I meant what I said in my last letter—I miss him.
And in a non-romantic way.
The time we spent together before he left, however short it was, meant something to me, even if I don’t exactly know what that is. All I know is I enjoy my time with him. And I hope I get to see him again. Soon.
Maritza the Waitress,
I’m not sure where you get the idea that I have “free time” over here, but I’d like to set that record straight. I work twelve-hour days six, sometimes seven days a week. When I’m not working, I’m doing laundry, shining my shoes, eating, or sleeping. We fit the occasional game of cards here or there but mostly we’re working.
And let me get this straight, some hot guy hit on you and you “suffered” through small talk with him? Either you’re lying to make me feel better or you’re trying to make me jealous, both of which would be a huge waste of time because you’re not my girlfriend.
I know you know that.
Just wanted to remind you.
So please, I hope you’re having fun and not holding back because you’re waiting for some jackass soldier to come home. And I hope you got that German dude’s number because you sound kind of tense and you need to get laid.
Oh, and stop putting so much pressure on yourself to pick a major. It’s not like you’re making some life or death decision. What kinds of things are you interested in? What lights your fire?
Back to work.
Sincerely,
Corporal Torres
P.S. I hate you
P.P.S. Don’t say that you miss me. Shit like that are nothing but land mines. Dangerous territory. If you’re looking for a reaction from me, send me a pic of your tits but for the love of God, don’t say you miss me. That wasn’t part of the agreement.
Folding his letter, I roll my eyes and grab a pen, my hand twitching to get the thoughts in my head onto paper before they scatter like fall leaves to the wind.
Chapter Twenty
Isaiah
Dear Corporal Torres,
Just got your letter …
If you only knew how badly I want to throw ice water in your face right now …
If my handwriting is a little hard to decipher it’s only because I’m so angry with you right now I’m shaking. The fact that even from thousands of miles away you feel the need to make it crystal clear that you don’t want to date me does nothing short of infuriate me. It doesn’t matter how much I told you the feeling was mutual, it’s like you’re convinced I’m lying.
I’m not one of those girls who play mind games, who pretend they want nothing and tell you what they think you want to hear to keep you around.
I say what I mean.
Always.
And we had a no-bullshit agreement that I take very seriously.
I’ll tell you this one last time: I don’t want to date you either.
Which leads me to my next order of business: we are friends.
I know you don’t want to believe it, but we are. We’re friends. Say it out loud: Maritza Claiborne and Isaiah Torres are friends.
And because we’re friends that means I’m allowed to miss you and I’m allowed to tell you that I miss you. So stop being this tough, cold, callous distant man because that shtick might work on every other girl you’ve ever met, but it won’t work on me.
Embrace the fact that I miss you, Isaiah, because it isn’t going to change. In fact, it seems to be getting worse with each passing day if I’m being honest.
You’re cool as shit and you’re fun and I feel like we’re on the same page with a lot of things. I’m fascinated by you and sometimes annoyed by you and other times turned on by you but at the end of the day, I fucking love that you’re in my life.
I hope you feel the same and that someday, you might be able to actually admit it.
Best Friends Forever,
Maritza the Waitress
P.S. I hate you.
I read her letter twice before tucking it into my pocket and pulling in a hard breath. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me to think about some smooth German dude hitting on her and buying her drinks—and I hated that it bothered me.
Hated.
So I overcompensated.
“Corporal, you got a package.” Private Johnston places a large brown box on my desk. This marks the first time in my entire military career that anyone has sent me anything more than a letter or card. Before he struts off, I examine the return address.
Maritza.
Grabbing a box cutter, I slice through the packing tape and feast my eyes on package after package of Pringles, Starbursts, and peanut butter M&Ms.
I smirk, unable to help myself.
She remembered our conversation that night we went to the Griffith Observatory.