[ xliii. dear john b. ]

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DEAR JOHN B.,

You're a real dumbass.

I mean that in the best way possible, of course.

I've rewritten this letter a hundred times, and every version still feels wrong. Trying to capture all that you did, to sum you up into words that do not feel meager or insignificant is next to impossible. It's like . . . trying to catch Hurricane Agatha's winds with your bare hands. Or bottle the entire marsh into one glass. Or turn down an invitation to a free kegger. Maybe I'm the real dumbass for even trying.

I thought I wanted to start at the beginning. But how do you do that with someone you've technically known forever? Kildare isn't exactly a big place. Our lives have always been two very bold lines on an otherwise very small island map, crossing here and there but never really meeting. Not until this summer, that is. Not even until July, if you want to get specific. That's the part I want to write about—the part that I believe matters between us. Because that's when I really met you. By chance. By luck. By some miracle, maybe.

Or, if we're being honest, because I had the Fireball, and you had the piss-poor beer.

That night feels like a lifetime ago.  Like it belonged to someone else. I think it does now. Because that silly, drunk girl had no idea what she was getting into when you sat down next to her at that party.

I don't recognize that girl anymore.

She's a stranger to me.

On the way back from the Point last night my mom asked me if knowing you had been worth it. Here was my answer to her (after I slammed the car door in her face and walked the rest of the way home):

If I could go back to that piece of lonely driftwood, knowing everything I know now—all the surprises, all the injuries, all the tears, all the joy, all the adventures—I wouldn't change a damn thing. Not one second.

Because never once did I lose trust in who you were.  That very first night you took the time to show me how you saw the world differently. Like every corner of it was worth exploring and discovering. Even the ugly parts. Especially the ugly parts.  I think that's why you were destined to find the Royal Merchant gold when no one else could. You saw things in a way no one else did.

Somehow, you managed to see me, too.

When I was with you on that Boneyard beach, for the first time in my life I wasn't a "tainted Kook" or a "wannabe Pogue." I wasn't stuck playing sides, proving something meaningless to everyone around me. I just . . . was. And you? You just were too. It sounds cheesy, I know, but it was beautiful. I didn't realize how much I needed that feeling until I found it with you.

But now you're gone. And I'm lost again.

I keep wishing that our paths had intersected sooner.  Maybe we could've helped each other sooner.  Maybe you could have found the gold without Ward Cameron ever knowing, and escaped to Yucatán before the entire island was at your back.

Maybe I could have gone with you.

Or maybe our story would've always ended like this:

Messy.

Intense.

And far, far, far too short.

You know, I never even got to ask why your dad called you Bird. It was one of those mindless things I always meant to ask but never did. Now, it's just one more question left unanswered between us. Now, I can only wonder . . . and think of you every time I hear a gull flying overhead.

I think of you a lot, John B.

Most of the time I hope you're happy. I hope you've found peace, wherever you are.

Yet all of time I believe you deserved so much more than this—so much more than the way things ended.

But at least you didn't go alone. That's the one thing keeping me sane right now. I hope, somehow, Sarah's with you. I hope you're both together.

We'll be okay down here.  Pope, Kiara, JJ, and I.  We'll keep the Chateau standing.  I promise you that. 

My first day at your place I wasn't planning on staying long. Kiara told me that it had a way of pulling people in, making it impossible to leave.  I didn't believe her. But boy, was she right. We're all still here at the Chateau. The Pogues are asleep all around me on your lumpy, smelly pull-out couch. But me? I'm awake, talking to you. Writing to you even though you'll never read this.

Or maybe you will. Maybe you're out there somewhere, watching over us. I don't know. I don't know if there's anything after this. I don't want to find out anytime soon. But I'm sorry that out of all of us, you were the one who had to find out first. I'm sorry we couldn't save you.

I'm sorry I couldn't save you.

And . . . now I'm rambling. Circling around the things I don't know how to say. I've never made it this far in a letter before. Never had to put feelings like these into words. But the sun's coming up now. JJ's starting to mumble in his sleep, Kiara's tears are drying, and Pope's probably going to wake up and catch me writing this pathetic excuse of a goodbye in the next thirty seconds. So, I guess it's time to stop avoiding it.

I was a coward when it came to you.

Probably always will be.

I thought what we were building together was too good to be true, so I let the distance between us grow and grow. I pushed you away. Over and over again. I'll regret that for the rest of my life. I wish I could go back and fill that space with something. Anything. But it's too late now. You're dead.  Our time is up.

So, if this is really all that's left, if this is where our coastal paths go their separate ways into deeper ocean waters forever, then I'll leave you with this, John Booker Routledge:

It was real.

SINCERELY,
WILLA