Chapter Text
From: [email protected]
Date: November 7, 10:34 UTC
Subject: Time for a change?
Dear T,
I hope it’s all right for me to start calling you T, seeing as a) we agreed when making The Rules that we wouldn’t exchange personally identifying information and b) it’s easier than addressing you as TinternAbbeys, even though I am deeply aware by now about your obsession with all things Wordsworth. Besides, I feel like we have been writing to one another long enough that we should probably start using something at least mildly resembling a name– we can pretend it’s our first initial or something. It isn’t much of a leap to call you a friend; to be honest, I think you might be a closer friend than some of the people I actually know in real life, but that sounds really sad/pathetic, so don’t read too much into that, please.
Anyway, allow me to tell you for the thousandth time how much I appreciate you suggesting this whole email experiment all those months ago— and not just because my inbox is usually just full of random spam from mailing lists, or the odd request from my alma mater for money that I don’t have. It’s just been really nice getting to know you like this, without the baggage that real life brings. There are few people– okay, no people– in my circle of family and friends that aren’t utterly weirded out when I start talking about geology or the history of Jacobinism. Also, emailing back and forth is so much nicer than texting, because there isn’t any pressure to respond immediately, you know? The only thing that would make it better would be if we truly committed to the bit and started writing letters on paper, but that’s a nonstarter since it would require us to know each other’s home address– I suspect you feel the same way, so I don’t feel bad saying it. If we lived in the same city, it might be different, though. I am assuming we don’t live in the same city, but if we did, perhaps we would have a secret drop box for letters so that we could preserve our anonymity but still write. That sounds a bit like an American kids movie from the 1980s, but I find that I don’t mind the idea.
Pardon the ramble. I suppose you’re used to it by now, seeing as I have clearly decided to, in true Regency fashion, treat our email correspondence more like my personal journal. Perhaps it is a good thing we will never meet, because you know things about the way my brain works that would make it impossible for you to ever see me as a normal human being. My mortification would know no bounds.
Anyway, the real reason I decided to write was that I saw the most random bookstore display on my way home from work yesterday, and it made me think of you. There was a ship in the window that looked like it had been made out of popsicle sticks, and clay figures lying all over the deck, but with one guy standing by a dead bird…and suddenly I was exclaiming, “Holy shit, it’s that scene from Rime of the Ancient Mariner!” I think the people around me on the street were a bit surprised at my outburst, but I felt really proud of myself for getting the Coleridge reference. As should you! You can harp all you want about my not being a fan of poetry, but you can’t say I don’t pay attention— even if it happens to be Coleridge, and your beloved Wordsworth thought the entire poem was “an injury to the volume” when it was included in Lyrical Ballads. I bet you knew that, but I’m counting it as my fact of the day, regardless.
Oh, and before you ask: I popped into the bookshop, and it turns out the boat was the winning entry in a literature-themed diorama model contest for kids. I am honestly shocked that a child read that poem and decided to memorialize it using popsicle sticks, but I am impressed nonetheless. You two could probably be friends.
That’s all from me for now…a friend of mine is taking me out this evening, so please send prayers, as I think she’s going to try to set me up with a guy she’s been talking up for ages. I suspect I will have something more interesting to write later, but let’s hope I can simply have a nice evening with minimal social awkwardness.
Hope you are well!
Take care,
M
From: [email protected]
Date: November 7, 16:07 UTC
Subject: Re: Time for a change?
Dear M,
You’re right, of course (let’s be honest, you are right quite a lot) that we probably should have switched to something more like a name a while ago. Did you know that at one point I almost started calling you Macaulay? But then I remembered how much it irks you that people think you are a fan of Macaulay Culkin instead of Catharine Macaulay, and I decided against it. But yes, I think the initials you’ve picked work well for us. I’ve always thought of you as an M, if that makes any sense.
If we’re going to start waxing nostalgic about our anonymous pen pal arrangement, then I will also say that I’m glad we started doing this, even if our origin story is unconventional (I shudder to think of the conversation I’ll have to have with my kids someday, where I tell them all about how their dad met one of his best friends on a Discord server he isn’t even a member of anymore). There is something very liberating about being able to write down one’s observations about the world and then share them with someone else without worry about being judged as cringe or performative. While I don’t necessarily consider myself to be someone who has difficulty being among other people (in fact, I sometimes find it hard to believe that you’re as reserved in real life as you’ve described yourself; your emails have never indicated to me that you are anything but stunningly cool and interesting), there are certainly moments when I feel like I’m on the outside of things. It doesn’t feel like that at all when we are writing to one another. I think (hope) you understand what I mean, and for what it’s worth, I’m very glad that we are friends. Friends whose real names we’ll never share, but great friends nonetheless.
All that is to say: ramble away. I’m always happy to hear from you. You are correct in your assumption that I don’t see you as a normal human being, but I don’t think you should feel mortified about that at all. Your brain is extraordinary, which by extension means that you are, as well.
I enjoyed your story about the ship in the bookstore, by the way. It definitely inspired my choice for your bit of poetry for the day:
O sleep, it is a gentle thing
Belov’d from pole to pole!
To Mary-queen the praise be yeven
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven
That slid into my soul.
I am cognizant of the fact that it's not the exact passage from Rime of the Ancient Mariner that inspired the model you wrote about, but I felt you’d like these lines better than anything about dead bodies. Regardless, I’m pleased to hear that whoever built that ship won a prize for their work; clearly that child is going places. I can’t help but feel some personal vindication, as well….feel free to admit that my poetry obsession is slowly starting to take root in your heart. You’ll be spouting off lines of Wordsworth in no time.
Unfortunately I don’t have anything interesting about my day to share with you (I’ll spare you my usual grousing on the soul-sucking nature of my work) except that I too am being dragged out to the pub tonight by some friends with dubious motives (one of them is my ex from back in high school, and though it was a very long time ago and she is happily attached to someone else, the idea that she wants to set me up with one of her friends is a little awkward). Wish me luck.
Yours, etc
T
“Mary’s got that look again.”
Mary resisted the urge to slam her laptop shut as her gaze shifted to the adolescent smirking at her from the opposite side of the counter. “What look?”
Marianne raised an eyebrow knowingly. “The look you get whenever you’re checking your email.”
“I do not have a look.”
George approached, and stood next to his sister. “Sorry, Mary, but you definitely have a look.” He batted his eyelashes dramatically. “You get all…fluffy, or something.”
Mary did her level best to appear unaffected, even as she felt the heat rising in her cheeks.
“There!” Rebecca exclaimed, not one to be left out of a conversation. “That’s the one. You’ve definitely gotten an email.”
“People get emails all the time,” Mary argued.
“Yes, but it’s only when you get a very particular email from a particular person that you get that look,” Marianne said.
“The so-called fluffy look?”
The three nodded matter-of-factly, and Mary sighed. It was very little use trying to reason with them once they were on a roll. “Okay, yes, I got an email,” she admitted.
Rebecca pumped a fist. “I knew it!”
“But the contents of the message, as well as the sender, are still none of your business,” Mary said, using as warning a tone as she could manage. “Now, go to the back and continue your homework. I’ll check on you and help once your mum’s returned, okay?”
Grinning, the Gardiner kids grabbed their knapsacks and headed to the break room. Mary watched them go, releasing a long held breath when the door shut behind them.
“I don’t get a look,” she grumbled to herself. She looked back at her computer, and Tintern’s message still up on the screen. Her eyes landed on the poem he had quoted, and she read it again, more slowly:
O sleep, it is a gentle thing
Belov’d from pole to pole!
To Mary-queen the praise be yeven
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven
That slid into my soul.
How had he known to include a line of poetry with her name? He hadn’t, of course. But there was something about his choices— of poetry, of words in general— that always seemed to strike at the heart of her. People didn’t write that way anymore, but he did.
She smiled at the thought, then caught herself.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
Mary looked up to see Madeline Gardiner peering at her with a bemused expression that bore an uncanny resemblance to that of her children.
“Nothing,” Mary said quickly. “Just thinking about stuff.”
“Everything okay?”
Mary nodded, gently closing her laptop. “Ann is coming by at the end of my shift to take me to the bar. She wants me to meet a friend of hers.”
“That sounds like fun,” Madeline replied. “What kind of friend, exactly?”
As if on cue, Ann’s voice rang in her mind. “Mary, you have to meet Tom, he’d be perfect for you...Mary, Tom is one of my oldest friends, I promise he’s not a psychopath…Mary, if you try to back out of meeting Tom one more time, I will have to resort to drastic measures, so can you please just trust me on this?”
“The same friend she’s been trying to set me up with for months,” Mary sighed. “The woman is on a mission, and I’ve run out of excuses.”
“Why don’t you just tell her that you aren’t interested?”
Mary sighed. “Because she’d pester me about who I am interested in, and that’s not a question I really feel like answering.”
Madeline gave her another look. “Because of your…pen pal?”
Mary blushed. Her aunt was the only person she had mentioned her little “email experiment” with Tintern to. Thankfully, she had found it charming and nostalgic– a byproduct of being an elder Millennial, presumably– and hadn’t said much about it other than the usual caution to be safe. But as the months passed, Madeline had also been the person Mary would talk to about the messages they exchanged, and all the little philosophical observations about the world she and Tintern discussed.
Clearly the woman had been paying much closer attention than Mary realized.
“Well,” Madeline said carefully, “there is never anything wrong with making new connections, whether that be friendly, or professional, or even romantic. It doesn’t have to go the way Ann expects.”
“I’m just not very good at the kinds of social events Ann brings me to,” she lamented. “I don’t…sparkle.”
“There’s no need for you to sparkle, Mary. Just be yourself. The right people will come to you.”
Madeline moved behind the counter to give her a hug. “Now, go home and get ready for your evening. I’ll be fine here on my own.”
Mary shook her head. “I told the kids I’d help them with their homework.”
“Fine. But don’t you dare try to stay late!” she chided, swatting a hand at Mary as she gathered her things. “I won’t have you using my children as an excuse for not enjoying your youth.”
Mary rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I make no promises.”
From: [email protected]
Date: November 7, 23:34 UTC
Subject: Making friends is hard to do
Dear T,
Why is making friends in real life so difficult as an adult? Do you think this is why we ended up becoming friends in the first place– because I am so awful at communicating with people who are literally right in front of me that they just lose interest within a few minutes?
Actually, it’s probably even faster than that, given that 75 percent of first impressions are formed within the first seven seconds of meeting someone.
Sorry, I’m whinging. The evening wasn’t bad— I mean, I didn’t die— but it certainly wasn’t good, either. The guy my friend wanted to introduce me to was actually pretty nice, though it was obvious that neither of us were interested in each other– not that he wasn’t attractive or anything, because he actually was objectively quite good looking, but I didn’t get the sense that he’s looking to make a match, as it were. I feel like that should have taken the pressure off, but my friend kept trying to push us together to make conversation, and it all just felt very awkward.
The worst part was when we started talking about jobs. I won’t get into the details of what was said, but the highlight had to be the look of borderline revulsion on his face when I told him where I work. T, you know how much I love my job. I practically live there. My employers are like my adopted parents. I tried to be open minded when he mentioned where he works– some fancy company he basically runs– but it was really hard not to feel hurt by the sense that he didn’t want to engage further on the topic.
Unfortunately, I have been told that I have one of those faces where it is impossible not to know what I’m feeling at any given moment, particularly if it is a negative emotion of any kind. As such, I believe I can safely assume I didn’t make the best impression, because not long after we started chatting, some friend of his literally came to his rescue and pulled him away. I guess I don’t blame him? I probably came across as a bit of a jerk, to be honest. But now that we have met, it’s kind of inevitable that we will meet again in other social settings, and I am already preemptively dreading it.
Please tell me your evening went better than mine!
M
“Let the record show that I am very annoyed with you right now.”
Mary sighed into her cappuccino. “You didn’t tell me he was a blazing capitalist.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Ann retorted. “Do you honestly think I would try to set you up with a man whose values are completely antithetical to your own? Besides, Tom isn’t a real estate developer. He’s a lawyer. He just works at a real estate company.”
“But he still works for the kind of place that buys up properties and makes life more expensive for everyone else in this city,” Mary pointed out.
“I mean, maybe. I don’t actually know. But even if he does, it’s just a job. It doesn’t mean that he likes it. In fact, I’m fairly certain he doesn’t enjoy it at all.”
“But if that’s the case, surely he could just…work somewhere else? Aren’t lawyers always in demand?”
Ann stabbed at her French toast. “It’s more complicated than that, and you know it. Anyway, Tom honestly hates talking about work. But my sense from our limited conversations about it is that he essentially functions as the moral conscience of the company— a position that he finds both draining and necessary in order to keep the business from veering into supervillain territory. So really, we should be happy he’s there.” She sighed, shooting a look of an exasperation at Mary. “Seriously, though, Tom is such a good guy. He’s nice, funny, attractive, intelligent…and yes, I get that you might have reservations about his business, but that’s not really why you don’t like him, is it?”
Mary picked at her plate of eggs benedict as she considered how to respond. The truth is, she had found Tom Hayward to be all the things Ann had said. In another life, she probably would have found herself drawn to him immediately. He was attractive, to be sure; try as she might to deny it, even after they stopped talking, her attention had drifted to him at various points throughout the evening. From a distance, it was much easier to appreciate the friendly charm he exuded in his interactions with their mutual friends. But there was also a closed off quality to him, like he was distracted by something else…and she couldn’t help but suspect it was because he was thinking about someone else. Perhaps she was projecting on that last bit, since it was pretty much how she felt as well. How could she admit to Ann that she’d spent an embarrassingly significant chunk of her evening checking to see if Tintern had written her back?
“I just…sensed a vibe,” she said at last. It was a weak response, but at least it was the truth.
“A vibe? Pardon me for saying so, but you’re not exactly one for sensing vibes.”
Mary sniffed in annoyance. Just because it was true didn’t mean she had to like it. “Yes, Ann. A vibe. Like, an I’m-not-interested-in-you kind of vibe. And anyway, it’s not like I made that great of an impression on him, either.”
Ann tipped her head to the side. “What do you mean? You’re wonderful!”
“Hardly,” Mary scoffed. “I went on an entire face journey when we started talking about his work.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“It can’t have been that bad–”
“Ann, his friend had to come and rescue him from me.”
“What friend?” she asked. “Wait, you mean, Will? He’s just like that. The man is physically incapable of being alone for more than two minutes. Tom’s one of his best mates– plus, they work together. I’m sure he just zeroed in on him as soon as he entered the room.”
“Well, his timing was suspiciously apt, all things considered,” Mary argued. “Like I said, I didn’t make a very good impression. Tom probably thinks I’m some commie asshole.”
Ann laughed. “He most certainly does not!”
Mary just shrugged. “It’s just not meant to be.”
Ann shook her head. “I’m not giving up on this, you know,” she said firmly. “He’s really so sweet, and even if you’re not interested romantically, I think you two could be good friends.”
Mary scrunched her nose. “You really think so?”
“Definitely. You are the two nerdiest people I know. If I wasn’t so secure in my position as your bestie, I’d be worried that Tom might take my place,” Ann said with a chuckle. “But seriously. Do you really think it hurts to expand your circle of friends, just a little? You’ve lived in London for nearly a year now. It doesn’t hurt to open yourself up to other possibilities.”
Mary nodded absently. If it were Tintern talking, he’d probably tell her the same thing.
Still, it was hard to open herself up to the possibility of meeting new people when she could feel herself becoming increasingly attached to another person.
Even if that person only existed in email form.