Dear Audrey:
As I write this, you’re sitting at our dining room table in our tiny Brooklyn apartment, scrunching your nose up and sucking on a lollipop—the kind with gum in the middle—while you prepare the sketches for your fall collection. Fabric swatches surround you like you’re in a very tweedy nest curated by someone from the 1940s. You’re squinting from the sunlight pouring in because you can’t stand closing the shades. Your hair sits on top of your head in a messy bun. You’re not wearing any makeup. And you’d hate for me to write this down for posterity, but you’re wearing black leggings and my old Columbia sweatshirt.
And you’ve never looked more beautiful.
I want to tell you in writing how I feel, but words are inadequate. All I can say is I’m so glad you’ve agreed to spend your life with me. I know it’s corny to say I’m the luckiest man on the planet. But I am. I don’t know how we made it through high school without touching each other. Now, though, all I want to do is feel your soft skin and kiss your strawberry lips.
I feel like someone long ago knew that we were meant to be together. That we were two halves of a whole. And that we needed to meet and connect so that we could each be the best person we could.
I know I’m a better person for knowing you.
You push me. We go to more places—Venice, Italy, and Venice, California. Every Disneyland that exists. And we’ve tried so many weird foods, it’s amazing we’ve survived.
I guess I just want to say I’m glad I know you. I’m grateful you’ve chosen to spend your life with me. And I want to keep loving you—and that little person in your belly—for the rest of our lives.
I love you. Happy Valentine’s Day.
Love,
Tate.
P.S. It’s not too early to start dressing our child, right? That’s who one of these presents is for. The other one is for you … but perhaps it’s for me. I can’t wait to see you in it.