Archive of Our Own ^beta

Love,

Right now, there's an empty seat in first class on Flight 278 from Bangor to Los Angeles. It was mine, but instead, I'm here. You're next to me, asleep—you must be exhausted. 

I am, too—but I've always been terrible at sleeping when I'm worried. My brain moves too quickly, the words pour out; it's probably why I'm a decent writer. I'm always a little bit worried. The words are always rushing through my mind.

I figured I'd write them down, though, now. Now that it's all over, and I have you back in my life. I was so worried I'd lose you—forgive me for always being so damn concerned, but teenage me hasn't left that anxiety behind. I figure maybe we'll eventually go to therapy to talk about this. They'll never believe us, but that doesn't really matter, does it?

Anyway, my point here is that that's like, a coping mechanism therapists use. They tell you not to bundle that up (like you've been telling me for years, I know), so I'm doing what I do best, which is put it on paper.

I'm still not great at this, though, but it feels easier thinking about it like I'm talking and writing to you.

You're sleeping on my shoulder. We'll arrive in Atlanta in just over an hour or so, and I'm not going to want to wake you up. Because this whole thing feels like a dream.

In retrospect, I think I dreamt of you.

Even when I couldn't remember you. Even when I thought that settling for a PR romance was all I'd get, I still believed in soulmates. You'll roll your eyes and smile at me in that way you do when you read this, but I believe it. Maybe it's why I didn't date, really. I was waiting for that moment with someone that wasn't going to come, because my person was out in New York, in Atlanta.

I don't know what comes next, besides a lot of drama and tabloids and shit talking, and some so-bad-it's-good airport Chinese food, but—it'll all be with you. That's worth it.

Yours,

Bill

Love,

I'm leaving Atlanta, and you're not with me.

I know it has to be this way—I don't want you around when I go back to the house, and you have to figure things out with your company anyway—but I still wish you were here.

I'm terrified, if I'm being honest.

I know It's dead, I know I've already got hundreds of photos of us, of you on my phone, we've got phone numbers and social media profiles linking us, but I'm so fucking scared I'm going to forget. That I'll look at my phone one day and wonder how drunk was I that I slept with a stranger and got him to let me take photos of him in bed and—

And I'll never make the connection between this beautiful man and Stanley Uris and—the more I write it down, the more it seems unrealistic. Which is probably why this works—making your anxieties concrete so you can find their flaws.

Still, the fear's not gone.

The only thing making it better is knowing that you're not going to immediately be subjected to whatever drama is waiting for me in Los Angeles. I still haven't touched the pile of texts or voicemails from Audra, which… isn't great on my part. But there's never been any illusion on my part that this was anything more than a publicity thing for me. She was pushy, my agency was pushy, everyone was pushy, and I was...sad. 

Truly, not one of my best moments, but I thought that was it for me. That was the closest thing I'd get to love. That was Hollywood. Big smiles, fake happiness, flashy cameras, well tailored suits and expensive dresses—I was going through the motions. Behind-the-scenes, it was exactly what you'd expect; awkward conversations and attempts at one-sided affection, mixed with harsh criticism of everything from my work to my personality.

Fuck the forgetting, right? I honestly thought that was the best I'd get.

It's probably for the best, though. It makes the rest of this easy—the divorce and all. She can have the house, she can have whatever she wants—

You're all I need.

I know her, and it's going to get ugly. Maybe best for me to wait to galavant around West Hollywood holding your hand.

I'll be back soon.

Yours,

Bill

Love,

I know I'm coming to you earlier than we planned, but—things were uglier than expected, and if I'm being honest, I'm eager to have a home with you. Julia—my agent—is tired of how 'lovesick' I'm acting. I'm pretty sure she'd kill me if she wasn't so delighted seeing me this happy, even with the divorce drama.

I can't wait for you to meet her. You'll love each other.

We were laughing yesterday because the tabloids are deeply convinced I'm divorcing Audra because I'm having an illicit affair with fashion designer Beverly Marsh. 

(That's Ben's job, christ.)

They apparently caught on to my Instagram stories and posts from Derry, with all the Losers, and figured that there was no other option , considering I left behind my ring and so did she, and we ran away to bumfuck nowhere Maine for a week.

Hey, InTouch, I was actually in Maine on personal demon clown killing business! Also, I'm fucking the sexy accountant. Get it right.

At least the National Enquirer had the decency to call out that Richie was there too and suggest we had some threesome or some shit. He'll get a kick out of that. Eddie won't.

Anyway, Julia was saying it was blatantly obvious from the photos that I was in love with you , laughing about how they just had straight goggles on.

It had me thinking about how I can't wait for this to settle down so I can tell people it's you—that it's only ever been you.

I gave her the story we nailed down—that we were in love as teenagers, that it was all very secretive because Derry's, well, Derry, that we lost touch in college and I've been searching for you for decades, we ran into each other at a reunion back home, and—well, the rest is some sappy romance novel.

It's mostly true, at least.

She believes it; I feel badly lying to her. Maybe I'll tell her the truth someday. I feel like she knows me well enough to believe it.

Right now, though, I'm risking the whole 'subtle' operation because I fucking hate being so far away, I hate the time difference, I hate sleeping alone now that I know what it's like to sleep next to you, it just sucks.  

I'll see you soon.

Yours,

Bill

Love,

Maybe coming to Atlanta again was a mistake.

Not that I don't love seeing you, but it's only my second time leaving you since we were teenagers, and it's already impossibly difficult. I can't see it getting any easier.

I'd move to Atlanta for a few months if it wouldn't be ridiculous and put me completely in your way as you get ready to relocate West. I know we agreed this was best, but fuck, Stanley, it's awful.

Leaving you has always been awful.

I don't know if any of them was worse than college, though. At least now, I know you're coming to stay soon. I know that there's a future for us that isn't four years away . I know that you aren't East because you were forced there—taken away from me.

I wasn't going to stop at your house on the way out of Derry that summer. I didn't want to say goodbye because it felt too fucking permanent, then. Maybe that was my brain, knowing I'd start to forget you piece by piece the further I drove.

But I couldn't help myself. I had to ask if you'd run with me one last time. 

You should've been in that car with me from the start. It was supposed to be you and I in California, as far away from Derry as we could manage. Then your dad put in the deposit for NYU, and he didn't ask you . In my head, that was reason enough to tell him to fuck off and run away. Maybe that was just me thinking about my parents, too. 

I think your dad knew I was in love with you. I guess we'll never know, but I thought that was why he'd done it then, and I still think so now. Kept us apart twenty years, but not forever.

I made a point to come around when he wasn't home, I figured I had the best chance—and I'm sorry for putting that pressure on you. I was just desperate. 

When I'd finished crying, asking you to come again—when we said goodbye, part of me knew that was going to be the last time I ever saw you. Or—I thought so.

But that was the worst. Because as optimistic as I was about our letters, about calling, about the thought that, maybe if I saved up enough, focused my energy on getting ready for a life with you, it would come true—I knew, deep down, that I'd just lost you, too. Even if it took me two decades to accept that.

It'll never be harder than that—because once you're out in Los Angeles with me, where you should've been twenty years ago, I only plan on leaving you to like, use the bathroom. Or I guess when you have to to work, or something. 

Or I could just come to work with you. It's an option. Think about it, babe.

Yours,

Bill

Love,

Your birthday is this week.

I got you a present.

It's not a physical present—though I brought one of those, too—but when I got the paperwork from Julia, the timing was just too perfect. Audra and I are legally separated. She's agreed to the divorce. The terms are getting worked on, though the whole thing is much simpler than average (whatever that is, fucking Hollywood lawyers) because the whole thing started so... dispassionately. It's almost like they don't expect marriages to last in Hollywood. Huh.

I'll spare you the details of all the conversations I had with her about how it was never going to work, how, yes there was someone else, no, I wasn't going to talk about it beyond the fact that I was finally actually in love—but after nearly two months of back and forth, I think it clicked that I wasn't caving.

Which means I can finally start to talk about us.

I've been dying to tell every fucking person I meet about you. How you smile when you think no one's looking, about how you frame bird puzzles when you've finished with them, your cute reading glasses, how your curls look first thing in the morning when you're still a little sleepy, how pretty your voice is when you're talking, singing, moaning —

(Okay, that last part's only for me. I kid, babe.)

Point is, I'm going to brag about you to everyone who'll listen. I've waited since we were teenagers to hold your hand in front of everyone, to call you mine without being afraid—and after Derry, a few shitty people mean nothing to me. We started at the worst. It's only up from here.

From now on. 

I can't wait to celebrate your birthday with you.

Yours,

Bill

Love,

Yesterday was your birthday.

You got me a present.

Really, I thought I had the day on lock, between the California bird books and the divorce—

But you gave me a plane ticket, a suitcase and some neatly packed brown boxes.

Well, you didn't give me them—they were yours.

You're asleep next to me on the plane to Los Angeles.

We're not going back to Atlanta.

You're not going back to Atlanta.

I'm sorry I fucking cried when we showed up to the house with SOLD emblazoned across the realty sign. I'm sorry I cried in your empty living room.

I'm sorry my house— our house —is definitely not as clean as I wanted it to be when you come home, actually home, for the first time. 

But god, none of that matters, because you're coming home . Holy shit. I'm not gonna stay awake at night worried that I'll fall asleep and forget you by morning, because I'm gonna wake up next to you every damn day.

I'm so lucky. 

I mean, yeah—lucky because we survived the clown, and Derry, and found each other again—but I'm just lucky you love me. I'm lucky I get to see your private smiles, hear the witty comments you make under your breath, feel your heartbeat when you're tucked against me—

I never thought I'd have this.

This feeling of pure, unfiltered happiness and love.

You were the missing piece. 

I know they say you need to be whole, and find someone else whole to love—and I think I am, probably, whole. I lived before you.

But with you, my life is better. It's a whole life that's finally, finally worth living.

I love you.

We'll be home soon.

Yours,

Bill