I’ll write her back tonight, first chance I get.
Chapter Seventeen
Maritza
“Maritza, you ready?” Rachael calls from my living room, where she and Melrose are sharing a bottle of Riesling before we paint the town tonight.
“Just a second,” I yell back, tearing into a letter that arrived today. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but I’d been checking the mail every single day for the past two weeks waiting for his response.
Dear Maritza the Waitress,
It’s a good thing you’re cute because you’re sure as hell not as funny as you think you are. And did you seriously ask me about the weather? Have you ever heard of this thing called Google? You should try it sometime.
And glad you were only slightly worried about me, though you should do yourself a favor and not worry about me at all. My mother does enough of that for all of us.
Anyway, to answer your question, I didn’t so much as know what I wanted to do as I knew what I needed to do. There’s a difference there.
You should listen to your father. Sounds like he’s got a good head on his shoulders. I’d tell my kid—if I had one—to do the same thing, especially if I was footing the bill.
Glad you’re keeping busy with work but hope you’re making time for the important stuff like touring wax museums and tar pits.
Off to shove my face full of shit food and play cards for the hundredth time this week.
Sincerely,
Corporal Torres
P.S. I hate you too.
P.P.S. But only because your letter didn’t come with the pancake I’d requested.
I fold his letter and tuck it away inside my jewelry box before spritzing a cloud of perfume into the space in front of me and walking through it—an old trick Gram taught me back in the day.
Giving myself one last look in my full-length mirror, I smooth my hands down the black, strapless Herve Leger bandage dress I “borrowed” from my mom’s closet before they moved to New York and then step into a set of killer Jimmy Choos—also “borrowed.”
I don’t get the chance to dress up that much these days so when I do, I tend to go all out. Plus, Melrose picked the club tonight and she’s got Cristal taste, which means we’re not going to some dive bar in South-Central.
“About damn time.” Melrose takes a giant gulp of her white wine when she sees me. “Look at you, little mama. God, I wish I had your legs. It’s so not fair. Those should have been mine.”
Rachael’s eyes move between us and her wine glass is as frozen as her expression.
“My mom dated her dad before she married my dad,” I explain, waving my hands around as I talk. “My mom is super tall.”
“I bet the wedding was super awkward.” Rachael winces.
“That’s what we’ve been told,” I say. “Apparently Melrose’s dad almost no-showed and he had the ring. They made up though. He actually ended up hooking up with one of Mom’s bridesmaids that night … and that was Mel’s mom. Everyone got a happy ending.”
“We’re meeting some of my girls at Willow House in an hour,” Melrose changes the subject, tossing back the rest of her drink before setting it aside and gathering her phone, keys, and the satin Chanel clutch she claimed was a thank you gift from a producer last year.
“Which girls? Have I met them?” I ask.
Melrose shrugs, like she doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. I’ve never seen someone make so many friends she can’t keep them straight. I tried looking someone up in her phone once and counted at least six “Taylors,” eight “Joshes,” and twelve “Megans,” each of them with descriptions like, “Taylor BLUE HAIR CHATTY” and “Josh DIRTY CONVERSE BAD KISSER” and “Megan CRAZY DO NOT ANSWER.” There must be at least eight hundred people in there, if not more.
“Come on girls,” my cousin glances at her phone screen as she ushers us out the door. “Ride’s here.”
Professionally DJ’d music pumps.
Top shelf liquor flows.
Gorgeous people surround us.
And yet, I’d rather be anywhere but here.
Not that I’m not having a good time—Rachael is always a blast and Melrose has the most outlandish and eclectic group of “friends” providing ample entertainment. One of them is a Swedish pop star who came to America to try to “make it big.” Another is the heiress to a Spanish oil fortune. The tall brunette in the corner is from some reality show that was really popular a few years ago. And the redhead beside me has been fighting with her boyfriend on the phone all night and airing allllll his dirty laundry in the process—which I’m pretty sure she’s going to live to regret in the morning when they get back together.
But while I’m physically here, mentally I can’t stop thinking about Isaiah. What he’s doing. If he’s comfortable. If he’s happy. If he’s having a good time. I can’t imagine there’s much for them to do in Afghanistan on a Saturday night.