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Good thing this past week: My parents visited from Milan. We all went out for dinner like a normal family. My brothers were angry with them, of course. My grandmother pretended nothing was wrong. And my uncle played the peacemaker. But I was happy. For a moment there, I felt loved.

Bad thing about this week: Ironically, it was the flip side of my happiness at the dinner. Even though everyone was focused on C, my oldest brother’s accomplishments at work. Or they were concerned about whether L, my middle brother, would get arrested for whatever punk stuff he was involved in.

Grandma was sad when we talked about me starting my freshman year at UNYC in a month. I’ll be the first in my family to go to a state school. Essentially, I’m a failure and a black sheep. But they all quickly told me it didn’t matter, that they’d take care of me, and I sat there feeling useless again, like I’d nevermeasure up.

Stupid, huh?

The next day, my parents jetted off to Italy again. Grandmother went back to her place in the Hamptons, and my brothers disappeared off to work or whatever it was they did.

I was alone again. But this time, I remembered I had something special.

I had you.

I was unforgettable.

My heart clenches when I read her words. I feel her loneliness wafting off the pages and I wish I could go to her and pull her into my arms because shedoeshave me. Her family doesn’t appreciate how beautiful her soul is, but I do.

The sudden thoughts make me lightheaded.

I’m Ethan Anderson, the guy who doesn’t believe in love because I don’t want the heartbreak. I don’t want to tempt luck or fate or whatever you call it. I don’t want to be someone who stares at a Christmas tree, grief etched on my face because that was the favorite holiday of the person who still holds my heart, even after death.

But my resolve is weakening.

Maybe Ethan Anderson just needs to meet the right person.

Someone to make me brave enough to do what Dad did with Mom, what Maxwell did with his high school sweetheart. Someone who cares for me sight unseen, not knowing if I was rich or poor, or if my last name would open doors for her.

I let out a ragged breath and keep reading.

And I felt better. Much better.

So thank you again, Keeper. You’re my north star.

Your Dreamer

P.S. I hope you have fun at your party. You deserve it.

P.P.S. I’ve decided to start a bucket list. I’m calling it Twenty by Forty. I’ll finish one item per year starting when I turn twenty (ah shit, I just revealed my age, didn’t I? But I’m sure you figured it out already, with me talking about college and all). Anyway, the items can include places I want to go, things I want to do, foods I want to try. The skies are the limit. Aside from getting my degree at UNYC and making my way into the world, I’ll also do something exciting. Something that’s me. Because you know what I’m going to say…the clock keeps ticking…yadda yadda yadda. I haven’t decided what to put on that list yet, but I’m open to ideas.

P.P.P.S. This week’s clue: Where blades sing in stanzas, and green verses celebrate life and nature.

P.P.P.P.S. Thank you for the art print of Eros and Psyche. But I can’t believe you defiled the back of it by scribbling you don’t have a favorite Greek myth. What kind of monster areyou? Seriously? How can you call yourself a poet?

P.P.P.P.P.S. The what-if question of the week: What if one day a big rock fell on my head and I lost my memories? What would you do? And seriously, I still can’t get over how you don’t eat bacon. What kind of weirdo are you? If the world had no more bacon, I’ll die.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I swear, this is the last PS. Why do I always end the letter early? Ugh. What do you want for your promotion? I want to get you a little something. Emphasize little because I can’t hide an elephant in a library… Well, I can’t hide an elephant, period. See, this is why I should write our letters with pencil, then you won’t have to be subjected to this. Here’s a four-leaf clover I found in Central Park earlier this week. Sending good vibes your way.

I bust out in laughter, imaging a mischievous voice teasing me, then snickering at her own ridiculousness. Her clue was tailored to me. She knows I love poetry and chose a book that was famous.Leaves of Grassby Walt Whitman. A classic.

I don’t think she’s trying to stump me anymore. The books or films are code—a new love language—perhaps a combination of words of affirmation and gift giving. Lana will be so proud of me for paying attention to her prattling on about the genius of the book.

I reread her ending question. What do I want for my promotion?

I don’t need anything—I’m an Anderson; I have the world at my fingertips.

But I do want one thing only she can give.

I want her.