Story Two | You Can Be All Kinds of Emotional
Her heart and intuition at war, a woman confesses her love in a letter and sets off on an ill-fated journey to deliver it. Based on the song by The Lone Bellow.
This week, I’m offering a second short inspired by a song. This time, the first line of “You Can Be All Kinds of Emotional” by The Lone Bellow catapulted me right into the vision for the story: “letters written in vain.” Couple that with the deep, specific tones in the band’s delivery, and it just gives me shivers.
Reminder: for these stories based on songs, you can listen to the song first or get right to reading. Here’s an easy listening link for you: “You Can Be All Kinds of Emotional” on Spotify.
Enjoy!
You Can Be All Kinds of Emotional
Take my ink and take my blood
Take the time to wish me luck
Wish I was gone, wish I was dust
Wish I was gone, wish I was dust
- “You Can Be All Kinds of Emotional” by The Lone Bellow
The light from a single candle appeared to fill the room, but it was the reflection of the moon on the snow outside that gave the dining room its glow. Her little country getaway house was set back from the road, amidst a field of rotating crops, but in the winter desolation, there were no tall stalks of corn to protect her.
At this hour of the night, fatigue created an instability, dangerously edged with unpredictable emotion as the defenses that hold down the subconscious grew weak. She had been overcome for hours, a surprise rush of emotion she hadn’t counted on. At times like these, she gave over to compulsion, following it wherever it may lead, reveling in the pain or delight but ultimately seeking comfort and resolution.
She lay under her dining room table, the soft rug and low ceiling providing a necessary containment. Chair legs stood like a forest of trees around her, and crumpled balls of paper marked the fury of her drafting process. The most poignant of songs played on repeat, cutting at her and fueling her search for the right words.
When it finally came together, the letter was perfect. It had to be. How else could she tell her best friend that she thought he might be the love of her life? And really convince him. She knew how it would turn out, she knew she had everything to lose, but the tide of emotion was so strong that there was no other alternative.
She lay on her back, residual tears occasionally welling forth and running down the side of her face, getting lost in her hairline. She had been stuck like this before, years before, that time climbing steps again and again as she considered voicing the unsaid. She hadn’t dared before, but tonight, tonight the unsaid had now been birthed in a bath of ink and tears.
She turned the envelope over in her hands, considering the weight of the two folded pages of words enclosed inside. It felt right. When she thought of him and the potential between them, she was overwhelmed by the prospect of having someone so right to run through life with. There could be no greater motivation, no clearer moment to take such a risk. Having simply penned the words would not be enough; he needed to read them. She could see how it had to be done. She would walk up to him, wordlessly, gently offer him the unaddressed envelope, the gesture implying the to and from with great meaning. The vision freed her from her retreat; she pushed back the chairs and emerged from her cycle of uncertainty, resolved. She would go to him now.
Without hesitation or thought, she strode swiftly to the door, collecting a coat and keys and slipping the letter in her purse. Now could not be soon enough. She needed to be home. Her boots crunched through the snow, and she climbed into her car, started the engine and started her way down South. The drive would be long, so she flipped on the radio and was immediately struck by a song that reminded her of him. This was the danger of music and memories.
The highway beneath her wheels, white snowdrifts lining the road, no company save for the tractor trailers on this night ride, she thought to how it started. He was but a disembodied name among her circle of friends, a new name. And suddenly there he was, over-excited about things she didn’t understand on their first meeting. She found him unremarkable at first. She didn’t remember how it was that he became someone she would talk to about the most important things. Unassuming meetings, sitting on a curb or on the floor in a narrow hallway, she found a person whose depth and ambitions and values astonished her. One day, emboldened on passion and inspiration, she sent him an email explaining why every moment was an opportunity, an abstract that he showed he understood in his response, which sparked a correspondence and conversation that led to a partnership of encouragement. They pushed each other and they were better for it.
She thought nothing of it. A friend, a true friend. There was no concern for makeup or censorship, she was her wild self, insisting on climbing a mountain, running in the rain, speaking her mind. It became more than understanding, it became debate and agreement and challenge and improvement. The talk of higher standards, the talk of setting and achieving dreams beyond the collective thought of what was possible, the talk of owning islands, the talk of spiritual purpose. He became her best friend, the type of person one gives their house key, serves as an unfailing wingman, invites into the family and consults when faced with life-changing decisions.
Even the sunrise sparked memories as she drove through the morning. She smiled at the beauty of their friendship. She was nervous, but sure. What she was proposing would change everything, but she knew to the core of her soul that there had never someone who was so worth the risk. She had survived regrets before and had vowed she would have the courage of her desires forevermore, that was the only way to live.
A familiar song started. I’ll go anywhere, anywhere with you. The song had been the perfect answer one night when, sitting in his truck, he had looked to her expectantly, seeking a direction. He just laughed when she allowed the song to speak for her, and they drove to no place in particular, into the darkness of the unexplored countryside, playing music as loud as it would go and losing themselves. That night capped the best summer of their lives. Every activity, every talk was balanced in freedom and love. Boat rides and clambering through the mud to sit by the river, lying under the stars at the beach and at the lake and covering every topic.
There had been a quietly seminal moment between the two. After a simple, glorious day on the water, they sat by the shore in exhaustion and peace and contentedness, and considered the view before them, the sun setting, casting colors over the sky. “This is real life,” he said, his tone seeped in gratitude and awe. It became their motto and motivation as they applied the phrase to every moment.
“This is real life,” she whispered, still driving, tired now but lifted by a rising hope. There was so much between them already as friends. The transition to being a couple might be strained for a moment, but despite all intent, they naturally grew together. She had never had such a friendship; why couldn’t it be the basis for the most incredible relationship of her life? She didn’t remember when they had voiced their love, or who had said it first. Order didn’t matter; the feeling was mutual. She giggled for a moment, drumming the wheel in time with another one of their songs from the summer. We’re the kind of crazy people wish that they could be. She noticed then she was wearing the bracelet he had given her, and with the one hand on the wheel, her fingers traced the beads.
She had been driving for hours in anticipation, but the turn into his neighborhood felt abrupt, the familiar streets sobering her and suddenly she was extremely uneasy, physically sick to her stomach. She slowed the car to a creeping of the tires, just a few blocks away now, as the feeling overcame her. It was more than nerves, more than being scared of the leap ahead. It was instantly crystal clear that she would leap alone. She knew him better than anyone. It wouldn’t work. Her throat felt dry, she tried to shake it off as fatigue from her trip and hastily rationalize that, in everything they had shared, she could not be alone in her feelings. He loved her.
The road appeared hazy before her, she concentrated on the right edge of the asphalt, lining up her wheels and moving forward. How could she stand before him, knowing well his response to a question she had not asked? Intuition sank her. There was no going back now. She had to follow through, she had to know. Mortification overwhelmed her. How had she gotten so tied to him? When was it that she had built her world around him? She wanted to be rid of this bond that suddenly weighed her down and utterly compromised her. Would the attempt to unite them be the only thing that would blast her free from him? At once she wished to sacrifice all before him and to be gone from his life.
And there was his house. The truck and motorcycle out front. How many times had she sat in that truck or wished to ride that motorcycle? He was home. A light soft and low emanated from the front expanse of a window off the living room. He had built a fire.
He was a good man.
She was standing in his yard. It was so quiet, she could hear the snow falling, a soft chorus around her. There were no curtains on the front window. He had asked for her help in decorating the house, and she had vetoed the curtains his mother wanted to make for him, the pattern far too busy. So the windows stood bare.
As she approached, the smell of the fire grew more distinct, and she noticed a movement in the light. It was so late, the fire must have been mostly embers. But the light moved. Cloaked by the darkness, she stood off his porch, letter in hand, and watched him dance around in circles with his new girl in the glow. She did not dare move or breathe. The sight was too much to run from.
She watched them still, wondering if he was singing to this new love the way he had before. She loved seeing him happy, the glow on his face was nothing compared to that coming from the fire. She had told him that she wanted the best for him, even if it hurt her. It was harder to feel that conviction now. Her gifted bracelet felt like it was burning her. She had never imagined this moment, how twisted it would feel, where she was glad for them both, where she wished she was the woman who lit him up, where she simply wanted to disappear to dust.
She was standing, but she felt she was crawling through the snow, she was so frozen. She did not know how long she had been out there in the cold, but the time had come to retreat. Despite their most singular of bonds, he was looking for someone different than her. It would be worth the risk, she had thought. She could convince him. Yet, now, her world felt wrong, as though the tilt of the earth’s axis had shifted, and though it was livable, it was wrong and everyone knew it. That had been the risk. There was no going back now.
She was back in her car, driving back to her apartment, just minutes away. He would be an unavoidable presence in her life, her own personal grenade, where his happiness had the power to explode her very existence. She would not be so easily relieved of this.
She was home and had parked before she realized the letter was gone. Had it slipped from her hand? Was it adrift in the snow in his yard, a landlocked message in a bottle to be discovered on a warm day, or had she hung it out the window of the moving car and let it flutter from her fingers?
As she sat there, lost, the first line of the letter ran through her mind like a favorite lyric:
I can still feel your hands on me,
like one would the ocean waves as they drift to sleep,
hauntingly familiar.
Thank you so much for reading! Your feedback is welcome: rate the story with one click in this poll, or get a discussion going in the comments.
Bonus points: without Googling it, can you place where the phrase “hauntingly familiar” came from?
Next Week’s Plot Twist…
We’re venturing from fiction to non, with a memoir of sorts. You’ll receive part one of two, a series of emails I wrote when an intern at the Cannes Film Festival, chronicling my glamorous and awkward adventures alike. The emails are like a snapshot of my brain in 2005, and the original recipients still talk about them to this day.
Last week’s story:
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