“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.
“Why are you so quiet tonight?” Melrose moves her redheaded friend out of the way and squeezes between us. “You have cramps?”
I almost spit my drink out. “No, I don’t have cramps.”
“You’ve had, like, four drinks,” she says, glancing at me with unfocused eyes. “You should be dancing on the table by now.”
“When have I ever danced on a table?” I pride myself on being a good time girl, but certain things just aren’t my style.
“Figuratively,” she says, trying not to slur.
“I think this is only my second anyway,” I say, lifting my martini.
“Okay, don’t look now, but there’s a guy standing at the bar in a navy-blue suit with a blue gingham tie and he’s been staring at you for the past hour,” she says, leaning close.
I don’t look because it doesn’t matter. I’m not looking to be picked up tonight. I’m not looking for a one-night stand. I just wanted to have a good time with my girls.
“Oh, my God. He’s coming over here,” Melrose flaps her hands, making it overly obvious that we’re talking about him. I know he’s arrived when she crosses her legs and bats her lashes and cups her hand under her chin. “Hi, stranger.”
I turn to face him, eyes locking with a set of the bluest irises I’ve ever seen, tawny skin, and sandy, too-cool-to-care hair that makes some kind of casually defiant statement against his impeccable Tom Ford suit.
The man ignores my cousin. He ignores all the girls at our table. He’s completely and unapologetically fixated on me.
“I’m Ansel,” he says, lifting a tumbler of amber-colored liquor to his Cheshire grin. “My apologies for staring at you all night. I have a weakness for beautiful women.”
Out of politeness, I don’t roll my eyes.
Plus, Ansel doesn’t seem greasy or skeevy. There’s an air of class about him and his apology seems genuine from what I can tell.
“Do you mind if I ask your name?” He hasn’t looked away from me yet. Not once. And I detect some kind of non-American accent, though I can’t quite place it. German, maybe?
“Maritza,” I say.
“That’s a very beautiful name,” he says. “Would it be all right if I bought you a drink?”
I hesitate, looking for a way to turn him down without hurting his feelings.
He’s exotic and gorgeous and polite and I’m sure it took a lot for him to come over and introduce himself in a society where most people hide behind their dating apps, but when I look at him … I feel … nothing.
Melrose nudges me in the ribs and Ansel chuckles.
It’s just a drink, I guess.
“Yeah. Sure,” I say. “That’d be nice.”
Ansel’s mouth pulls wide and he extends his hand, helping me up. Everything about him is formal, his mannerisms, his way of speaking, the way he walks beside me as if we’re Prince Harry and Meghan Markle.
But at the end of the day, beautiful Ansel is beautifully boring.
And I can’t ignore the fact that for some completely insane reason, I wish it were Isaiah buying me this drink.
Eighteen
Isaiah
* * *
Dear Corporal Torres,
I was thinking a lot about what you do for fun over there. Do you have much downtime? What do you do to kill the time? I imagine the days and nights get pretty long sometimes. How do you distract yourself?
I’ve been thinking about what you said about picking a practical major and I know you’re right. I know my dad is right. I guess I’m just torn between following my head or my heart and I’ve been dragging my feet for so long that I feel I’m running out of time to decide. I suppose no one ever says you HAVE to have a college degree by a set age, but I’d personally like to have my shit figured out before I turn thirty. I don’t want to be that friend still floundering around not knowing what to do with herself and serving pancakes because she’s spent her twenties too afraid to make a fucking decision.
Anyway, I’m just rambling at this point. Sorry.
Melrose dragged Rachael and I out last weekend to this fancy bar where drinks were thirty dollars. Some really hot German guy hit on me and I suffered through an hour of small talk because he offered to buy me a drink.
I need to get better at saying no.
In a world filled with self-centered assholes, is there such a thing as being too nice? I like to think I’m cancelling out some bad with some good but maybe my logic is off.
Wait. Don’t answer that. I already know what you’re going to say.
All right. Time to get ready for work.
Yours,
Maritza the Waitress
P.S. I hate you … in case you’ve forgotten.
P.P.S. Believe it or not I miss you but in the most NON-ROMANTIC way humanly possible.
Nineteen
Maritza
* * *
The ache in my feet from working a double dissipates the second I find his letter mixed in with a stack of junk mail on the kitchen counter. I imagine if I were to see myself right now, I’d find a dopey grin on my face, but I don’t care. All that matters is I can’t tear into this thing fast enough.