A note written in purple pen on a small piece of lined stationery reads:
Isaiah,
Let me know if there’s anything else you want (besides pancakes—not happening, dude). I’ll do my best to accommodate any (reasonable) requests. Also, I’ve placed a few goodies at the bottom of the box for fun.
Maritza
P.S. I hate you.
P.P.S. But I don’t want you to starve or be bored while you’re over there doing brave and scary things.
Digging through the colorful, junk food loot, I come across what resembles a summer camp care package. She appears to have tossed in a pack of UNO cards, a triple pack of her signature strawberry mint shea butter lip balm, two expensive-looking bottles of body wash that smell like a million fucking bucks, sunscreen, half a dozen bottles of Frank’s Red Hot, a jumbo pack of individually wrapped beef jerky in various flavors, a few men’s health and fitness magazines, and an assortment of James Patterson and Clive Cussler paperbacks.
“Hey, look at you. Finally got a package.” Private Conroy stops into my doorway, leaning against the jamb, hands in his pockets. “And look at that smile on your face. Your girlfriend send that to you or your mom?”
I close the flap on the box. “Neither.”
If she were here right now, I’d tell her that yes…
… there is such a thing as being too nice.
Chapter Twenty-One
Maritza
Maritza,
Thank you for the package that you didn’t have to send. Let me remind you that we agreed to letters and letters only.
And yes, there is such a thing as being too nice.
Anyway, I won’t be able to write for a while. I’ll be headed to the Syrian border after today. Not sure how long I’ll be away.
Take care,
Isaiah
I stuff his letter back into the envelope, smile fading and hot tears welling in my eyes, and check the date. He sent this two weeks ago. Every part of me knows I shouldn’t read into this letter but it’s just … different. There was no “Maritza the Waitress,” no playful “P.S. I hate you” at the end. And he signed off with a cold “take care.”
Biting my lip, I place the letter aside and sink back into my bed, dragging my palms along my floral velvet duvet.
It’s almost like he was intentionally distancing himself …
Maybe I came on too strong? Maybe he read into the care package thing and took it as I like him and I’m trying to move things to the next level? I don’t know. I don’t know what was going through his head because he’s a closed effing book and I knew him for all of nine days or whatever.
I allow myself to overanalyze for a solid ten minutes before snapping out of it and giving him the benefit of the doubt. Rising from my bed, I peel off my pajamas and head to the shower. I have to be at work in a couple of hours.
When I’m finished getting ready, I trek over to Gram’s to grab breakfast, only the second I slide the back door open, I find myself face to face with Constance’s grandson, Myles, seated at my grandmother’s kitchen table.
“Oh. Hi.” I stop in my tracks.
His thin lips curl. “Maritza. Hey. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Yeah …
“How have you been?” he asks, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his long nose. Nothing has changed since the last time I saw him. With a plaid shirt cuffed at his elbows, black skinny jeans, and white chucks, he’s rocking the quintessential film studies major uniform.
“Good. You?” I head to the coffee bar off the butler’s pantry and he careens his body, tracking me with his narrow eyes.
“Great.” I grab a porcelain mug and turn my back to him. “Where’s Gram and Constance?”
“Around here somewhere.” He chuckles. “Probably polishing Gram’s Oscars or something.”
I don’t laugh. He isn’t funny. He’s awkward and obvious and gives off this intrusive, invasive vibe that I can’t fully explain.
Heading back to the kitchen, I don’t find Gram’s usual Saturday morning breakfast spread, no scent of bacon or steel cut oats, no buffet of fresh sliced strawberries and pineapples. She must’ve given her chef the day off.
“All right, well, I have to get to work,” I say, striding toward the sliding door. “Good seeing you, Myles.”
He stands. “You came all the way here for a cup of coffee?”
Pausing, I nod. “Gram has the good stuff.”
His thin lips meld together and he exhales through his nose. “I see.”
Reaching for the door handle, I give it a solid tug and embrace the mild morning air that hits my face.
Freedom.
Freedom from Myles Bridger.
I can’t get back to the guesthouse fast enough. The way he stares. The way he stalls. The way his energy just lingers and clings and makes me feel like I need another shower.
By the time I get back to my place a minute later, I chide myself for overreacting. We had one date. One. And he was weird and tried to kiss me and he wasn’t my type. He called me every day for two weeks afterwards and finally stopped when he got the hint.