Dear Sully Read online

  Table of contents

  DEDICATION

  June

  Dr. Keating

  Lincoln City

  Sigma Phi Sutton

  Hatley Hall

  Ginger Spice

  Gilbert Blythe

  The Sully Swagger

  Begin Again

  Edith de Nantes

  Dan the Man

  White (K)night

  The Eight

  Thirty Thousand Steps

  Joyeux Noel

  Objectively

  DETENTE

  Promenade des anglais

  The North Station

  Ennistymon

  OCTOBER

  Take Two

  Ruby’s Diner

  Caveau de la Huchette

  Shanghaied

  Found and Lost

  Commencement

  Lockdown

  Flower power

  Substitution

  Sullivan’s

  Heritage

  Waffles

  Addison

  Ellie Whitman

  Rue Guénégaud

  Dan (is still) the Man

  Book report

  Night and Day

  Three Years Later

  Autumn Leaves

  Paper Wishes

  All I want For Christmas

  Auld Lang Syne

  Rome0 and Juliet

  More Than Yesterday

  District Six

  Emma Woodhouse

  Changle Lu

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  DEDICATION

  to Sharon Duncan

  for three books’ worth of editorial magic

  and for a lifetime of friendship

  June

  Tuesday, October 16th

  Dear Sully,

  Night and Day told me your side of our story, so maybe the letters in this journal will tell you mine. Well, the June version at least. The October journal is in the mail. (I had a lot to say.)

  Love,

  Pete

  PS – Nice book cover, by the way. Who do I thank for making Luke resemble Chris Pratt? #DuckyShincrackers4Ever

  (

  Dr. Keating

  Once upon a time, a long time ago, I read that the average American male feels twenty-five years old (no matter his chronological age). Let’s hope that’s a lie, because today’s my twenty-fifth birthday, and guess what? I spent the whole day blubbering like a baby.

  I’m a wreck, Sully. I have been for six years, but when you left Paris forty-eight hours ago without saying goodbye, I think you took my swagger with you. If you don’t believe me, ask Kelly, Anne, and Harper – they spent the rest of Saturday night and most of Sunday bullying me out of my funk. They even enlisted Kathy Beauchamp.

  Which is why this morning – Monday, June 25th – my quarter-life crisis brought me to a small office near the Gare Montparnasse. It belongs to Dr. Campbell Keating, a rosy-cheeked Irishman with bright blue eyes and the same soft brogue your parents have. “Tell me, Peter,” he said, eyes softening as he leaned back in his chair. “What brings you to see me today?”

  Dude, I wanted to say. Get ready to earn your paycheck.

  I started with my parents’ accident and two hours later, I ended with you. My own words sounded robotic inside my head, like they belonged to some narrator on the audiobook of my life. But when I finished, Dr. Keating said something I’ll never forget.

  “You’re a warrior, Peter,” he smiled. “I can see that your soul is brave. Your heart is true. But you protect yourself behind an armor, because you’re terrified to lose anyone else. But what if that armor has finally betrayed you? What if the armor has become your own personal prison?”

  Fifty words, Sully. Fifty words is all it took for Dr. Keating to summarize your boy, Peter Beckett Russell. Can you believe that? I might have felt terrible that I was so transparent if I wasn’t so relieved.

  “I’d like to see you every day this week,” Dr. Keating stated, clasping his hands together in his lap. “I can work you in on my lunch hour for now, and we’ll adjust the schedule going forward, depending on your progress.”

  “But… I’ve just told you my whole life. What else is there to say?”

  “Maybe nothing, in terms of facts. But I’m afraid the facts aren’t what’s troubling you. We’ll need to go deeper to sort out the rest.”

  “Okay.” I dragged those two syllables out like a melody. “How deep, exactly?”

  “That depends. You see, the brain is a fascinating organ. For example, did you know that if you type words into a computer document, you only build six hundred neural pathways, but if you write it by hand, you build ten thousand?”

  “Really? Then why do schools keep eliminating handwritten assignments?”

  “Excellent question.” He grabbed my patient folder from his desk. “I noticed on the intake paperwork that you have rather nice penmanship, Peter. Are you by any chance left-handed?”

  “Uhhh, yeah,” I gaped. “How’d you guess that?”

  “Because your handwriting is so precise yet unique. It’s the style a person develops when he’s spent a lot of extra time in his life learning to write correctly with his left hand under the tutelage of right-handed instructors. Your style is quite upright and straight, like an architect’s, but with its own little quirks. For example, do you realize you print in all caps except when you write a preposition? You write prepositions in lowercase, every single time.”

  Dude. I’m not going to lie. Dr. Keating was freaking me out. Who notices details like that? “I guess that’s true,” I stammered. “I don’t really think about it, though. I just write.”

  “Precisely my point,” he answered, tapping his fingers on the mahogany desk. “When we write things out by hand, we tend not to overthink them in the way we do when we can hit that little backspace bar. So when you leave here today, I’d like you to buy yourself a notebook. Nothing fancy, mind you; any old notebook will do. Once you’ve settled down somewhere comfortable, pick a person – any person, living or dead – and write them a letter. Tell the mystery person a story about yourself that he or she doesn’t know. It doesn’t have to be serious or significant. Just start somewhere. Bring your notebook with you tomorrow and we’ll move forward from there.”

  “Listen, sir, if you think I’m going to start journaling –”

  “I’m not asking you to journal. You’ll simply write a letter to someone you trust.”

  I chewed on my lip. “Will you read it?”

  “Of course not. You never have to show anyone what you’ve written. It’s simply a cognitive exercise to get your subconscious working. If my theory is correct, the warrior I see on the outside has reached a crossroads with the young man you were before your parents died. From what you’ve told me today, you’ve survived the last few years. But you haven’t really lived.”

  “No?” I huffed. “Sure feels like it. I feel ninety years old.”

  He smiled knowingly. “Just write five pages. Think of the one person you trust most in the world, even if he or she doesn’t populate your current day-to-day life. I’ll see you tomorrow at noon, okay?”

  When I left Dr. Keating’s office, I walked north up the rue de Rennes all the way to the Seine. At the first bouquiniste stand, I saw this fancy blue journal. How cool are those skeleton keys on the cover? I don’t know why, but they reminded me of you, Sully. So I bought two, then climbed the stairs to the Pont des Arts, where I sat down on our usual bench. Because even before Dr. Keating finished doling out my assignment, I knew who my audience should be.

  It’s you, Sully. You’re the person I trust most in this world.

  Besides, this is homework. If anyone can appreciate the importance of an assignment, i
t’s you, right? In fact, I’d bet five hundred euros that you already know about the handwritten word and its cognitive importance. It’s just the sort of random factoid that’s your stock in trade.

  So here we go – you, me, this fancy new notebook, and my trusty Bic pen.

  This was my first letter. Let’s see where these ten thousand new neural pathways take us next.

  Lincoln City

  I’ve never really told you much about my parents. I’ve wanted to tell you. So many times. Believe me, I could probably talk for a week straight about all the million little things that made my mom and dad mine.

  Like how Jim Russell rented a stick-shift car the weekend after my thirteenth birthday because “everyone needs to learn to drive a standard transmission before they learn to drive an automatic.” For the rest of the weekend, we drove around an empty school parking lot with the windows rolled down, sucking in the smell of burnt clutch and gasoline until I finally busted through all five gears like a boss.

  Or how whenever I went sullen about missing a goal at a soccer game (or worse yet, about a girl), my mom would make oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. If it was really bad, she added butterscotch chips to the mix, because complex carbohydrates are my love language.

  My dad loved U2 so much that Liz Russell called Bono his side piece.

  My mom reread Jane Austen’s Persuasion every single year over Christmas break.

  Jim Russell may have been a photojournalist of modest renown, but his guilty pleasure was watching NASCAR with Gigi. (You read that right, sister. My fancy-pants grandmother was the reigning queen of the Talladega Nights.)

  Liz Russell spoke French with no discernible American accent, yet she had subscriptions to both People Magazine and US Weekly because she liked her celebrity gossip fair and balanced.

  My dad’s eyes were hazel. My mom’s were dark brown like mine (and Gigi’s).

  I miss them both so much that I still wake up in the middle of the night a couple of times a week with an aching heart.

  And listen, I know I opened up to you while we flew home on spring break junior year, but the truth is I only skimmed the surface details of the night my parents died. Please don’t take it personally. I’ve never told anyone the details of those final hours before my parents died.

  Not Gigi and Pops. Not Dan or Brooks.

  No one, Sully. Not until today.

  The Russell clan rolled into Lincoln City on July 8th around four in the afternoon after a full day of driving up the coastal highway. I have no idea why my parents settled on Lincoln City, or why we didn’t stop one town south in Depoe Bay. But stop in LC we did, at a hotel on the south side of town.

  Our room opened onto Taft Beach, so my parents ducked out for a quick stroll in the sand while I took a shower and shaved. I didn’t hurry. I figured it was a relief for all three of us to get out of each other’s space for a bit.

  I’d be lying to you if I said I’ve never second-guessed that decision. Most days, I’m glad they had one last walk together. But then I wonder: what if I’d hurried to get ready? What if we’d gone south to Depoe Bay for dinner? Would Alicia Baldwin have arrived home safely, or would she have drunkenly plowed into someone else instead?

  Who knows why I still bother asking myself these questions? I’m sure you understand.

  Around six o’clock, my parents and I drove north to Sullivan’s Restaurant. For the record, I was pissed about it. I was hangry, hungover, and I wanted tacos – the greasiest tacos we could find. The kind you eat in the car and then head back to the hotel to sleep off.

  But Liz Russell didn’t believe in eating in cars (or in hotel rooms for that matter, even if it was a five-star establishment with top-notch room service). So we drove north, north, north until she spotted Sullivan’s. My parents had a weakness for fish and chips, and bonus: your place was right on the ocean. Plus, as my dad so kindly pointed out, Sullivan’s was casual enough that my still-damp hair wouldn’t be a distraction.

  Why yes, I did stick my head out the window that night in an attempt to dry my wild curls. How else does one achieve what you once called my Portuguese water dog look?

  (Spoiler alert: this is where you come in, Sully. Cue the swooping, anthemic soundtrack.)

  When my parents and I walked into your restaurant that night, you were standing behind the hostess’s desk with a stack of menus in your arms, flirting with some guy.

  Hold up… now that I’m replaying this story inside my brain, I’m seventy-three percent certain the flirty dude was Sutton. Why have I never connected those dots before now?

  (Whoa. Well done with the “cognitive exercise” trickery, Keating.)

  Now listen, I could lie and tell you that the first time I laid eyes on you, the world shifted to super slow-mo while the goofy hero (me) drooled all over himself just as a volleyball pinged him in the forehead. You know, like those 90s rom-coms you secretly love.

  I could lie to you, but that’s not the purpose of this assignment. And since I actually want to do the brain dive Dr. Keating prescribed, I’ll just be blunt: the first time I saw you, all I could think was holy long legs, Batman.

  That’s right, Ginger Spice. My gaze got stuck on your lower body for so long that my mother elbowed me in the ribs. But in my defense, you’re a championship-level dancer.

  That night, you wore shorts and a green Sullivan’s t-shirt. I noticed the freckles along the bridge of your nose and cheekbones – Irish glitter, you call them, which fades every winter and pops out every summer. Your hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and maybe it was just the lighting, but your hair looked copper in the setting sun, with streaks of gold near your face.

  Except that’s not your actual hair color. In fact, until I went with you to Ireland after we studied in Paris, I’d never seen any human being with your particular shade of red. How can I describe it – auburn, I guess? Cinnamon flames? Titian? The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life?

  If you ever read this, you will definitely laugh at that last paragraph. If anyone knows how obsessed I am with your hair, it’s you. After all, you’ve endured a lot of time with my fingers exploring every single strand just to figure out its magical hold on my heart.

  The mystery-kid-who-was-probably-Drew-Sutton scurried away to bus a nearby table, and when he did, you finally made eye contact with all three of us – first with my mom, whom you smiled at, followed by my dad, and then me.

  I’m not sure what I did to earn the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it scowl I caught on your face that evening, but it might have had something to do with the St. Francis Friars Varsity Soccer t-shirt I wore. I’m guessing you disapproved of the rotund monk chasing a soccer ball across my chest.

  In any case, you led us to our table without a second glance my way. You handed us menus, but you somehow failed to notice the killer smile I gave you.

  Rude, Sully. So very rude.

  After you sashayed your way back to the hostess’s stand, you put yourself to work doing something important, like filling salt shakers or restocking sugar packets. And I never once let you out of my sight. Which explains why I didn’t notice that my dad was laughing at me.

  No wait, not laughing. CHORTLING.

  “What’s so hilarious?” I could already feel the blood rushing into my cheeks.

  My dad glanced at my mom. “How long do you reckon he’s been staring at the redhead? Thirty seconds?”

  “More like forty-five,” she grinned. “Looks like Brooks Darby finally has some competition.”

  “What the – Mom! I told you that in confidence.”

  “Relax, kiddo. Your mom would never sell you out.” My dad knocked his foot against mine under the table. “But FYI, your Brooksie crush is the worst kept secret in Portland and its suburbs.”

  Just then you reappeared, Sully, balancing three glasses of water on a tray. You still refused to look at me as you doled out those drinks. So my mother took charge.

  “Are you open tomorrow for breakfast?” She said i
n her sweet-yet-authoritative educator’s voice, and you fell for it, Sully. Hook, line, and sinker. (You are such a teacher’s pet, dude.)

  “Yes, ma’am,” you replied with a smile. “But only in the summer. This town doesn’t get much traffic from September to May.”

  “You work here year-round?” My dad asked.

  “Yes, sir. This is my parents’ restaurant.”

  “Oh!” My mother clapped her hands together. “Are you actually Irish?”

  “Mom,” I growled, sliding lower into my seat.

  “Yes! Well, sort of,” you shrugged. “I have dual citizenship. My family and I moved here when I was little.”

  “To Oregon?” My dad’s face lit up. “From which part of Ireland?”

  “County Clare,” you smiled. “Doolin, to be specific.”

  “Hey, I’ve been there!” My dad’s grin was so wide, it must have hurt his cheeks. “There’s no better place to hear traditional Irish music than the Doolin pubs, right?”

  You beamed at him, Sully. “I can’t believe you’ve been there!”

  “You’ll have to excuse my husband,” my mom said in her warmest tone. “He doesn’t get out much. Don’t let us keep you, Miss Sullivan.”

  “Call me Meredith,” you said, finally casting a tiny glance my way. “Oh, and my brother Ian will be your server. He doesn’t get out much either.”

  And just like that you bounced off, and my parents and I sat blinking at one another, each of us laughing a little under our breath, because you’d just knocked all three of us out in one blow.

  My mom went all starry-eyed. “Oh, I like her, Pete. You should ask for her number.”

  “What? Why would I do that?”

  “Um, because you’re into her?” My dad frowned. “Seriously, kid, what’s with the sudden case of the nerves?”

  “There’s a big difference between nerves and rational thought,” I frowned back. “Dude, this girl lives, like, a hundred miles away! Plus, I’m going to college next month. In California.”

  Liz Russell had three personae, Sully. The first one was “Liz,” a.k.a. perpetual girlfriend of Jim Russell. The second was “Mom.” And the third was “Madame Russell,” empress of the classroom, destroyer of all chill. You weren’t too far off with your Romanov theory back in the day. Maybe she did have tsarina blood coursing through her veins. Someone with my mom’s chutzpah would laugh in the face of a Siberian winter.