Dear Killian (Love Letters 1)

Prologue

Jersey

“Miss Gunner?” The middle-aged assistant my father had hired on the Navy base finally called me forward. He called me down here this morning and yet I’ve had to wait more than an hour to see him.

“Jersey!” His voice booms as I enter his office. Military paraphernalia covering every surface, the American flag standing tall and proud in the corner.

“What’s up General?” I can’t remember ever calling him dad, it was always by his title.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” he seemed hesitant to ask, which in turn has me worried.

“Okay.”

“You know of the adopt a soldier program right?” I nod. “Morale is down in some soldiers with no one back home, I’d like if you and maybe a friend or two could write to a few soldiers. Let them know they’re not alone.”

“Pen pals?” I ask after his explanation.

“Yes.”

It’s the oddest request he’s ever asked of me, but writing a letter a few times a month won’t hurt anyone. Especially if it helps a man get through his tour.

“Sure General, I’ll let some of the other teachers at school know about it too.” He smiles in triumph.

“Wonderful Jersey, the men will appreciate it. I’ve got a list of names from this base I’d like you to start with.”

My brows furrow, wasn’t it supposed to be anonymous or something? He hands me the file, and I leave feeling so much more confused than I’ve ever been after a surprise meeting with him.

The drive home from Fort Meade to Odenton is short and quiet as I ponder his odd request and who I could possibly get to write letters to strangers.

I only graduated college with a Bachelors in Child Education in the spring, and with it not even being fall I hadn’t made too many friends at the school I was lucky enough to land a full-time position at since graduation.

The women I work with are either married or older in years. I’m not sure any of them would be interested in doing this.

Parking in the drive of my small house, as I gather all my things from class, papers that had to be graded mostly, and the home projects I’d had the students do, a thought strikes me.

I could have the children write letters too. That way no soldier was forgotten. With that thought in mind I practically skip to my front door.

As soon as it’s open, I drop everything on the side table and slam it shut behind me. Prancing to the table I slap the folder my father gave me on top, remove my coat, kick my shoes off and dive in.

I’m given ranks, base name, station country, ages, gender, and a few small details. I’m disappointed there’s no names.

Getting my grade three kids to connect with people is hard enough, having no names was going to be difficult to say the least.

“I guess I’ll start on my own,” I mutter, biting down on the pen in my hand.

Sifting through the pages I finally close my eyes, spin my hand in circles and grab one.

Gripping it in my hands, I slowly open my eyes and read the information aloud, “Male, Captain of his platoon, from Trenton, New Jersey,” my snort is very unladylike, “go figure. Thirty-seven years old, and no station command. Interesting man you must be Captain.”

Uttering to myself I begin writing my first letter.

Chapter One

Killian

“Mail!” Gunnery Sergeant Wilkes calls as he enters our tent in the middle of no-fucking-where. I don’t bother looking up because I don’t get mail unless it’s from the Navy.

Since they handed me my informal discharge papers last month I’m not expecting anything.

“Captain, there’s a letter here for you,” Wilkes calls, forcing me to look up from the piles of reports I need to finish before our platoon goes on patrol at sun down.

“Thanks Gunny,” I say as he hands it to me.

I flip it side over side, pondering its contents. Wondering if it’s addressed to the wrong person. Finally looking at the addressing on the front, I see my roll-call number and I know immediately it’s a pity letter.

I know some guys like being part of the no soldier forgotten program, I personally don’t. It’s a painful reminder that I have no one waiting. I’ve gotten dozens of letters over the years and I’ve tossed them all.

Just as I’m about to toss this one, I stop. Would it hurt to open it? I’m going home soon, the return address is from Maryland, maybe it’s someone I could connect to once I’m back stateside.

“Shit,” I groan opening the damn thing.

I inspect the paper before I read the words. Pink, frilly, smells nice, and the writing is insanely neat.

Smiling, I begin to read.

Captain,

Hey, hi, umm, so maybe I should have thought this through a bit more or something since I’m obviously unsure of what the heck to write.

Crap.

Well here goes I guess.

I was asked to write a letter, get a few friends to write some letters, yadda yadda. Honestly, it feels like a blind date. You know the kind, you don’t really want to go on it but for some stupi

d reason you do, and before you know it your trapped in some weird thing when really you just want a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and to binge on Netflix?

Wow, that sounds so selfish and bad. I wish I could say I don’t mean that but I’d be lying and I SUCK at lying.

My dad asked me to do this, and then I thought hey! I could make it a class assignment (I’m a teacher) but third graders are weird creatures and barely connect with each other. How am I going to get them interested in talking to someone they don’t even know? Yanno?

Unlikely.

Anyways, I apologize for every word written above. I’m socially awkward and why I thought this was a good idea I’ll never know, but I’ve started so why not finish?

If you don’t write back, I don’t blame you (I mean that) if you choose to, I look forward to it and I’ll try to be less weird, but I make no promises.