“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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, surpri
se), 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.
“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.
“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 politenes
s, 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.
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.
[2018] PS I Hate You Page 13