still can’t believe he didn’t notice it!” He sniggered and pulled off his seatbelt.

“Cool,” she mumbled as she jumped out of the passenger’s seat.

“So, what’re you gonna get?” Kennedy asked as she yanked open the Circle K door.

“Dr. Pepper. What else, Kenny?”

“Ah! Finally! I didn’t have to remind you,” he exclaimed, gripping her shoulder from behind and lightly shaking it as she made a beeline to the soda fountain.

“And you?” she asked, still contemplating on what size drink to get.

“What do you think, huh?” He sent her a smile and picked up two 32 ounce cups, handing one to her.

“So, uh…” She teetered on her feet and twirled a straw between her fingers. “How long is this tour going to be?” she asked as she stepped forward to fill her cup with pop.

“Just around four weeks. Not that much, you know?” he said, giving a weak shrug.

“First tour as Kennedy Brock,” she mused, securing a lid over her drink.

“First tour for The Maine,” he reminded her.

“I bet you’re stoked,” she said, taking a sip of her Dr. Pepper.

“Mhm.” He nodded his head and grabbed a straw. “So, did you hear about that kid in Oklahoma that protested some military funeral all by himself?”

“Ha, yeah.” She headed towards the counter, taking another sip of pop and turning over a thought in her head. “You’d think if he wanted to make a statement, he’d get some friends to help him out.”

“Well, he sort of did make a statement, you know. Just being by himself,” he said, pushing the lid on his drink and stabbing the straw through the top.

“I guess,” she shrugged, reaching for her wallet in her back pocket.

“No, no, it’s on me.” He gripped her wallet-searching hand behind her back and pulled it in between them. “You aren’t the poor musician.”

She chuckled nervously and slid her hand out of Kennedy’s, wrapping it around her drink. “Sure, Kenny. If you want to.”

As he paid for their drinks, she couldn’t help but notice the subtle frown pulling at his lips.

We were Dr. Pepper fiends, always drinking the twenty-three flavors like cacti absorbing and storing water. It was our thing. There were countless times where we would just sit on a couch, sip pop, and talk about current events. It never got old.

The last time we ever got Dr. Pepper together was a few days before he left for his first tour.

I haven’t stepped foot into that Circle K since.

FOREVER THE GIRL WHO HATES YOU AND STILL MISSES YOU,

“Kennedy,” she curtly greeted as she opened her front door.

“I need to talk to you.” He cleared his throat and peered over her shoulder for the slightest second before looking back at her, straight in the eyes.

She shook her head. “Not inside.”

“Huh?”

She waved him off and stood in front of the door, closing it behind her. “My brother just fell asleep on the couch.”

“Oh.” He looked at his feet, the sight of his dirty Vans seeming more appealing to him than someone he hurt. “How… How is he?”

She ignored his conversational question. “Sit down, Kenny.”

He looked up a ways to see her sitting on the threshold’s single step, lightly patting the spot next to her. He solemnly nodded and slouched down on the small step of bricks.

“I-”

“Kennedy, why did you do this?” she said, cutting straight to what was bothering her. She set her chin on her intertwined hands, elbows on her knees.

“What?”

“No one just, just comes out and says, ‘Hey, I l-love you. I have ever since that one time I was drunk and kissed you on a dare. But – oh, no! – I just can’t be with you. My-my lifestyle prevents it from happening. My job is at fault.’ No one says that, J.F.” She sighed and peered over her shoulder to take a look at him: Newly cut hair - greasy as ever, though - and one deep cutting line under each eye, as if he hadn’t slept more than a few hours in a couple of days. His chin was scattered with light brown fuzz and there were a couple of zits here and there.

Kennedy folded his hands behind his neck and bent over his knees. “A-”

“I miss the old Kennedy. I miss J.F. Hell, J.F. even rolls off the tongue better. I-”

“I still love you,” he interjected, suddenly sitting up. He folded his arms on his knees and turned to look at her: his own assessment of her appearance only went as far as to take in her glassy, faded blue eyes. Like a cream ocean, he once described them.

“And I still hate you, J.F.” She shot back, playing with the neck of her sweater.

“Don’t say that,” he groaned, rolling his eyes.

“But it’s true,” she muttered, looking out to the dark, empty street. J.F.’s old red SUV, still as dirty as ever, was parked directly in front of her mailbox.

“No, it’s not.”

She quickly stood up, surprising a stressed-out Kennedy. His mouth formed an o-shape as she paced across the front patio. “You just don’t understand.”

He followed suit, standing up and sticking his hands in his pockets as a chilly breeze ruffled his greasy hair.

“You don’t understand, J.F. Ialways hated you. Always.”

I bit my lip and rubbed my neck. I could feel my eyes slightly glazing over. Maybe it was because I hadn’t blinked for a minute or two. Maybe it was allergies. It was early spring time, anyway.

But I knew better.

I shook my head and let out a sarcastic, single-syllable laugh. And with a rigid flourish only capital letters can offer, I signed my first initial:

A.

I gripped my notebook in one hand, quickly scanning over the letter and gnawing at the pen. It didn’t really make sense if you just read it like it was, especially without knowing what had happened.

In other words, you just had to be there.

It was trash. That piece of notebook paper was trash: it was ugly, the font was scrawny and hard to read, the page itself was haggard, the words made no sense when read aloud. So I ripped the therapeutic page from my notes, noisily crumpled it up, and backed away from the desk’s edge in my computer chair.

And I tossed it into the trash can next to my feet.

It’s not like I was going to give it to him anyway.