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Dear Abby,
I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself in quite a pickle.
For reasons I’m afraid I can’t entirely explain in such a public arena, I have married one of my oldest and closest friends. It’s a long story, and many details are too sensitive to share, but we have adopted his daughter, and she is now living with us. She’s a delight, and I love her as my own. We are both very happy with our arrangement.
Not much else has changed, as we were already living together and sharing a room, thanks to a medical condition that causes me terrible nightmares.
Unfortunately, I have long since held feelings of the deepest sort for my dear friend. I would ordinarily not let this get in the way of our partnership—his happiness, his company, and his friendship are far more important to me than anything else, and there is now a child to think about.
However, recently, I have started to suspect that my feelings may be returned. Yesterday morning, after bringing our daughter home from a fun trip out, he kissed me.
Several times, really. Very tenderly. We have kissed before in situations that called for it, but this felt different.
Is there any chance my feelings could be requited, or is it only wishful thinking?
Sincerely,
Hopeful Husband in Stonetown
Josephine Tullman, the current “Abby” at the Stonetown Gazette, put her head in her hands.
“Oh my god,” she said.
“What is it?” Sharon, her colleague at the paper, asked, turning in her seat to face her and smacking her gum.
“I don’t even know where to begin with this guy,” she said. “I mean, holy shit.”
“Oh, details,” she said, scooting closer. “I love the batshit ones.”
“Honestly, I just feel kinda bad for him,” Josephine said.
“Jo,” whined Sharon, craning her neck to look closer. “Come on.”
“Okay, so like, he’s in love with his husband.”
“That’s… good?” said Sharon, tilting her head. “Go pride?”
“The problem,” Josephine said, “is that it’s like, a marriage of convenience.”
“Get out, like a rich person arranged marriage?”
“No, I think more like a green card marriage, or something to do with custody? Oh, and custody is a thing, so they have a kid.”
“I’m not sure I like where this is going.”
“No, no, it’s actually kinda wholesome, just—okay, so he’s super in love with the husband, but he’s convinced it’s one-sided.”
“Okay, I can see how that’s s—”
“Girl! Stop interrupting me!”
Sharon sighed dramatically, but gestured for her to continue, chewing her gum obnoxiously loud just to show she wasn’t cowed.
Josephine sighed (with more amusement than annoyance) and continued, “Well, then he’s like, well, we also share a bed—” Sharon opened her mouth, saw Josephine glare, and closed it again, “—but it’s because I have a medical condition and I get nightmares—” Sharon aww’d and was shushed again, “—and also, like, we’ve made out sometimes—” “what,” “—and I quote, ‘when the situation called for it’—” “holy shit—” “—but recently, he kissed me, and fuck it, I’m just gonna read you this part, ‘yesterday morning, after bringing our daughter home from a fun trip out, he kissed me. Several times, really. Very tenderly.’ Very tenderly. What the fuck does that mean, Sharon.”
“I think it means very ten—”
Josephine threw a pen at her.
“My point is, the poor guy is totally head over heels for his husband, and I’m like, ninety percent sure they’re just actually married. I mean, I get I don’t actually know the whole situation, but I can’t think of any situation where that guy is not in love with him.”
“We need to help this man,” said Sharon, eyes wide. “We need to help this man right now.”
“I mean, I can write back, but honestly? I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, how do you convince a guy his husband is in love with him when they’re married with a kid, share a bed, and make out on the reg?”
“To be fair, he said kiss, not make out.”
“I swear to god, if they aren’t making out, I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
“You know I can’t ask, right?”
“A girl can try.”
Dear Hopeful,
I have many questions.
You are married to this man, raising a child together, sharing a bed, and having, and I quote, “kissed before in situations that called for it”, and now he has “kissed you several times, very tenderly”.
I’m afraid without knowing the details of your situation—how this marriage came to be (for a green card, perhaps?) and why he kissed you “several times” or “when the situation called for it” I cannot give a fully informed judgement.
That being said, it seems to me that you may have in fact married the man the normal way.
You should talk to him about this—if your feelings are returned, then with the misunderstanding cleared up, you will be free to enjoy your marriage. If not, then surely, someone who trusts you enough to raise his child with you would stand by you? Communication is key.
It’s something to consider.
- Abby
The next week, another letter came in.
Dear Abby,
It is not a green card marriage, but I suppose the situation is comparable. As I said, it is a far too long story to explain here, as well as not mine to tell. Suffice to say, I am sure that it was not an ordinary marriage, but one of necessity.
Situations that called for it is a tricky thing to explain. Our line of work is complicated. However, it was not romantic, as it was for work, and nothing more, regardless of any other feelings.
As for asking him—there is much at stake. As I said, there is nothing more important to me than our little family. I would never forgive myself if I broke it with unrequited feelings. Our daughter needs stability, and he, too, deserves a stable home, after so long. I would never want him to feel obligated, nor would I want him to leave. Perhaps that is selfish. I do not know.
Is there a way, do you think, to tell if someone has romantic feelings for you?
Thank you for your help,
HH
“Oh my god, is this guy a spy or a stripper?”
“What,” wheezed Josephine.
“Come on, kissing for their ‘complicated’ line of work? Either they’re kissing for a crowd or they’re kissing as a distraction or some spy movie bullshit.”
“It’s probably something perfectly innocent! Besides, the guy writes like a grandpa or a professor, I doubt he’s pole-dancing to pop music.”
“Maybe he pole-dances to classical music.”
“You are the worst!” she said, slapping her shoulder lightly. She could not hide that she was laughing.
“I’m just saying!” Sharon said.
“Okay, okay, but jokes aside, seriously, this dude is weird, but like, I’m rooting for him.”
“Yeah,” said Sharon, laughter fading a bit. “He really loves that guy, huh?”
“Oh, man, are we talking about the ‘Hopeful Husband’ guy?” asked Caleb, rolling his chair over to them. “What is up with him? Is he like, a spy?”
“Thank you!” said Sharon.
Still, Josephine found herself thinking of HH later that night when she was alone. Jokes aside, she felt for him—he didn’t want to ruin what he had, for their sake or his. She could relate to that.
She found herself pulling out her laptop and typing out a response for the next day, even though it was late and quiet and work had long since ended.
Dear HH,
I will take your word for it, as I’m sure you know your situation better than a stranger does.
However, what you say about being selfish—I must disagree. You are thinking of him and of your daughter, and how this might affect them. That is not selfish. Nor is it selfish to want something.
As for your question, I must give you a response I’m afraid you won’t like: There is no surefire way to tell if someone has romantic feelings for you other than by asking them.
…That being said, kissing you multiple times, apparently outside of work reasons, seems like a hint in the right direction.
Good luck,
Abby
Dear Abby,
This will be my final letter—I fear I’ve taken up too much of your column’s time and space as it is. I apologize for that. If you choose not to publish this letter, I would understand completely.
I think, perhaps, it is selfish. I love him, very much, and I don’t think I can risk hurting him, or losing him. I love our daughter, too, and should her life be thrown into turmoil because of me, I’d never forgive myself.
I am content as we are—they are happy, and I am, too.
But I doubt—is it right to keep something so big from him?
I apologize again, and thank you, for your help so far.
Sincerely,
HH
“Oh, man,” said Sharon. “Yeah, this is just kind of depressing now.”
“I get it,” said Josephine gloomily. “It’s hard to fess up that kind of thing. I can’t imagine how much worse it is if you add a marriage and kid on top.”
She did not look at Sharon as she said this. If she had, she may have noticed the glum look she threw Josephine's way.
“Uh, hey, Josephine?” said someone nervously, poking her head in. She was a new intern—Mary?
“Yes?”
“Someone’s… here to see you?”
She blinked. “To… see me?”
“Well,” she winced. “Here to see ‘Abby.’”
Josephine sighed. “A fan?”
“No, that’s just it,” she said meekly. “I was going to turn him away, but—he said his husband had been writing in?”
“Holy shit,” said Sharon, “I gotta see this.”
She took off.
“Fuck,” said Josephine. She turned back to Mary(?) and gave her best patient smile. “Thanks! You did the right thing, kid.”
She practically deflated. “Oh, good,” she said.
“Let him in,” she said, “And uh—if you can, try and keep Sharon off him.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “I don’t know if…”
“Yeah, that’s fair,” Josephine said, “She’s a force of nature. Nevermind. Just show him in, I guess.”
“I have standards,” said Sharon from the doorway. “I was just stealing a peek.”
“Oh, so you aren’t interrogating him already?”
“No,” she said, with faux offense, “Would I do that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I would, but I was going to watch you do it. I just wanted to get a good look at him. Jo, the guy’s huge.”
Josephine’s eyebrows flew up. “Really?”
She wasn’t sure what she’d pictured, but buff wasn’t it.
Then again. Sharon exaggerated. And Sharon was short.
“You’ll see, doubter,” said Sharon knowingly, and as if on cue, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” called Josephine, shooting Sharon a look and shooing her away.
The door opened, and—okay, yeah, this guy was pretty big.
He had long hair with an old hat perched on top, and sad, kind eyes.
This was the man HH was head over heels for, huh?
“Hello,” he said after a moment, quietly.
“Uh, hi,” she said. “So, what can I do for you?”
“You are Abby, correct?”
“I—yeah, that’s me,” she said, deciding not to correct him.
“Take a seat,” said Sharon brightly.
The man looked at her, blankly, then back to Josephine. “Who is she?”
“That’s Sharon,” she said. “Don’t worry about her, she’s—she’s fine.”
“I’m Sharon,” Sharon said. “You could have asked me, you know?”
The man turned back to look at her, staring for a long moment with a slow, deliberate blink, and then he said, seemingly completely genuinely, “I apologize.”
Sharon blinked, taken aback. “Uh. Thanks.”
He nodded solemnly, then gingerly took a seat. The wheely office chair creaked under his weight, but not dangerously so. He turned to look at Josephine again.
“My husband has been writing into your column,” he said. “I don’t normally read the newspaper. However, I have tracked down the last few issues. I was wondering if he had… written another one.”
He had, in fact. His saddest one. She hadn’t replied to it yet, as it was still fresh from the mailbox.
“Who’s your husband?” she asked, as if she didn’t damn well know.
He fixed her with another look. And then slowly, he said, “I believe you would know him as ‘HH’.”
“Right,” she said. “Why do you want to know if there’s another letter?”
“I would like to reply to it,” he said.
“Please tell me you’re not letting him down nicely,” said Sharon under her breath, and Josephine shot her a warning look.
The man, apparently having heard her, turned to face her, eyes heavy. “No,” he said. “I want to clarify our grievous misunderstanding. But I don’t want him to feel cornered with an in-person confrontation. Hence…” he tilted his head.
“Makes sense,” said Josephine. “Technically, I’m not supposed to let you see this.”
The man didn’t move, or speak.
“It’s very unorthodox. Against the rules, certainly.”
He still said nothing.
“But I think you’ll get through to him better than I could,” she said, and he let out a breath she didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“Okay, I’m dying to know,” said Sharon. “You don’t have to tell me, but I gotta ask. How on earth did this happen? If not a green card marriage, than what? Kissing for work? I have so many questions.”
“Sharon,” said Josephine.
“It’s alright,” said the man, holding up a hand. “It’s a long and complicated story, and long swathes of it I cannot share. However, the short version is that some years ago, I woke up somewhere strange with…” he hesitated, “no memories. It was a rather fantastical story, and N—my husband was the only one to—to believe me. He insisted on trying to help me find out what had happened, who I was. He’s always been a dear friend to me. He was kind to me because that’s simply… who he is.”
He looked down at his hands, as if surprised at his own candor.
“Oh, damn,” said Sharon under her breath.
“More recently,” he said, exhaling heavily, “we found that I had apparently—had a daughter. One they thought orphaned. But with my—complicated legal situation, it was far easier for him to adopt her and then get married to share custody and present a stronger case for her being in a safe home. While it is true the marriage was for these reasons, I had thought—” he looked pained, now, “I had thought we were on the same page.”
“I cannot imagine what else you could be leaving out,” said Sharon.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” said Josephine quietly, although internally, her head was spinning—amnesia? Long lost daughter? It was, indeed, a fantastical story.
“I love him,” the man said quietly. “Very much.”
…Whether those exact circumstances were true or not, that much Josephine believed.
Dear HH,
I find myself at a loss as to how to convince you that your husband is, indeed, in love with you. Thankfully, however, a solution has come to me all on its own: I have a guest writer today who can shed more light on the matter. Here is what he has to say.
I am sorry that you felt that you couldn’t come to me with this, although I understand why. You have always put others before yourself. You are the least selfish person I have ever met.
I need you to know that I no longer feel that I owe you anything—I have not felt that way in a long time. It is true you were a light during a very dark time in my life, but I do not feel indebted or by any means obligated to stay with you or care about you. I do these things because I want to, and because of you, not out of obligation or necessity.
You guided me out of the dark a long time ago, but even now, you make my life brighter. You and our daughter are the best things that have ever happened to me.
So make no mistake: I love you. I have never been happier than I am now. I love you (yes, romantically), and regardless of the initial circumstances of our marriage, I had always considered if a true one.
(In light of recent events, however, I think perhaps you deserve a proper proposal.)
Love,
Your husband, M
(P.S.: Our daughter has communicated to me that she believes we are idiots. Our friends concur.)
I hope this valuable insight helps.
- Abby
There was no respondence for quite some time, until there was a small letter shoved into Josephine’s mailbox with different handwriting entirely, on a small, sunshine yellow piece of stationary.
dear “abigail”, if that is your real name, which i happen to know it isn’t, josephine,
they got married again. apparently finally convincing him that his husband actually is in love with him has somehow made them ten times sappier. if you’d seen them before you’d know how mildly shocking that statement was.
that being said, i must thank you for your help. they have adopted a second daughter—she is tiny and mean and we adore her—but unfortunately, duty calls. we have a dangerous mission to go on. you won’t hear from us for a while. if the emergency ends abruptly: that was us. you’re welcome. if the world ends and everyone becomes mindless puppets: our bad.
- #2
(p.s.: sharon likes you back. it’s obvious after only a few hours of precautionary surveillance.)
(p.p.s: [a name has been scribbled out here] ‘HH’ has asked me to attach the following message, not for publication:
Thank you for everything. Should you need any help with anything, leave a message at this PO box and we will do our best.)
“What the fuck does that mean,” Sharon said. Josephine had not shown her the first postscript, for obvious reasons, so she was pretty sure she was reacting to the end of “#2”’s message.
“I have no idea,” said Josephine.
“Are they actually spies? Holy shit,” said Sharon.
“He did say that he was leaving some things out,” said Josephine. “I wonder if it has to do with how he lost his memories?”
“And they got another daughter? Somehow?”
“This story only gets wilder and wilder. And we have no idea how it’s going to end.”
“Well, she did say if you don’t hear from us, implying—”
“...Hey, why does this start with post post script?” Sharon asked. “What happened to the post script?”
“Typo,” said Josephine, even though it was a hand-written letter.
Luckily, they were distracted by a rather pretty woman all but barging in and demanding information on an ad—albeit a rather odd ad about special opportunities or something that had been running at relatively regular intervals for some time now—and who had placed it.
Sharon apparently forgot about the post post script, and Josephine did not remind her.
The Emergency did end, some time later, which. was. okay then.
The only letter they got was an unsigned one, the same stationary and handwriting as the final one, that only read “all clear. thanks again”.
So.
“Oh my god it’s him,” said Sharon, eyes wide.
Josephine followed her gaze to see—HH’s husband (they’d never gotten a name) standing there near the front of the shop.
There was a young girl with a green beanie and what looked to be a bucket strapped to her hip next to him, and next to her a younger girl in all pink with little braids, and a woman dressed head to toe in yellow (she looked strangely reminiscent of a pencil), another woman with long braids and a colorful outfit, and—
A curly-haired man was utterly beaming at him, talking excitedly about something or other as his hands waved around. HH’s husband was listening intently, and—rings. They had matching rings.
What were the chances they just happened to talk into the same café Sharon and Josephine were at?
“Holy shit,” whispered Sharon. “That’s HH.”
The little girl in pink’s head snapped to look at them, staring intensely.
They both turned away quickly.
“I’m glad they’re happy,” said Josephine, resisting the urge to sneak a glance back at them. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from HH, but it wasn’t that—not that he looked bad or anything! It was just… strange to be confronted with the reality.
HH was a real person. She’d known this, of course, but she didn’t often meet her readers, or at least, not by name. But there he was, all bright smiles and curls and a sort of professory looking outfit, plain as day.
“I wonder who the women are,” said Sharon. “I bet the yellow one is ‘#2.’ Like a pencil.”
“She is,” said a voice right behind them, with a Russian accent.
They both jumped to see the little girl had walked directly up to them, so fast it almost felt like she’d teleported.
“They are family,” she said. “Who are you and why are you looking at my family?”
“Uh,” said Josephine.
“Constance!” said the other girl, running up behind her. “I don’t think we’re supposed t—”
“Kate,” she said in the same tone, mockingly, “They were staring at us. They know Number Two’s name. I am being proactive.”
“They know Nu—they could be working for Cur—for You Know Who,” said “Kate” in a hiss, “Constance, you should have—”
“Girls,” said ‘Number Two’, “Leave Sharon and Josephine alone, I’m sure they want to enjoy their date.”
Sharon choked on her tea. “Date?”
“You know them?” asked Kate.
Number Two shrugged. “No.”
She did not elaborate.
They had attracted the attention of the rest of the family by now. HH’s husband also seemed to recognize them, blinking with confusion.
“Shit,” said Josephine, with great feeling.
“…Hello,” said HH’s husband.
HH followed shortly after. “Oh? Is there a reason we’re all crowding these two, Milligan?”
Milligan. Okay. Cool.
‘Milligan’ looked a little uncomfortable. “Nicholas,” he said, “Meet… Abby. And her friend.”
“Abb—” he looked confused, and then, “…oh.”
Constance wrinkled her nose. “Oh,” she echoed, as if realizing something. “Nevermind.”
“What does that mean?” said Kate.
“Ah, the newspaper woman,” said the woman with the braids, beaming at them. She had an accent Josephine didn’t recognize. “And her girlfriend.”
“I’m not—we’re not—” sputtered Josephine.
“Mm,” said Number Two knowingly. “Don’t tease them, Rhonda.”
“Oh,” said Kate, after Constance leaned in and whispered something in her ear.
HH—‘Nicholas’—flushed to the tips of his ears, but seemed to take the looks they both shot him with good natured grace.
“Would you like to join us?” he asked politely, sounding as though he might die of embarrassment but would damn well go down with good manners.
Yes, said every fiber of Sharon’s being, visibly. Because I want to know whatever in the goddamn FUCK is going on with you people.
“No,” said Josephine, a little too loudly, smile a little too wide, “That’s fine, thank you.”
He wilted a little with relief. Poor man.
“Jo,” said Sharon.
“Joe?” said Kate, who, like most people there, was under the impression her name was Abby.
“Jo,” said Sharon. “No ‘e’.”
Kate nodded like this was a perfectly normal thing to say, despite there being no audible difference between Jo and Joe.
“Sharon,” Josephine said, in almost a hiss. “Come on.”
“It was… nice. Seeing you again,” said Milligan slowly, as if he weren’t quite sure what to say in such a bizarre situation. Which they wouldn’t quite understand the magnitude of, but did have Rhonda eyeing him amusedly.
“You too,” said Josephine, all but grabbing Sharon and shoving her towards the door, “Lovely meeting you, H—I mean Nicholas.”
“You too,” he said, smile sincere if still a bit nervous, and he gave a little wave.
“Come on,” whined Sharon under her breath, and Josephine dragged her out the door.
It wasn’t a mystery they’d ever solve, but shortly thereafter, they were a little preoccupied with their own thing, namely, their own romantic problems.
But, you know, they got a date out of it. Well, far more than one date, but it ended up contributing to their first date. And Number Two and her bizarre friends sent congratulatory flowers and a rather blunt note about being surrounded by idiots when it came to romance but she was quite happy it worked out for them, finally.
Josephine was pretty sure this was actually a rather sweet gesture, once translated from bizarre-world.