“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.
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.
I’ll write her back tonight, first chance I get.
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.”