And then he tried to kiss me after all of that.
I turned and gave him my cheek like a proper girl would do in one of those black and white movies Gram is always watching. He smiled, pushing his thick-framed glasses up his nose, slightly embarrassed. And then he made a comment about how this felt like an awkward scene in some Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy.
The fact that he’s still interested in me years later blows my mind and proves how out of touch he is with reality. And why wouldn’t he be? He lives and breathes movies and things that simply aren’t real.
I prefer real.
Real is flawed men with complicated personalities who do brave things like fight wars.
War is real.
The newest Darren Aronofsky film? Not real.
Afghanistan? Real as fuck.
Finishing breakfast, I kiss Gram goodbye for now and give Constance a wave before heading back to the guesthouse to grab my keys and apron and hit the road before I get stuck in traffic.
Forty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot and hang my permit from my rear-view mirror. Heading inside, I punch in and tie my apron around my hips. The scent of cinnamon pancakes and fried bacon fills my lungs and the sound of dishes clinking and cooks shouting and patrons conversing all blurs into the background.
Everything is gray.
And I feel his absence already.
I feel it in my bones, in the hollow of my chest. The twist of my stomach, the ache in the deepest part of me. The void of his touch on my skin, the nonexistent comfort of his low whispers in my ear.
I miss him.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Fourteen
Isaiah
* * *
“Hey, Corp. Look at this.” One of my guys flags me down, pulling up a picture from his email.
“What’s this?” I ask, hunched over him.
“She’s seven weeks,” he says, beaming from ear to ear. Private Nathaniel Jansson is young, fresh faced, and the kind of guy who works hard and does what he’s told without giving any flack, but he’s naïve as hell.
He’s me about ten years ago.
“Congrats.” I give his shoulder a squeeze, glancing at his ring finger. He’s babyfaced and unmarried and I’ve seen this song and dance before. Woman find themselves a man in uniform, get knocked up because they want a baby or someone to support them, and once they get hitched, they’re golden, only playing the part of a doting, loving spouse between deployments. When their man is gone? All bets are off.
Not all women are like that, of course, but I’m pretty sure a guy like Jansson is ripe, low-hanging fruit for a woman looking for the perfect opportunity.
“I should be home in time to see my kid being born,” he says with a dopey, delirious smile. “How perfect is that?”
“Everything happens for a reason.” I offer him the kindest words I can muster before heading back to my desk, an empty pad of paper catching my eye.
We’ve been here all of two weeks now, and I’ve sat down a dozen times and tried to write Maritza a letter worth receiving, but so far every single one of them have landed in the circular file.
I’ve never written letters to anyone before.
I don’t even know what to say.
Or if she’ll even be able to read my handwriting.
And it’s not like I can share what we’re doing here. Everything is classified. And even if it weren’t, she wouldn’t understand half of what I’m talking about or it’d bore her to death.
Glancing over my shoulder, I make sure no one’s watching and I grab a pen, trying again.
She’s probably wondering why I haven’t sent her anything and with mail taking a good week or two to be delivered, it could be next month before she gets anything. I tried to get her to exchange emails, telling her it’d be quicker that way, more convenient and efficient, but she wanted paper letters.
She said emails weren’t the same, that she wanted something she could hold in her hands.
Pressing my pen against the paper, I try for the thirteenth time, first scribbling the date, then her name and some generic bullshit line that sounds way too formal.
Ripping the paper off the pad, I crinkle it in my hands.
Fourteenth time’s going to have to be a charm.
I have work to do and I can’t sit here penning letters like some teenage girl lying on her bed listening to the latest Ed Sheeran album.
Putting ink to paper, I manage to come up with a letter that doesn’t actually suck, and when I finish, I fold it into thirds and slide it into an envelope, ignoring the fact that my heart is racing a little bit more than it should.
I tell myself she means nothing, that this stupid letter exchanging thing means nothing, and then I get back to work.
Fifteen
Maritza
* * *
“There’s some weird letter on the table for you,” Melrose says when I get back from work. “It’s got foreign-looking stamps on it or something.”
My breath catches and the ache in my feet from running around for the last eight hours suddenly subsides. He left three weeks ago. And while I didn’t expect to hear from him immediately for rational and logistical reasons, I didn’t think it’d take nearly this long.
Rifling through the stack of mail on the kitchen table, I find a yellow envelope with my name on it. The return address is an APO. Ripping the side of the envelope, I let his letter slide out, landing in the palm of my hand, and I head back to my room, spreading out on my bed as I unfold it.
* * *
Maritza,
I’m here. I made it.
Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s been busy around here, but mostly I’ve been settling in, prepping for missions, and keeping my guys from getting out of line.
I wish I had something more exciting to share with you, but there’s nothing exciting about where I am. It’s hot and dry and sometimes it’s too loud and other times it’s too quiet.
Anyway, I told you I suck at writing letters.
Hope you’re doing well back home.
Regards,
Corporal Isaiah Torres
P.S. Send pancakes.
“He finally wrote you?” I glance up to find Melrose leaning in my doorway, arms crossed and a mischievous smirk on her heart-shaped face. “What’d he say?”
She saunters to my bed, taking the spot beside me, and I clutch his letter to my chest.
“His letters are not your personal entertainment,” I tell her. Out of respect, I’m not going to share them with anyone. His letters are for me only, even if they’re boring or ridiculously formal.
“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.”