(The letter Armand gave to Francesco during the lunch encounter of Faith Healing.)
Francesco,
Way back on the eve of our wedding night, when Andrea and I got spectacularly pissed and spilled a bunch of hideous personal secrets in lieu of a bachelor party, he told me that he’d never been coward enough to tell someone he loved them via letter when he could easily do so in person instead.
Well, Andrea’s an idiot who’s tragically wrong about most things.
More importantly, I love you.
And yeah, it’s not sensible. It’s not anything I’d have wished on either of us. Still, there it is - stark, terrifying, and factual - and damned if I’m going to keep pretending I can’t come to terms with it: I can. And the sheer, gross stupidity of refusing to acknowledge it when it’s glaring us both in the face like some sort of super-persistent, monolithic smorgasbord of awkward is beginning to grate.
So, here’s the truth. Back when I equated having any kind of feelings for you with devastating psychological ruin, I obviously tried to ignore it. I’ve been failing with that one for a while, actually. But it came to me very clearly and precisely: that moment in the Square, when you told me Acryn was where I belonged now - when I realised two things at once. One: nobody outside my family had ever said as much before, much less so casually, and I was ridiculously, stupidly touched. Two: all of a sudden, I wanted everything -a life here, a family, a legacy - with you at the centre of it all. You with your energy and your ambition, your unshakeable beliefs and your thousand complicated vanities. Your vulnerabilities too: the ones I’d deliberately looked for and sort of trodden on in an attempt to keep up with you.
Sorry about that. I tend to get childish when threatened - and, honestly, I’ve never felt more threatened than this. Loving you is about as straightforward as attempting ballet atop an avalanche, and it scares me because it entails doing the exact thing I told myself I wouldn’t: giving you any amount of power over me.
I’m not afraid anymore - or at least, I’ve made a conscious decision to disregard that fear. So, sanely, rationally, I’m asking you one thing: do you love me too?
No dodging. No evasions. I just want the truth. Then, if I’m right - which I think I might be - we can finally get to the part where we both get to be happy.
Think on it.
Armand