I go through half a ream of paper trying to start my letter back. I’m sure you’re not expecting one, and that makes this harder somehow, because I know it will be a surprise for you and I want a phenomenal opening. But every sentence I write sounds trite and overblown and weak—there’s no emotion, or too much, and I crumple up each sheet of paper, already starting on the next. In the end I decide to follow your lead and start it simple. I miss you, too.
I do. Oh, God, I miss us.
I was fresh out of college when we met. You were on the interview panel at Harrison and Jones, and I showed up ten minutes late because my car wouldn’t start that morning. I still remember your amused smirk as I blathered through my excuse—I’d been so sure you were going to tell me to forget it right there, the j
