P.S. I Hate You

“Whatevs. Be lame like that.” Melrose gives me a thumbs’ down before standing. “Anyway, about damn time he wrote you a letter. I was beginning to think he was just telling you what you wanted to hear.”

“He deserves the benefit of the doubt,” I tell her.

Ever since I wrongfully assumed he was casting me off the day his mother was sick, I’ve felt horrible. From what I can tell, Isaiah seems to be a man of his word, and until I have verifiable proof that he isn’t, I’ve promised myself to give him the full benefit of the doubt.

“Plus, it takes weeks for these letters to go back and forth,” I say. “They’re routed to army post offices and then sorted and it’s this whole process.”

“I don’t get why you two just didn’t exchange email addresses. Instant gratification is the way of the world. Join us.”

“When was the last time you got something in the mail that wasn’t a bill or a flyer for a pizza place or a box of beauty product samples?” I ask. “This might be the only time in my life I’ll be able to get actual letters from an actual person. Anyway, he suggested the email thing, but I thought it might be nice for him to have something tangible too.”

“How romantic.”

I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing romantic about a couple of friends exchanging letters. Stop trying to make it into something it’s not.”

“But you like him.”

“Right. He’s a nice person.”

She laughs. “No, you like him.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be? An audition or an acting class or something?”

“That’s cool, that’s cool.” Melrose ambles to the doorway, her socks gliding on the carpet as she wears a smirk on her face. “I can take a hint. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Close the door behind you,” I say.

She makes a weird face but obliges anyway, and as soon as she’s gone, I read the letter twice more and tuck it into the vintage jewelry box on top of my dresser before grabbing a notebook and a pen of my own.

Chapter Sixteen

Isaiah

“Corporal. You’ve got mail.” Private Sanchez slaps a letter on my desk before strutting away. The return address belongs to one Miss Maritza Claiborne of 57322 Laguna Siesta Drive in Brentwood, California, mailed almost a week to the date she would’ve received mine.

Giving the envelope a careful tear, I find a quiet corner and unfold her letter.

Corporal Torres,

My good sir, I received your letter on the eighteenth of May, year of our Lord two thousand eighteen. I’m pleased to hear you’re doing well and I entrust that your soldiers are in the best of hands.

Also, can we stop with the lame, formal letters? I’m just going to go ahead and nip them in the bud right now.

For the record, I’m simply Maritza.

You’re Isaiah.

And for the love of God, do not sign off with “regards” okay? Give me a “truly” or a “sincerely” but do not insult me with a “regards.”

Anyway, now that that’s out of the way, thanks for the letter. And for the record, I was only slightly worried about you. It’s not like I expected you to unpack your bags and get cracking on a letter your first night there. I know you’re working. I know you’re doing important things. But I do appreciate the mail. It was a nice treat.

Oh, and Melrose tried to read it (surprise, surprise), but I wouldn’t let her.

It’s none of her business and she thinks this letter writing stuff is dumb, so I refuse to let her be so much as slightly entertained by our exchanges.

So what do you do over there when you’re not working? Or are you always working? What kind of food do you eat? Do you have a favorite meal? What’s the weather like this time of year? (That’s such a Gloria Claiborne thing to ask, I’m sorry).

I’ve just been slinging pancakes and trying to nail down a new major to try. My father has to approve of it or else he won’t pay. That’s the agreement. It has to be a “useful” degree … whatever that means. I’m not really a business-minded person and I’m not into computers or coding. Blood makes me queasy so that’s a big “no” to any job in the medical field.

HALPP.

I’m twenty-four and I have no idea what I want to do with my life.

What does it feel like? Knowing exactly what you want to do with your life at such a young age? I envy people like you, the ones that have it all figured out.

All right. My hand is cramping up so I should probably go.

Always,

Maritza the Waitress

P. S. I hate you … just kidding.

P. P. S. I’d totally ship you a pancake—but only ONE—if I could.

With a smirk on my face, I fold her letter and tuck it inside my shirt for safekeeping.