Love,
Celia
My Dearest Celia,
I have called you many times in the past week, but you have not returned my calls. I’ll try again. Please, Celia. Please.
Love,
Evelyn
HELLO?” HER VOICE SOUNDED EXACTLY like it used to. Sweet but somehow firm.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Hi.” The way she warmed up in that moment made me hopeful that I might be able to put my life back together, the way it should have always been.
“I did love him,” I said. “Max. But I don’t anymore.”
The line was quiet.
Then she asked, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’d like to see you.”
“I can’t see you, Evelyn.”
“Yes, you can.”
“What do you want us to do?” she said. “Ruin each other all over again?”
“Do you still love me?” I asked.
She was silent.
“I still love you, Celia. I swear I do.”
“I . . . I don’t think we should talk about this. Not if . . .”
“Not if what?”
“Nothing has changed, Evelyn.”
“Everything has changed.”
“People still can’t know who we really are.”
“Elton John is out of the closet,” I said. “Has been for years.”
“Elton John doesn’t have a child and a career based on audiences believing he’s a straight man.”
“You’re saying we’ll lose our jobs?”
“I can’t believe I have to tell you this,” she said.
“Well, let me tell you something that has changed,” I told her. “I no longer care. I’m ready to give it all up.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m absolutely serious.”
“Evelyn, we haven’t even seen each other in years.”
“I know you were able to forget me,” I said. “I know you were with Joan. I’m sure you were with others.” I waited, hoping she would correct me, hoping she would tell me there had been no one else. But she didn’t. And so I continued. “But can you honestly say that you stopped loving me?”
“Of course not.”
“And I can’t say that, either. I have loved you every single day.”
“You married someone else.”
“I married him because he helped me forget you,” I said. “Not because I stopped loving you.”
I heard Celia breathe deeply.
“I’ll come to L.A.,” I said. “And you and I will have dinner. OK?”
“Dinner?” she said.
“Just dinner. We have things to talk about. I think we at least owe each other a nice, long talk. How about the week after next? Harry can watch Connor. I can stay for a few days.”
Celia was quiet again. I could tell she was thinking. I got the impression that this was a deciding moment for my future, our future.
“OK,” she said. “Dinner.”
* * *
THE MORNING I left for the airport, Max slept in late. He was supposed to be on set later in the afternoon for a night shoot, so I squeezed his hand good-bye and then grabbed my things from the closet.
I couldn’t decide if I wanted to take Celia’s letters with me or not. I had kept them all, with their envelopes, in a box at the back of my closet. Over the past few days, as I was gathering what I would take, I packed them and then unpacked them, trying to decide.
I had been rereading them every day since Celia and I started talking. I didn’t want to be apart from them. I liked to run my fingers over the words, feeling the way the pen had embossed the paper. I liked hearing her voice in my head. But I was flying to see her. So I decided I didn’t need them.
I put on my boots and grabbed my jacket, then unzipped my bag and pulled the letters out. I hid them behind my furs.
I left Max a note: “I will be back on Thursday, Maximilian. Love, Evelyn.”
Connor was in the kitchen, grabbing Pop-Tarts before heading over to Harry’s house to stay while I was gone.
“Doesn’t your dad have Pop-Tarts?” I asked.
“Not the brown sugar kind. He gets the strawberry ones, and I hate those.”
I grabbed her and kissed her on the cheek. “Good-bye. Be good while I’m gone,” I said.
She rolled her eyes at me, and I wasn’t sure if it was for the kiss or the directive. She had just turned thirteen, beginning her ascent into adolescence, and it was already breaking my heart.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “I’ll see ya when I see ya.”
I went down to the sidewalk to find my limo waiting. I gave the driver my bag, and at the very last minute, it occurred to me that after my dinner with Celia, she might tell me she didn’t want to see me again. She might tell me she didn’t think we should talk anymore. I might be on the flight back, aching for her more than I ever had. I decided I wanted the letters. I wanted them with me. I needed them.