I meant what I said in my last letter—I miss him.
And in a non-romantic way.
The time we spent together before he left, however short it was, meant something to me, even if I don’t exactly know what that is. All I know is I enjoy my time with him. And I hope I get to see him again. Soon.
* * *
Maritza the Waitress,
I’m not sure where you get the idea that I have “free time” over here, but I’d like to set that record straight. I work twelve-hour days six, sometimes seven days a week. When I’m not working, I’m doing laundry, shining my shoes, eating, or sleeping. We fit the occasional game of cards here or there but mostly we’re working.
And let me get this straight, some hot guy hit on you and you “suffered” through small talk with him? Either you’re lying to make me feel better or you’re trying to make me jealous, both of which would be a huge waste of time because you’re not my girlfriend.
I know you know that.
Just wanted to remind you.
So please, I hope you’re having fun and not holding back because you’re waiting for some jackass soldier to come home. And I hope you got that German dude’s number because you sound kind of tense and you need to get laid.
Oh, and stop putting so much pressure on yourself to pick a major. It’s not like you’re making some life or death decision. What kinds of things are you interested in? What lights your fire?
Back to work.
Sincerely,
Corporal Torres
P.S. I hate you
P.P.S. Don’t say that you miss me. Shit like that are nothing but land mines. Dangerous territory. If you’re looking for a reaction from me, send me a pic of your tits but for the love of God, don’t say you miss me. That wasn’t part of the agreement.
* * *
Folding his letter, I roll my eyes and grab a pen, my hand twitching to get the thoughts in my head onto paper before they scatter like fall leaves to the wind.
Twenty
Isaiah
* * *
Dear Corporal Torres,
Just got your letter …
If you only knew how badly I want to throw ice water in your face right now …
If my handwriting is a little hard to decipher it’s only because I’m so angry with you right now I’m shaking. The fact that even from thousands of miles away you feel the need to make it crystal clear that you don’t want to date me does nothing short of infuriate me. It doesn’t matter how much I told you the feeling was mutual, it’s like you’re convinced I’m lying.
I’m not one of those girls who play mind games, who pretend they want nothing and tell you what they think you want to hear to keep you around.
I say what I mean.
Always.
And we had a no-bullshit agreement that I take very seriously.
I’ll tell you this one last time: I don’t want to date you either.
Which leads me to my next order of business: we are friends.
I know you don’t want to believe it, but we are. We’re friends. Say it out loud: Maritza Claiborne and Isaiah Torres are friends.
And because we’re friends that means I’m allowed to miss you and I’m allowed to tell you that I miss you. So stop being this tough, cold, callous distant man because that shtick might work on every other girl you’ve ever met, but it won’t work on me.
Embrace the fact that I miss you, Isaiah, because it isn’t going to change. In fact, it seems to be getting worse with each passing day if I’m being honest.
You’re cool as shit and you’re fun and I feel like we’re on the same page with a lot of things. I’m fascinated by you and sometimes annoyed by you and other times turned on by you but at the end of the day, I fucking love that you’re in my life.
I hope you feel the same and that someday, you might be able to actually admit it.
Best Friends Forever,
Maritza the Waitress
P.S. I hate you.
* * *
I read her letter twice before tucking it into my pocket and pulling in a hard breath. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me to think about some smooth German dude hitting on her and buying her drinks—and I hated that it bothered me.
Hated.
So I overcompensated.
“Corporal, you got a package.” Private Johnston places a large brown box on my desk. This marks the first time in my entire military career that anyone has sent me anything more than a letter or card. Before he struts off, I examine the return address.
Maritza.
Grabbing a box cutter, I slice through the packing tape and feast my eyes on package after package of Pringles, Starbursts, and peanut butter M&Ms.
I smirk, unable to help myself.
She remembered our conversation that night we went to the Griffith Observatory.
A note written in purple pen on a small piece of lined stationery reads:
Isaiah,
Let me know if there’s anything else you want (besides pancakes—not happening, dude). I’ll do my best to accommodate any (reasonable) requests. Also, I’ve placed a few goodies at the bottom of the box for fun.
Maritza
P.S. I hate you.
P.P.S. But I don’t want you to starve or be bored while you’re over there doing brave and scary things.
* * *
Digging through the colorful, junk food loot, I come across what resembles a summer camp care package. She appears to have tossed in a pack of UNO cards, a triple pack of her signature strawberry mint shea butter lip balm, two expensive-looking bottles of body wash that smell like a million fucking bucks, sunscreen, half a dozen bottles of Frank’s Red Hot, a jumbo pack of individually wrapped beef jerky in various flavors, a few men’s health and fitness magazines, and an assortment of James Patterson and Clive Cussler paperbacks.
“Hey, look at you. Finally got a package.” Private Conroy stops into my doorway, leaning against the jamb, hands in his pockets. “And look at that smile on your face. Your girlfriend send that to you or your mom?”
I close the flap on the box. “Neither.”
If she were here right now, I’d tell her that yes…
… there is such a thing as being too nice.
Twenty-One
Maritza
* * *
Maritza,
Thank you for the package that you didn’t have to send. Let me remind you that we agreed to letters and letters only.
And yes, there is such a thing as being too nice.
Anyway, I won’t be able to write for a while. I’ll be headed to the Syrian border after today. Not sure how long I’ll be away.
Take care,
Isaiah
* * *
I stuff his letter back into the envelope, smile fading and hot tears welling in my eyes, and check the date. He sent this two weeks ago. Every part of me knows I shouldn’t read into this letter but it’s just … different. There was no “Maritza the Waitress,” no playful “P.S. I hate you” at the end. And he signed off with a cold “take care.”
Biting my lip, I place the letter aside and sink back into my bed, dragging my palms along my floral velvet duvet.