Freddie Fox

To: Freddie Fox

From: Lily Warnock 

Polite greetings and such. 

Listen, Freddie Fox, I’m not going to lie to you or sugarcoat things. The situation is quite grim. My dad has laid down an ultimatum: I either get myself a real adult job after graduating college (in just a few months!) or I get married. If I were a real star I could do both, but choosing neither is not an option. 

I’m getting a degree in film, so we can obviously rule out getting a job. Now to the second—much more complicated—option. 

Have you ever heard of a city called Provo, Utah? It’s a magical place where eighteen-year-olds pick out engagement rings and twenty-three-year-olds have two kids and a baby on the way. It’s a place where going on three dates means you can see yourself marrying a person and where no one blinks an eye when a guy who looks like he’s on the prepubescent side of fifteen offhandedly mentions his wife and child. 

It’s a place that can make someone lose all self-respect when they spend enough time here. A guy once had a breakdown on my couch because he was twenty-five and unmarried and was therefore convinced he would die alone. A friend of mine got married at twenty-two to a subpar candidate because she was afraid of being an old maid at twenty-three. 

Guess where I live, Freddie Fox? Guess what faith tradition I hail from? Guess how I’m supposed to feel about myself in a place like this as a twenty-one-year-old who’s never had a boyfriend before? 

When my dad first threw down the gauntlet, he told me to make a list of three men that I could see myself marrying by next year. Most of the men I know are unappealing to me, visually speaking. Some have good personalities. One of them is my bishop. (I’m not attracted to him, but he did come up when I was thinking about all the men I know. Just to clarify.) 

Then I thought, “Who are the men I really find appealing? Who could I actually see myself descending into a gradual spiral of domestic and existential dread and monotony with?” Well, it’d have to be someone extremely attractive. Talented. With the big bucks. 

Here’s where I come to my point: It’s you, baby. It’s got to be. 

I’ve combed through your entire filmography this summer. I’ve watched every single press interview you’ve ever done. And yes, I’ve saved dozens of TikTok edits of your face. 

Needless to say, I like what I see. And I know it’s real because I’ve literally never felt this strongly about a blonde man before in my life. We do have a fourteen-year age gap, but let’s be real, there are much more egregious age gap relationships happening in this industry.

And here’s the really crazy thing, Freddie Fox. We’ve inhabited the same space at the same time before. What?!? I know. Let me explain. 

Close your eyes. Now open them again because you can’t read if your eyes are closed. 

The scene is this: London. Leicester Square. June 10, 2024. Evening time-ish. The House of the Dragon Season 2 premiere. 

Remember the Burger King overlooking the red carpet? Remember the wrap-around windows on the second floor? Remember all the people pressed up against those windows? Yeah, I was up there. And, as you remember, you got out of the black car and shuffled around a bit and then looked up at all those people flapping their arms in the window of the Burger King and we made brief but penetrating eye contact. 

Your hair was bleach blonde. My hair was kind of wet and greasy because it was raining on and off before I found shelter in the Burger King. You mouthed, We should get dinner later. I mouthed back, My professors said we’re not allowed to date anyone while we’re on our study abroad. You rolled your eyes, like, Haven’t your professors ever heard of the concept of love at first sight??? I shrugged, like, What can you do? Sometimes middle age can really disillusion you with the idea of actually enjoying the person you chose to spend the rest of your life with. I tried to signal to you to mouth your phone number, but security pushed you along and suddenly you were swept up in a sea of press with their microphones and their cameras and the costumed fans with their posters and their screaming. 

Those crazy fans, man. They really think they’re in love with you. But we both know the truth: they’re just fanatical lunatics who project all those feelings onto you so that they don’t have to deal with reality. And I’m not just saying that because I’m jealous that they got to meet you. I’m saying it because I’m different from those other girls––I am actually in love with you. 

But we do have to move quickly because as I’ve said, I’ve never had a boyfriend before and at this point, people are starting to think there’s something wrong with me. 

Granted, there is something wrong with me but I don’t want people to think that. I mean, how do I explain to my well-meaning grandparents the dark and twisted labyrinth of psychosexuality I navigate in my associations with men? I’m thinking if we just get married in the next few months all that will be swept under the rug and people will stop worrying about whether or not I’m a lesbian. 

I just don’t want people to be disappointed in me, you know? Which is tough, because instead of worrying about marriage and a family, I’m focusing my efforts on becoming a professional writer.

You come from what some people call an acting dynasty, so I imagine you’ve had the path laid out for you since birth. I come from a different kind of family, one full of artistic people who all chose boring jobs in boring fields so that they could make money. 

But I don’t want that! And I worry that one day my weak little people-pleasing backbone will collapse beneath the logical, well-thought-out arguments of my military lawyer father about why it’s a horrible idea to try to make money off of your art, and I’ll marry a guy I’m not that excited about and get a job doing something I’m completely apathetic towards. 

Did you know that my dad is actually a very talented artist? I like to go through his old sketchbooks sometimes and remind myself he isn’t so far removed from me. He doesn’t begrudge me my artistic dreams, I guess—he just worries about all the money I won’t have as I try to make them happen. And to be clear, I think his life has turned out fine, but I still think maybe he’s betrayed a part of himself for the sake of security. That’s his fear for me: security. 

But if I married you, all that would go away. The financial worries, the fears about how to approach an artistic career, and, of course, all the lesbian allegations. 

Don’t think this would just be a marriage of convenience. It would be incredibly convenient, but I do actually think we could work well together. I could write scripts that you could act in and we could go on to win Oscars and Emmys and Teen Choice Awards together. And we would of course fulfill the commandment of multiplying and replenishing the earth to a disturbing degree. 

Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been thinking the entire time you’ve been reading this, though. Trust me, I’m well aware of the girlfriend-sized elephant in the room. Do you think that wasn’t the first thing I looked into when you first ensnared me? I’ve done my research. And after a two-hour deep dive into her Instagram, I see the two of you have built a beautiful and meaningful life together. 

Look at you. You’re thirty-five and you’re not married. You’re just out there dating. Are you happy? Do you want to be married? Don’t you worry about that at all? 

If I were unmarried and childless at thirty-five (God forbid, knock on wood, I reject that demonic energy) I know that my family would be disappointed in me. Even worse, they would pity me. 

What would it be like to not worry about that? Or at least to have some more time to ease into dating without worrying about being proposed to after two months? Why is getting married past the age of twenty-five so crazy to Mormons? 

I’m coming to a realization, Freddie Fox. I worry it might be blasphemy to admit, but I trust you, so I’ll say it: I don’t actually want to be married in a few months. I don’t want to have a husband at the age of twenty-two. I DON’T WANT IT!!!!!!! 

That’s why I’m writing to you. Let’s be real, Freddie Fox: you’re not gonna read this. You’re not gonna answer. You’re certainly not going to propose. 

That’s probably why I’m in love with you. You’re not real. You’re a British actor who lives far from me who I’ll never speak to and who I’ll never have to navigate life’s complications with. If you were in front of me, a physical, tangible person, you would absolutely disgust me. 

You know why? Because I’m afraid! I’m afraid of real men and real jobs and real life! 

Life moves so fast in Provo, Utah, and I’m not ready for any of it. I don’t care if everyone else is. I’m not. So I direct towards you, you fantasy man, all my energy, all that restless yearning to be known and loved exactly as I am, so that I don’t have to deal with what’s right in front of my face. I’m not built like all these other Mormons. I need more time. 

I don’t know what I’m going to do after graduation. Maybe I’ll donate my plasma for a living. Maybe we could do some kind of platonic arranged marriage thing where we make my parents happy but we both live our own lives. Ask your girlfriend if she’d be okay with being the side piece. 

My number is (940) 555-2179. Call or text anytime. I’m open to hearing your take on the situation. 

And by the way, if you’ve read this whole thing and you’re not Freddie Fox, I think you’re a weirdo and a perv. How dare you intercept and proceed to read the entirety of a very personal and private cry for help. Please get back to taking care of your malnourished Star Wars-obsessed husband while I continue to consider whether standing steadfast by my values is worth what feels like eternal loneliness. Thank you. 

Lily Warnock