Sincerely, Yours

by G. , Whitney

  “Rachel …” He sighed and reached for my hand. “Rachel, stop. Let me drive you.”

  “Don’t touch me.” I jerked my hand back. “Go celebrate your new life, the one I’m clearly not that big a part of, since I’ve only been dating you a couple months.”

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about.” He gritted his teeth. “Just because I do something you don’t like, you decide to walk away.”

  “You’ve done a lot of things that I don’t like, Ethan,” I said, handing him the umbrella as the rain fell down harder. “Some of them were even at my own expense, but they were always genuine, and they always made some type of sense.”

  “This decision also makes perfect sense.” He handed the umbrella back to me. “And the only person who’s questioning where we stand after it, is you.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll be around whenever you want to talk about this like an adult. Maybe in a few days when we’ve both calmed down?”

  “Sure,” I said. “We can talk about it when you get back from your pre-campus visit in New York.” I stepped back and hailed a cab. “I’m not returning to your celebration party.”

  “You wouldn’t be the Rachel I know if you did.”

  Track 25. Look What You Made Me Do (0:20)

  Rachel

  Subject: Re: My options.

  Mr. Hinton,

  I apologize for making you waste your time last week when you helped me select my next three semesters of classes for this campus.

  I’ve changed my mind.

  I would like to pursue option two, and I would like to board the winter repositioning voyage that leaves in a couple of weeks.

  Thank you,

  Rachel

  Back Then: 18 Years Old

  Ethan

  Subject: That Goddamn Sign

  Dear Ethan,

  For the record, the only reason I’m the salutatorian and you’re the valedictorian is because you made better grades than me in English. One class. That’s it. So, can you please erase that “I’m fucking better than you, Rachel” message off your whiteboard now? I’m giving you one more day, and then I’m throwing a rock through your window.

  Also, I may need a ride back from graduation, if my dad tries to make me get in the car with Stella (What a bitch!) and I’ll pay you with four extra cups of that disgusting hot chocolate that you love to drink.

  Oh, and (truce moment) four guys have asked me out over the past week and all four have stood me up at the very last minute with bullshit excuses. I have a date with Taylor Jones at Waterstones Café tonight and I’m really hoping that nothing is wrong with me … (Is something wrong with me?)

  One day to remove that sign.

  Forget You,

  Rachel

  Subject: Re: That Goddamn Sign

  Dear Rachel,

  There are several reasons that I’m the valedictorian, but for brevity purposes, the main one is: I’m fucking better than you. From the way you normally throw rocks at my window (and miss), I’m willing to take my chances and leave my sign up.

  Sounds like you need a bus pass for after graduation, but if it comes down to that, you can sit in my backseat as one of my real friends—Brody will be sitting in the front. (I still can’t believe Stella got with your Dad so soon …) I’ll hold you to that hot chocolate promise.

  Truce moment: Outside of the fact that you’re the worst person I know, nothing is wrong with you. It’s break-up and pre-college season, so I think everyone is trying to have as much sex as possible. Those guys probably stood you up to fuck someone else. (Full Disclosure: I did the same thing to Emilia a few nights ago, remember?)

  The sign stays.

  Forget You,

  Ethan

  I pulled up to Waterstones Café later that night with a lump of guilt in my throat. Still, I wasn’t going to let it distract me from the fact that I needed to get to Rachel’s date before she did and ensure that he never made it to dinner.

  Unknown to her, the red dress she wore to her prom made her the talk of the locker room. Even though I could admit that she looked good that night, I wasn’t saying the type of things every other guy at our school was saying. (Especially since she’d gone back to wearing her oversized T-shirts and sweatpants in the days since.)

  “Who knew Rachel Dawson was so fucking sexy?” “I need to hit that before graduation.” “I’d love to slap her ass while letting her ride me.”

  That same night, a group of seniors—one from each sporting team, started a bet to see who could fuck her in the shortest amount of time. Their plan was simple and disgusting: Each guy flirts with her at some point after school this week, “before she gets into Ethan Wyatt’s car,” and exchange phone numbers. Each guy picks two days out of the week to send text messages and show her attention before asking her on a date. While on the date, flatter her for as long as it takes for you to fuck her. No rules on that. First guy to fuck her wins. Bonus points if you get pictures.

  I wasn’t supposed to know about the plan at all, but once Rachel started telling me that she’d been asked out on multiple dates in a row (by guys I knew were no good for her), I knew something was up.

  I’d beat the hell out of the first guy after following him to his house after school. I told him to put an end to this bullshit, but he never got a chance to share my message, as he was still unable to speak.

  So, I had to take the rest in my own hands.

  I shredded the tires of the cars that belonged to the second and third guys, and they were far more concerned with getting new ones than getting to Rachel. The fourth guy cancelled his date hours before, and I was happy that tonight was the last guy in the group, and the last time I had to do this.

  I suddenly spotted Taylor walking into Waterstones and got out of my car. I walked inside the café and followed him into the restroom. As he was approaching the stalls, I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Um, yeah?” he asked.

  “Are you here for a date with Rachel Dawson?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “Why?”

  I looked him over, realizing that he was too big of a match for me to take by myself, and I knew the only way out of this was to talk shit.

  “Well, you should know that um—” I held back a sigh. “Sex with her isn’t worth your time.”

  “Who said anything about sex with her?”

  I gave him a blank stare, and he laughed.

  “Okay, okay, Ethan.” He held up his hands. “Why isn’t she worth my time?”

  “Because one, rumor has it that she’s been with half the football team at Central High. Two, a few of those guys got crabs within days of me dropping her off at their place and they texted me about it. Three, she threatened to lie on the last guy she willingly slept with the other day when he wouldn’t buy her dinner after sex, so I just don’t want you or anyone at our school to get caught up in any of her games.”

  “Whoa. I completely misread her.” He let out a breath and shook his head. “Thanks, Ethan. You would know, since you live next door to her, huh? I appreciate the heads-up. You know, I was wondering why none of my friends had—” He cleared his throat. “Never-mind. I appreciate it.”

  He left the restroom, and I leaned against a stall door—grateful that this was finally over.

  The door to the stall next to me opened and Rachel stepped out.

  Dressed in jeans and an oversized tank top, she stepped in front of me and shook her head. “The um …” She paused, her face red and tearstained. “The women’s restroom had a super long line and I couldn’t wait, so I figured I’d come here. I’m not sure whether I should be happy or upset that I did.”

  I sighed. “Rachel—”

  “You’re the reason why all my dates haven’t shown up?” She looked at me. “Like, that’s why you’ve insisted on getting their names and the restaurants we’re supposed to go to? All of that so you can prevent them from talking to me?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Why would
you do this to me?” She cried, wiping tears from her eyes. “Like, how could you say all those things about me? Those lies?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s exactly what I think.” She pushed me. “You really do get joy out of making me miserable. I thought we had a truce for the rest of this year?”

  “Rachel …” I realized that she probably should know about the bet. “Listen. There’s a perfectly good reason for this, I didn’t want you to get hurt so—”

  “Fuck you, Ethan.” She shoved me again. “You know what? Now you can live up to your whole ‘Forget You’ bullshit because I can guarantee you that today is the last day I will ever talk to you. I don’t care if we go to the same college either. I won’t say shit else to you.”

  “I just did you a huge favor.” My blood began to boil. “Like, you don’t even know how grateful you should be.”

  “The only thing I know is that you’re an asshole and you’ve done nothing but try to hurt me since the day we met. As a matter of fact—”

  “If today is the last day you’re going to talk to me, can you start that shit now?” I interrupted her, glaring. “I don’t see a point in waiting.”

  “I need to say my final words first.”

  “You really don’t.”

  She sucked in a breath and spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable. “I hate you, Ethan Wyatt. I fucking hate you and I have since we had the misfortune of meeting. And I swear on my life that this is the last day we’ll ever speak.”

  “I’m fucking counting on it.”

  Track 26. Welcome to New York (3:04)

  Ethan

  Me: Can we talk? I want to make sure we’re on good terms before my program starts.

  Me: Rachel, please. I think we both said things we didn’t mean.

  Me: Can you at least text me back so I can know that you’ve read my messages?

  I refreshed my inbox for the umpteenth time, hoping for an answer from Rachel, but there was nothing. Ever since she left me at Gayle’s that night, she’d kept the door to her room shut, and ignored all my messages. The few times that we crossed paths in the kitchen, she barely looked at me, and when I tried to join her in the hot tub, she immediately stepped out and went to her room.

  “Mr. Wyatt?” The tour guide’s voice made me look up from my phone.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re approaching Times Square, so you may want to snap a few pictures.” He smiled from the front seat of the executive car. “This is probably the only time you’ll be able to appreciate it before you start the program. You’ll be far too busy with work then. Trust me.”

  I sighed and held up my phone, snapping multiple pictures of the flashy, glittering billboards. I sent them all to Rachel, hoping this would get her attention, but it didn’t.

  “Our next stop on our private pre-campus tour is going to be Wall Street,” the tour guide said. “We’ll see plenty of amazing things along the way, but you’ll get to see why people who come here never want to leave.”

  I wanted to leave as soon as I landed.

  Track 27. All You Had To Do Was Stay (4:10)

  Ethan

  One week later

  The moment I returned from New York, I drove to Super Suds to see if Rachel was spending the night there. When I didn’t see her, I headed home and poured two glasses of her favorite wine.

  Carrying them to her bedroom, I knocked on her door. “Rachel, I’m back from New York. Can we please talk?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Rachel, can you please open your door, so I can apologize for everything I said?”

  I waited five minutes. “Okay, I’m coming in …”

  I twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. I dropped the wine glasses to the floor as I realized that all of her things were gone. Everything looked exactly how it did before she moved in and she’d left a single pink post-it on her bed.

  Forget You, Ethan.

  (For Real This Time, Forever This Time),

  Rachel

  At Sea: First Week Gone

  Rachel

  Dear Penelope,

  Hey! I’m hoping we can be pen pals while I’m away this time instead of Ethan, since we broke up ... (I’ll try to keep my letters shorter than usual, so you (and Greg ) won’t be overwhelmed by my long-winded-ness.)

  They’ve remodeled the ship so it looks far more modern, and I think they must’ve gotten a few complaints about only having one coffee shop onboard because we now have three.

  To my surprise, I’ve hung out with the same group of girls every night for the past week, and I enjoy their company. A few guys have hit on me, but I don’t think I’m ready to date just yet. (I don’t think I’ll be ready for a long time after Ethan … Do you think I was right to leave and be done with him?)

  Write back and tell me what’s going on back at SBU soon.

  With love & sails,

  Rachel

  At Sea: Three Weeks Gone

  Rachel

  Dear Penelope,

  Hey there, again! I’m sure you’re still working on your first letter, but I wanted to let you know that today the ship sailed through waters that were full of dolphins. (You told me you loved dolphins, right?) I printed a few pictures from my camera and am including them in this letter.

  Even if you just send a postcard, write back and tell me about what’s going on back at SBU soon.

  With love & sails,

  Rachel

  Dear Penelope,

  (Had to write you two letters in the same week—I won’t mind getting two back from you in return .)

  OMG! This is the first time, in a long time, that I can honestly say that I’m enjoying my time being on Semester at Sea! Perhaps I was sailing with all the wrong people before, but now I’m finally making friends and having the time of my life. (Or wait … maybe it’s because everyone is a senior and they’re allowing us to get more than a couple of drinks every night at the bar?)

  With love & sails (& please write back),

  Rachel

  At Sea: Six Weeks Gone

  Rachel

  Dear Penelope,

  Please write me back …

  Rachel

  Track 28. I Almost Do (3:11)

  Rachel

  Eight weeks aboard the ship

  I sealed another letter for Penelope, vowing not to send another unless she finally sent me one in return. Even though I’d embellished a bit of the fun I was having, this was my best experience on the ship so far, and I wanted to tell someone—anyone about it.

  Just not Ethan.

  I’d gotten so desperate for correspondence, that I’d pulled out an old “Low Clearance Prisoners Who Want Pen Pals” list and considered several new writing relationships. I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it, though. Not yet, anyway.

  Carrying Penelope’s letter to the mailroom, I slid it into the outgoing box. I checked my personal mail box and saw a new “Hope you’re sailing well!” postcard from my Dad and forty-four unopened letters from Ethan.

  He’s sent five new ones since my last port …

  Too hurt to open them, I left them there and only took out my Dad’s postcard.

  “Miss Dawson?” The mailroom attendant called my name, making me spin around.

  “Yes?”

  “A package was sent to you at the last port from your father,” she said, setting a pink box on the counter. “Want to sign for it and take it to your room, or do you want to save it until the next port?”

  “Now would be perfect.” I smiled and signed the receiving papers, rushing back to my room to open it. My father had just sent me a care package full of sweets, beach pictures, and much-needed toiletries, so I wasn’t sure what else he would send so soon.

  He usually does one package every two months.

  Tearing open the box, I smiled at the pink envelope that was on top and addressed to me in typed blue print.

  My smile faded as I noticed that the letter inside was wri
tten in a curvy handwriting I knew all too well.

  Despite my pain, butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and before I could come to my senses and toss it away, I was reading the words.

  Dear Rachel,

  I can’t believe that I have to send a package under your dad’s name to get you to open it. (I know you opened this.) I’ve sent you numerous letters with no response, and I can’t take it anymore.

  How are you? Did they make any updates to the ship? What about the café? Is there still only one place to get coffee, or did they at least add another coffee station somewhere?

  How about your classes? Are any of them more fun this time around?

  I’m including a second letter about what’s going on with me in this box (A letter I’m sure you’ll put off reading for a while, but it’s there …), and I really wish you would write me back soon.

  (I’ll Never) Forget You,

  Ethan

  P.S.—Just in case you’re itching to write someone, don’t use your list of low clearance prisoners. On the back of this letter, you’ll find a list of other artists in New York who literally thrive off receiving and writing letters.

  P.P.S.—I miss you.

  I reread his words and wiped away a few tears. Setting aside the envelope, I pulled all the white tissue paper out of the box and saw the other personal letter he’d written, along with a post-it note.