I’d spent decades convincing myself that some people belong in your past, no matter how much you once wanted them in your future. Then a voice I hadn’t heard in 41 years said my name.
The hospital room was at the end of the hall. I stood outside it with my hand on the door, trying to understand how I’d gotten there. Forty-one years.
That’s how long it had been since I’d seen Jeffrey.
I stood outside it with my hand on the door.
Forty-one years since his last letter and since he’d asked me not to contact him again.
And now his son, Peter, stood beside me, saying, “He’s been asking if you’re here yet.”
I looked at him.
Peter had Jeffrey’s eyes.
“Is he awake?”
“He’s been trying to stay awake for you.”
That almost made me turn around.
Peter had Jeffrey’s eyes.
I was 60 years old. I’d spent most of my life learning how to live without Jeffrey.
Then, 40 minutes earlier, my childhood landline had rung. Now I was about to see him again.
I pushed open the door. Jeffrey lay in the hospital bed. He was thinner than the boy I remembered. His hair had gone white. His face had changed.
But he was still Jeffrey.
He was thinner.
His eyes found mine.
“Ruthie.”
My throat closed. Then I noticed the chair beside his bed.
Something was waiting on it.
And the second I saw it, I gasped and stopped breathing.
Something was waiting on it.
Jeffrey and I became best friends when we were 17. Not boyfriend and girlfriend. Just Jeffrey and Ruth.
He dated other girls. I went out with other boys. I even went to prom with someone else, though my best friend ended up driving me there after my date’s car broke down.
Everyone thought we were ridiculous.
They all believed we’d eventually realize we belonged together, but we laughed.
He dated other girls.
My mother, Erica, used to watch us at the kitchen table arguing over homework and say, “One day, the two of you are going to figure this out.”
Jeffrey would grin.
“Figure out what?”
“You know exactly what.”
Then he’d look at me. I’d roll my eyes.
“We’re friends, Mom.”
That was the truth. Or at least it was what we were willing to admit.
“Figure out what?”
Losing my best friend scared me more than dating him ever excited me. I think he felt the same way. So we kept things simple.
Until one summer night when we were 19.
We’d both had terrible dates. Mine spent two hours talking about himself.
Jeffrey’s date left early after arguing with him about a movie.
Losing my best friend.
We met at our old high school football field afterward. The gates were open, so we climbed under the bleachers and sat on the grass.
Jeffrey leaned back against a metal support.
“We’re bad at this.”
“Dating?”
“Choosing people.”
I laughed.
“We’re bad at this.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “What if we never get it right?”
“We’ll survive.”
“What if we’re both single forever?”
I looked at him. Then Jeffrey held out his pinky.
“If we’re both single at 60, we’ll stop being idiots and find each other.”
I stared at his hand.
He wasn’t laughing anymore.
“Jeffrey.”
“I’m serious.”
“What if we never get it right?”
“Why 60?”
“Because if we haven’t figured things out by then, we obviously need help.”
I hooked my pinky around his.
“Deal.”
He smiled.
“Deal.”
For one second, neither of us moved.
I remember thinking I should say something. I didn’t.
Two months later, Jeffrey left for college three states away.
“We obviously need help.”
At first, we wrote constantly.
Long letters and birthday cards.
Jeffrey told me about his roommate who never cleaned anything. I told him about working at the library while taking classes.
He complained about the cafeteria food. I complained about customers returning books with coffee stains.
We wrote constantly.
For the first year, I knew more about Jeffrey’s life than people living down his street.
Then the letters became less frequent. Every week became every other week. Every other week became once a month.
I thought college was changing him.
The truth was, my life was changing, too.
I knew more about Jeffrey’s life.
I started training to become a teacher. I made new friends. I went on dates.
But every time something important happened, Jeffrey was still the first person I wanted to tell.
Then, during his second year, he wrote about a girl named Margaret. She was studying nursing.
He said she was funny, challenged him, and he thought I’d like her.
That’s when I finally understood something I should’ve known years earlier.
I went on dates.
I was in love with Jeffrey.
I sat on my bedroom floor with his letter in my lap and cried because I’d waited too long to understand my own feelings.
That night, I started writing to him. I got several pages in.
I told him I loved him and thought I always had.
Then I tore it up.
I started writing to him.
If he were happy, I didn’t want to ruin it. So I kept being his friend for a while.
In the summer of 1986, a final letter arrived.
I knew something was wrong before I opened it. Jeffrey’s letters usually started with a joke.