I thought Lucy should know too. I think, in a different life, in a parallel universe, the two of us would be friends. Tell her I apologize for putting the gravel in her gas tank. Better yet, ask her to read this letter if she’s willing to. I’m sorry, Lucy. I hope you are well and happy. Truly I do.
I still stand by the statement that you two were idiots to do what you did to each other, what you did to your marriage, the peril you put your family in, and for what? One last taste of something you hadn’t had since you were young? Passion? Freedom? Well, let me tell you something from this side of the cancer fence, and from this side of the divorce fence, let me go ahead and drop some wisdom on you. What you guys have is enough. It’s a fuckload more than most people ever get, ever even dream of getting, and it is your job, it’s your duty while you are alive on this planet, to be thankful for it. And to protect it too.
P.S. You’re wondering how I know you and Lucy are back together. Please don’t be mad at me. But I can read your e-mails and your texts. Other than The Sopranos, it was what kept me going for a while. It was sort of nice, like listening to a soap opera and rooting for the star-crossed lovers to figure their stuff out. Except you and Lucy aren’t star-crossed, you’re actually the opposite of star-crossed—you’re truly and deeply meant to be together and just went a little crazy there for a while. Don’t be too mad at Lucy for falling in love with Ben. I fell a little bit in love with you too—we’re women, and where sex is involved, I’m starting to believe we can’t help it. He seems like a quality person, from what I read. A stand-up guy, as my father would have said. In the end, he did the right thing, and so did Lucy, and so did you. What were the chances?
P.P.S. Lucy and Ben are really and truly 100 percent out of contact with each other in case you ever wake up in the middle of the night wondering.
P.P.P.S. You and Lucy should probably get new computers and new passwords and ditch your phones. Change e-mail providers, too, and maybe get a different phone carrier. I feel better with that off my chest. Oh, maybe drop a note to Ben to do it too.
P.P.P.P.S. I’m staying in Scottsdale. The women my age out here all have skin like beef jerky, they’ve had so much sun, so compared to them I feel pretty good about myself. I figure I’ve bought myself about ten more years in the forty-five-and-under dating pool if the terry-cloth-sun-visor crowd is my competition. I lost my hair, and then got it back again, but the texture changed, and it’s been a whole learning curve for me. I have a pixie cut now, and people tell me I look like Mia Farrow—not a young Mia Farrow, just Mia Farrow, but hey, I’ll take it.