Chapter Text
It’s an early autumn evening, about three months after Ted leaves. The immediate, visceral pain of his absence has settled into more of an ever present dull ache deep in her bones that pretends to allow itself to be forgotten momentarily. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t already thought of Ted a dozen times that day alone, but he’s far from her busy mind at the moment, when the message pings up on Rebecca’s computer.
She’s just come home from the clubhouse, settling in to review employee renewal contracts with a glass of wine and a slapped together plate that the internet tells her is “girl dinner.” She has a busy half day of work planned the next day; Keeley’d been begging for some bestie time and was also courting a new client based in skin care, so they were off to the spa for the afternoon. Rebecca was looking forward to the pampering, and less so to the time alone with her thoughts. Although Keeley, lovely prescient Keeley, would probably be several steps ahead of her and would fill their treatment time with light hearted chatter and silly gossip, because she was a really fucking good friend.
So even though she’d really rather do almost anything than work at present, she’s grateful at least, as she’s been the past three months, for the occupied mind, and Rebecca hunkers down onto the lounger, slides on her readers, and opens her computer.
Warning! Your free trial of unlimited storage is about to expire! Please login to update your information!
Rebecca sighs, clicks on the link out of habit and a dose of middle-aged ignorance about blindly following pop-up links (Nora would have her head) and sighs again as her e-mail log in page loads.
Used saved password for this account? The little box in the corner of the screen chimes at her, and with a frown, Rebecca clicks again, ready to see the familiar list of names in her inbox, the one at the top from Leslie that she needs to open anyway with updated figures for renewals.
But it’s not her email. It is absolutely, emphatically not her email inbox that loads on the screen in front of her.
No, her email certainly doesn’t have 48 unread messages, thank you very much - and more certainly, her email doesn’t have 48 unread messages from Ted Lasso (no subject). Her heart jumps into her throat as her disbelieving eyes dart around the screen, trying to make sense of it all. Her pulse hammers in her chest, the heartbeat of Ted, Ted, Ted that is as familiar as anything these days. She finally lands on the greeting at the top of the screen,
Hi, TedBecca69!
Oh, Jesus Sodding Christ on the Cross.
It comes back to her in a flash, she and Ted shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee on the couch in her office, as they so often could be found this past year, giggling late one night over Thai food, creating a new email address (it really was quite simple, actually, to do) to sign up for a contest West Ham had going on, something about getting onto the voting committee for their new training facility.
They hadn’t really cared one way or the other, just thought it was funny and silly and a bit mischievous, because being around Ted made her remember how to be all of those things, and it was Ted who had come up with their username - “gotta make it easy to remember, Boss,” with a wink, “An’ nothing’s easier than our names!” And when Google had claimed that straight [email protected] was already taken, he’d asked her for a number, and the incredulous delight on his face had been well worth the lazy joke.
Obviously, [email protected] has lain dormant for over a year, completely forgotten by Rebecca, who frankly has no clue what the password is or how to even access the account at all. Except somehow she has, or her computer has, or whatever. Something has happened here. And maybe it is technological ineptitude, or maybe it’s fate, because, although Rebecca had definitely forgotten about it all, it is, as she’s scanning the screen in front of her, becoming readily apparent to her that Ted in fact had not.
There are 48 unread emails from him, the one at the top sent two days ago, and the first one dated about four days after he returned to Kansas. She scrolls through, up and down the page, desperately wanting to read them, nauseous at the thought of doing so, terrified they are going to disappear or be some sort of phishing thing (both she and Ted had almost fallen victim to one last year; Keeley’d looked at them like prize idiots and Ted had reassured her that being trusting wasn’t a bad thing, except, you know, when it was, like for example, a strange email offering her millions in a currency she’d never heard of and probably didn’t exist.)
So yes, these 48 emails could easily just be another scam. Or even a prank! Who knew what the kids were doing these days for pranks, anyway? Surely not Rebecca.
But somehow, Rebecca knew they were from him. Because they had to be. She needed them to be. But what on earth could he have written? Forty eight fucking emails? And why on God’s green earth would he send them here, to this long dormant inbox?
She glances at her phone, fingers tapping against each other as she weighs calling him. They’d kept in touch - not a lot, but a safe amount, an amount that felt balanced in terms of helping to fill the monumental void his absence had left in her life, but not so much that she couldn’t bear the distance any longer. It was her least favorite math equation, perfecting that balance. She’d thought briefly about cutting him out cold turkey, putting each brick he’d slowly and surely torn down back around her heart. But she couldn’t bear it, the thought of a completely Ted-less existence. No matter how much she was hurting, she knew that that hurt would be insurmountable.
So after she’d left the airport, after she’d run into the pilot and his sweet daughter, which in a different universe might have felt like fate but in this one felt more like a funny coincidence, after she’d fled to Keeley’s and curled up in Keeley’s bed and cried herself to sleep, after she’d woken up to Keeley’s gentle, nonjudgemental face and spilled her feelings about Ted and just how far gone she was into loving him, after Keeley had hugged her so tightly and so fiercely it slotted her heart back together the tiniest amount, and after she’d allowed herself to think about Ted and the heavy load she could tell he was carrying, and after she resolved that maybe he needed her to be there for him where he was like he had been so many times for her, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and picked up her phone.
Hope you landed safely. Miss you already. 💜
And his reply had been near instantaneous, a selfie of him and Henry, his eyes crinkled with the delight of being in the same time zone as his son, but tired and Rebecca couldn’t help the heartache that stole her breath.
Because she was so, so glad he was with Henry. But she was also so, so sure that he belonged in Richmond. And she’d tried to get him to see that - not for her sake, but for his own, because Ted, more than anyone, deserved to be happy. But Ted, more than anyone, was stubborn, and he’d gone.
So they texted here and there, and she heart-reacted all the pictures he sent and haha’d all the gifs, and tried to take a moment within each day to send him something in return. She tried valiantly to think of him as a sweet friend, a holiday-card receiver type of friend, someone dear but not close, rather than the love of her life, which she was more certain with each passing day he was. She failed at this task constantly.
So, theoretically, she could’ve picked up her phone, called him or sent him a text, asked him what the fuck was going on with [email protected]. And theoretically he could give any number of answers, such as, he recently remembered about the account and thought it would be funny to send a little something but then he hit the send button 47 extra times accidentally. Or there was some sort of glitch, naturally Google wasn’t perfect. She’d get a perfectly reasonable explanation, surely, if only she’d pick up the phone.
But she doesn’t.
The forty eight emails sit there, unwavering, in bold print, waiting for her. Ted, sitting there, waiting for her.
Fuck it, she thinks, scrolls to the bottom, to the first email, and clicks quickly before she can lose her nerve.
So Doctor Sharon isn’t technically allowed to be my therapist any more because she’s based in the UK and I’m based in KC now/again/currently, so don’t go reporting her to the Geneva Convention, okay? But she’s kindly agreed to keep helping this guy out so long as I kept being honest with her, and that was a deal I just couldn’t pass up. It was her idea, these emails. Well, she suggested journaling but you know how my hand cramps and the left handedness makes it smear and I get crabby about all that, so I thought typing made more sense.
But then I didn’t want all my jumbled up thoughts sitting on some word doc on my computer that just anyone (Henry, the little snoop) could find, so I thought, why don’t I just send them off somewhere? And then I remembered this email and I thought it would work perfectly. Because even though you’ll never read these, it feels kinda right to be writing “to” you, Rebecca. Because you’ve always listened to me. You’ve always seen me. Because there’s so much I should’ve said to you and so much I want to say to you, and so much I will want to say to you (I think I could talk to you forever, and I know you’re rolling your eyes because you think I could talk to a lamp post forever, but I can’t, not like this.) So thanks, as always, Boss, for being an unwilling receiver of my emotional upheaval. As always, I appreciate you.
Rebecca reads through the words fully twice before she can stop herself, hearing them all in his voice, his slight twang, knowing exactly which word in a sentence he’d emphasize. It’s like having him in the room with her, almost, and that’s calming in a way that startles her in its intensity.
She has missed him so terribly, so deep in her bones, and it’s only surprising in how unsurprising it is. Because of course she had fallen in love with him, how could she not? And of course she hadn’t been enough, she never was. She never thought she could be, especially not with his son thousands of miles away. And so he left. And she can’t fault him for it, not truly, because it was for Henry, and one of the many, many reasons she loves him so dearly is because of how good a father he is, and always tries to be.
She doesn’t quite know what to make of his last paragraph - she’s thrilled, proud, touched that he’s chosen her as his recipient - even if it’s a virtual her, but she knows what he means when he says he could talk to her forever, because that’s exactly how she feels about him. She had tried so hard, in the beginning, not to give anything away to him - any piece or measure of herself - but he’d so easily and consistently wound himself into the fabric of her life that, by the time he left, she truly wondered - wonders, sometimes - if she’d be able to go on. But needs must, she had so far, and she’d been doing rather all right, she’d thought, at stuffing the dull ache near her heart down enough to get through the days. Survive not thrive and all.
It’s not particularly healthy, as Keeley has pointed out and Roy’s grunted about and Leslie’s gagged about, but it’s where she’s at.
But that ache is sitting heavily with her now, the one she thinks feels rather like grief more than anything, brought forth by his name and his words and the conjured sound of his voice in her head. And at the same time, it’s soothed by those same things, and so it is really no wonder that she can’t help but exit the first email, take a deep breath, a big swallow, and click on the next.
I’m feeling pretty guilty that I didn’t say thank you. Or that if I did, it wasn’t clear just how much I was thanking you for. So here’s a non comprehensive list (it turns out I really like making lists)
Thank you, Rebecca
For changing my life
For chasing me down after that first panic attack
For making me laugh
For being the Dolly to my Kenny at karaoke that one time
For believing in me
For trusting me
For introducing me to Eton Mess, even if it’s not my favorite
For talking sense into me constantly
For letting me tag along at Christmastime both years
For appreciating the biscuits
For helping me pick out that one green sweater - jumper, whatever - that does in fact make my eyes pop
For always buying
For that snazzy frappuccino maker
For helping Henry with his reading when he visited
For surprising me
For tolerating all my dad jokes
For understanding and making peace with my inability to Girl Talk
For letting me be a mess
For not making me feel (too) guilty about leaving
For making it clear you wanted me to stay
For letting me go.
Oh, Ted. She reads the list again through bleary eyes, wishing she could reach through the screen and the elapsed time and shake him or kiss him or yell at him, or more probably all three in rapid succession.
The pang in her heart intensifies as does her desire to read more, to consume more of him, hear more of him, have more of him. After the first two emails, she clicks and clicks and clicks, eyes blurring with tears as she greedily makes her way through the inbox.
Some of the messages are short and silly - little things about life in Kansas, updates about Henry and his own search for a job (tried out a job in the supermarket for a day just to see if that would fit. No shade to grocery store workers, but as much as I enjoyed talking to everyone, I don’t think it’s for me. Not sure what is, except coaching, but I dunno if I’m ready to do that on a scale larger than Henry’s soccer team at the moment. Feels a little fresh, is all.)
Some of them are just short paragraphs clearly derived from some exercise Sharon’s had him do, one is very clearly things that help when he’s having a panic attack - (naming five things I can see, hear, feel, a glass of ice water, counting backwards from 100 by 2s, naming people I know care about me (you’re on there Rebecca, don’t worry!)) - one must be a list of ways to connect with Henry as he gets older (I don’t care if he’s into Dungeons and Dragons or baseball or freakin outer space, I just wanna make sure he knows I care), and one looks to be a grocery list of heart healthy foods.
These ones she reads and tucks away with a smile and only a small measure of heartbreak, knowing she’ll revisit them over and over eventually, because they’re nothing if not little pieces of the man she loves, but she doesn’t linger on them like she does with some of the others.
I wanna be real clear, Becca. I had to go. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t gone. I owed it to myself not to spend the whole rest of my life wondering if I did the right thing by staying here (there. In my head most of the time, “here” is where you are.) But I had to go. And I did, and now I know. My dad left me and I know I didn’t leave Henry and as the Doc says over and over again, it’s not the same situation, but I had to go back so I could know for sure, you know? Now I’ve gone and said ‘know’ so many times I have whatever the written equivalent of semantic satiation is, damnit.
This one pulls at her because she can hear the truth in his words, along with the turmoil. They’d gone back and forth on this point so many times, and she’d finally been forced to leave it, to let it be, that day in the stands when she’d all but begged him to stay. Her most haunting thoughts of the past three months are the ones in which she imagines what could’ve happened had she not let it lay.
But then she gets to his next email, and her breath hitches almost immediately and she feels sick as she reads.
So my dad didn’t leave me, exactly. As you know, he died when I was sixteen. What you don’t know is that he killed himself. What you don’t know is that I found him. What you do also know is that my mom doesn’t believe in therapy so you can imagine how long it took to unpack and process all of THAT, shout out Doctor Sharon! I had bottled it all up for so long, so many years, until your dad’s funeral, actually. Sparked something in me that couldn’t be tamped down any longer.
Historically I don’t tell people about my dad, his life or his death, because it’s too painful. But I think I could tell you, Rebecca, because unfortunately I think you’re not a stranger to that kind of pain. And because you would know I wouldn’t want to be pitied. Sometimes I think you’re the only person who truly sees me. I don’t think Michelle ever did, and my mama only sees what she wants. Beard sees me but lets me get away with a little too much hiding. You never have. It’s kinda infuriating. I don’t know if I can live without it.
This one crushes her breath, absolutely obliterates her heart. Good god. His hurt was always so palpable to her but he kept it so tightly guarded. She weeps for him, that he’s had to carry such a burden and that he’s done it alone. Her brave, stupid Ted, who never wants to cause anyone else a moment’s discomfort, even if it kills him.
She takes some small solace in the fact that he’s right - he saw something in her that she tried to let loose but so often felt she failed at - she cared about him. She saw him. She understood him. He didn’t have to hide the broken bits from her, in fact, she was almost a bloodhound the way she could sniff them out of him. He’d marveled at that, when she was the only one who knew what was happening when he fled the pitch with a panic attack, that, just as in Liverpool, it was Rebecca’s eagle eye that had caught what not even Beard had been able to. And when he’d finally broached it with her, she was afraid she’d been too stern, practically yelling at him for shouldering it alone, not returning her calls or answering her texts. He’d been a bit surprised by her tenacity, she remembered, and then his eyes had gone soft and he’d cleared his throat a bit, and then thanked her again, for caring and for calling him out and for being on his team, both metaphorically and literally.
She’s just wishing now, that she’s reading these emails, that she would’ve known sooner about his dad, could’ve done anything at all to soothe that hurt or simply existed within it with him. There’s not a lot she’s unwilling to withstand if it means she’s standing with Ted.
She swipes at her eyes, rereads the email. Wonders a bit guiltily if she even should be reading these – they’re to her, yes, but they’re also… not. But then, she reasons, Ted’s not stupid. He knows there’s a chance, however small, that Rebecca (or more accurately, Rebecca’s computer) would stumble back upon this inbox and these messages some day or some time. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s not quite brave enough to send them to her directly, and this is a nice little workaround. It’s something she would do, honestly, Rebecca surmises, and she and Ted have always understood each other in this way.
So she takes a deep breath and keeps going, devouring every word, making mental notes, hearing Ted right beside her, reading his words into her ear.
Things About My Dad:
(still vibing on the list thing in case that’s not clear)
- Loved football. My kind of football, but dabbled in your kind during World Cup years, which I had forgotten about until I came to Richmond.
- Always had music playing on the record player. Said Rumours by Fleetwood Mac was the best album ever made and definitely had a crush on Stevie Nicks (to be fair, who doesn’t?)
- Hated roast beef, loved mac and cheese, let me eat popcorn and twinkies for dinner on the nights my mom went out for her church’s women’s group
- Said “goodnight son” to me every night without fail when I went up to bed, usually sitting in his recliner watching some sort of detective show
- Had a complicated relationship with alcohol.
- Never embarrassed me for sharing my feelings but never ever shared his. Modeled keeping it all bottled up tight. (Not healthy, I’ve learned!)
- Had a bolo tie he wore on special occasions sometimes even though my mom hated it. Maybe because my mom hated it?
- Flirted with waitresses and grocery store clerks, but not in a skeevy way, he just liked to make people smile
- Once got so mad at me (absolutely warranted, Ronnie Fouch and I went out egging houses the Halloween I was 13 and we hit this old widow’s house by accident) and he just absolutely let loose on me. I’d never heard him swear that much - hell, I’m pretty sure he invented some new ones - and when he was done and all purple in the face and I was crying and apologizing, he just looked at me, saw my tears and said, “All right now, that’s enough. I love you, Teddy and some bone headed stunt with eggs ain’t gonna change that.” And then he took me over and made me apologize in person.
- Didn’t have a good relationship with his own parents. I can count on one hand the number of times I heard him mention his dad, and he died before I was born. We’d have Christmas with my grandma but it was always stilted and uncomfortable, and I never knew why.
- he was really good at accents and voices, and told the best scary stories.
- I think he tried really hard to be a good dad and I think he thought he wasn’t. I wish I would’ve been able to tell him he was, he was doing his best and it would have been enough
- I think he would have loved you. Actually, I know he would’ve. He would have delighted in your razor sharp wit, I guarantee that for sure. Would’ve swooned mightily at your singing, too, seeing how you give Stevie a run for her money (Actually, are you richer than Stevie Nicks? I think you might be, which is kind of insane. Not to money-shame you, or anything.)
On the subject of lists, I started to make a list of all the things I miss about living in Richmond but it got too long and made me a little too melancholy, so just - succinctly, I miss it all. When I was over there, there were precisely two things I missed about over here - Henry and the food. And we both know Henry counts for a hell of a lot of reasons, and he’s number one on any list I make. But still. Not very balanced, is it?
Hearing your voice was a balm to the soul. Thank you for calling, Rebecca. Please keep calling. Maybe I’ll call you next week, after I drop Henry off. Maybe we can make it a regular thing. Maybe it’s gonna keep me afloat, talking to you on the regular.
Beard says he forgives me. You’ve said you understand. I dunno though if I do - forgive myself or understand what the hell I’m doing. I’m trying, though, I promise. I’m trying to make sense of everything swirling around in my brain and I’m trying to listen to the voices in there that sound the most like the people I trust the most. (You’re one of them.) (you’re often the loudest.)
Henry asks about you near constantly. I guess I didn’t realize how close the two of you got during those weeks he’d spend with me in Richmond, but in retrospect it makes sense. He, like his father, can’t resist a pretty blonde.
Gah, I keep saying these things that I mean to be compliments but end up sounding so… trite? Underwhelming? Offensively insufficient? Can’t think of the word I mean but what I’m getting at boss, what I mean is, he can’t resist a powerful, kind, clever, passionate, silly, fierce, loyal, beautiful inside-and-out blonde.
Anyway, Henry misses you. Wants to know if you’ll come visit. Told him I dunno how you’d feel about the midwestern humidity and lack of access to anything remotely posh. He said he thought you wouldn’t mind, thinks you’ll enjoy trying all our American cookies (sounds like you guys had a serious debate about this at some point. I guess I’m also wondering how I missed y’alls friendship, maybe I was just too caught up in my own bullshit) and then he said he thinks I’d be a lot happier if you were here because I’m always happier when you’re around. That kinda hit me like a dart to the chest, for one because I don’t want him thinking coming back here to be with him has made me completely miserable, and for two because kid’s one hundred percent right.
Rebecca pauses here, tries to collect herself. Because though she is her own toughest critic, Ted has always, always encouraged Rebecca to see her best qualities, to name them and feel them and take pride in them. But the way he writes about her is something else entirely, it feels like he is the only person in the world who sees Rebecca for the whole of everything she strives to be, everything she aspires to embody, everything she always feels she’s fallen short on. His words make her feel like he is maybe as adrift without her as she is with him, and she can’t deny that means something.
I’m worried I disappointed you, by leaving. I’m worried you think I didn’t care about you enough to stay. I’m worried you’re mad that I didn’t listen to all your ideas and suggestions about how things could shake out. I’m worried that, if I did belatedly try to fix this mess I’ve made, it’ll be too late.
Remember that day right before I left, in the bleachers? It’s seared into my memory, and I’m sorry if it’s seared into yours, too. You were so lovely, Rebecca, so full of wonderful, logical solutions that I was too stubborn to hear. Sometimes I wonder what life would look like if I had said, yeah, tell me more about these schools for Henry. Tell me more about hiring a custody lawyer. Tell me more about our future here, together. Tell me more.
But I didn’t do that, did I? And while I don’t regret coming back to Henry, I regret leaving you, and I think I’m now realizing that it didn’t have to be either or. Doesn’t, maybe.
It’s here that the messages turn a bit in a way that Rebecca feels covetous about, a way that has her heart racing and something that feels a little bit like hope ballooning in her chest, along with the familiar heartbreak of loving Ted and having lost Ted, poor sweet Ted who is trying so hard, on the other side of the computer and the Atlantic, to figure out the right way forward, and god Rebecca hopes at some point he comes to the conclusion that it’s with her, not at the exclusion of anything else, but in addition.
Sometimes I think about that night at your house, the gas leak night. Kinda think a braver Ted Lasso mighta put the moves on you. Would be lying if I said the coward Ted Lasso wasn’t thinking about it. (Constantly, for like a year at that point.)
I know you’re not reading these but I still feel a lil guilty about that last one. To be clear, my feelings for you at that point of the gas leak went (go) way beyond putting moves on you.
This one takes her breath away, stunned by his honesty. Because while all these emails have come over the course of months, she’s digesting them in real time, the fact that he’s so open about his feelings for her. It had taken her over a year and extreme amounts of gentle prodding for her to acknowledge her feelings for Ted, and even then, she truly didn’t admit to herself the magnitude of them until he was gone. But by the sound of it, he’d had feelings - or rather, he’d known about his feelings - for much longer. A desperate notion of what could have been claws at Rebecca, and she feels completely unmoored, and the pulse in her veins sounds less like Ted, Ted, Ted, and more like maybe, maybe, maybe.
Sometimes when I’m feeling particularly sad about our absolute bummer timing — in another life, boss, it’s you and me doing the thing every which way and twice on Sunday (by the thing I mean life!!!! Not sex!! (...But sex too…)) — I think that maybe the silver lining is that you showed me the kind of partner I want and deserve and in my dreams I was able to do the same for you.
Unfortunately for me over here, I kind of think the universe only created one of those for me, and you're all the way over there.
She’s weeping now, her tears silently streaming down her face. These emails, his words, the way he writes about her and them, it’s all just bursting with affection and romance and hunger, and Rebecca feels such an acute sense of longing to have him in her arms, to whisper responses to every kind thing, every wish of his own, every doubt in turn. Even as he’s being so astoundingly sincere, he makes her laugh just a bit, blush just a little bit, yearn for him just a little bit. This man is my soulmate, she thinks.
There’s a plan forming in Rebecca’s mind, machinations whirling as she continues to process what she’s read, tries to play catch up with him, tries to figure out where he’s at now with everything. There’s one more email left, the one dated two days ago, and Rebecca feels a rush of maniacal laughter, because she’s so suddenly clear on her next steps she almost thinks she doesn’t need to read it, it wouldn’t change anything at this point. But he wrote it, he wrote it and he sent it, and of course she opens it, wiping her eyes for the hundredth time, determined, ready, sure.
I feel like Sharon, and maybe you, and maybe Beard, and maybe even me a little bit when I got here, kind of thought I was trying to figure out what I want. But what has become so clear to me I can’t escape it is that I so clearly DO know what I want. It could not be more clear, Rebecca. I want to be in Richmond, coaching your football team. I want to walk around the green with you, maybe reach over and grab your hand, if I’m feeling brave. Snuggle into a booth at the pub with ya, listen to you pretend to moan about the lack of options at Mae’s when we both know you’d eat her fish and chips nightly, happily. I want my son to have a proper room in a bigger flat, and I want him to call Richmond home just like I do. I wanna hear him pick up words with your accent, I wanna snuggle up with the both of you for movie nights, and I wanna watch the two of you read together (he hasn’t shut up about Harry Potter since you mentioned it on FaceTime last week; summer reading had been a freaking nightmare until then, are you an actual magician? I could totally see you as a young McGonagall…?) (wait also ps, are we allowed to read Harry Potter these days? Am I gonna get canceled? I’ll ask Keeley. I did already own the books, for the record, no new money was spent. God Ted, this is so NOT THE POINT. Sorry, you know how I get.)
Speaking of Keels, I wanna watch Roy and Keeley build their future together and I wanna watch Jamie flourish into an awesome man and a true leader on the team. I wanna help Beard get the fuck away from Jane, I want to properly meet Colin’s boyfriend. I want to watch you and Keeley start that women’s team you mentioned. I want to actually learn some set pieces, I want to win the Champions League. I wanna coach coaches, actually, someday. I wanna do all that and then come home at night and talk to you about it in a bed that we share in a house that we share, that’s full of your shoes and my shoes and Henry’s shoes and my barbecue sauce and your fancy handbags and so much love you can see it from outer space.
So yeah, I know what I want. I just don’t know if it’s mine to have. I hope it is. But you know what they say, right boss? It’s the hope that kills ya.
(Rebecca is very, very glad she doesn’t skip the last email.)