by Cat Johnson
Dear Ms. Winters.
He stifled the urge to roll his eyes at the obviously fake name he was being forced to use for this missive that his supposed friend had coerced him into writing in the first place.
I regret to inform you SPC Joshua Zipkin was wounded during a mission.
Sincerely,
SSG John Blake
There. That about covered it. Reading the email over one more time, he verified there were no typos and then hit send, relieved that particularly nasty duty was done.
In the meantime, he realized he needed to order himself some underwear and socks. At this rate, with the laundry service losing things as fast as he dropped them off at the quartermaster’s, he would be going commando. John was about to search for an online retailer that would ship to a military address when into his inbox popped the last thing he expected to see—a response from Summer Winters.
With a feeling of dread, he opened the email.
Oh my God. I knew something was wrong when I didn’t hear from him. Please, is there anything more you can tell me? Is he all right? He must be if he asked you to email me, right? But he must be very hurt if he could not email himself. Is he in the hospital? Did they send him back to Germany? I know how busy you are, but I am going crazy here. Please, please, please write back if you can.
Summer
John leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen. Hindsight was twenty-twenty. All his good intentions had done was manage to upset the girl. Now what?
Then John realized that his image of Summer Winters had suddenly changed in his mind yet again. She had gone from his first impression of little old lady do-gooder sex novelist to a concerned young woman. When had that happened? He glanced at the email again and decided it was because she sounded young when she wrote. Like a worried high school girl. Although he certainly hoped she was older than that considering what she wrote. She must be in her twenties.
But all this pondering didn’t solve the issue that he had to respond to her and fix what he had done. He hadn’t wanted to write her the first time. Now, because of his screw up, he had to write to her again.
Deciding the road to hell was paved with good intentions, he hit Reply and faced his penance.
Ms. Winters,
Jazzy was severely wounded when a vehicle-born IED exploded in his vicinity during a mission. His condition is stable. However, he remains hospitalized here in Iraq for the time being. You are correct in assuming he asked me to inform you of his injuries and as his superior officer, it was my duty.
I am truly sorry to deliver such news.
John read the last sentence and deleted it, deciding it made Jazzy sound dead rather than lying in a hospital bed cracking jokes and twisting his arm to make him do things he didn’t want to do. Instead, he added I am sure he will contact you when he is able.
Leaning back, John reconsidered that. He couldn’t write that to the girl. He wasn’t exactly sure Jazzy would hop out of bed and email Summer immediately. He did have a wife to catch up with. Hmm. Deleting that line also, he simply signed the letter John Blake and hit Send before he could think any more about it.
He found himself doing the strangest thing. He didn’t log off. Instead, he sat there and waited. John soon realized he was waiting for her response. He somehow knew with certainty it would come. Somewhere in the United States, nearly halfway around the world from where he sat, this woman was at this very moment reading his letter and writing back to him.
John quickly did the math. He didn’t know where Summer lived, but it would be late afternoon, or actually early evening on the East Coast, mid-afternoon on the West Coast. Was she at work? Did she even have a real job or did she sit around in slinky lingerie writing sex stories all day long?
Jeez. Where the hell had that image come from?
Then, something even stranger happened. John found himself typing in www.summerwinters.com and holding his breath as his guess at her website address paid off and the home page loaded. He scanned quickly through the site. There was a picture of the cover of the book he had watched Jazzy and Morales fight over in the chow hall. Next to that book another one, featuring an equally provocative, unclothed male chest on the cover, was listed as Coming Soon.
On one webpage John found a vague and sketchy biography but no photo. He hadn’t even realized he was searching for a picture of her until he felt the disappointment at not finding one.
With that discovery, he closed the website and checked his inbox again. As he suspected, he found her email and opened it.
John,
Thank you for your quick response. I can’t say that knowing the severity of his injuries relieved my worry. Quite the opposite. But knowing is far better than not, and these past days wondering why he didn’t respond to my emails have been nearly unbearable. It is strange. Though we have never met, he and I have been friends for so many months now that I find a hole in my life at the thought of being without his friendship.
Would it be all right if I emailed you occasionally and inquired as to Jazzy’s progress? I would not normally bother you. Jazzy has told me how busy you are there being tank commander and all. I just don’t know who else to contact to find out how he is doing. Please, could you let me know if anything changes? Jazzy has told me about the gravity of internal injuries incurred from explosions. I will worry until he is back to one hundred percent. Thank you, John. I appreciate your taking the time.
Please keep yourself safe.
Summer
PS Please let me know if you or your guys need anything and I will send it to you.
John leaned back in his chair and let out a long slow breath. This woman he didn’t even know was now calling him by his first name, worried for his safety and wanted to send him things for his troops. He shook his head. Could anyone really be this nice?
He pushed aside his craving for Summer’s tasty coffee and responded, sparing a brief thought that each email seemed easier to write than the last. Worse than that, each one brought him closer to having a pen pal of his own. Dammit.
Ms. Winters,
I will keep you informed. I promise. We are good here. No need to send anything.
Thanks.
John
And then John realized with shock that he had been on the damn computer for nearly thirty minutes emailing with her, there was now a line of men behind him and he had yet to order his damn underwear. He would have to wait for another time.
Scowling, he logged off and decided he had been correct in his initial opinion. Pen pals were nothing but a nuisance.
Maureen leaned back from the laptop set up on her kitchen table and placed one hand over her pounding heart. Yup, she was sure, it was definitely beating faster than usual. It must be concern over Jazzy’s condition. That had to be it.
So then why did her breath catch in her throat each time the alert listing Staff Sergeant John Blake’s name popped up on her screen announcing a new email?
His emails were all serious and businesslike, so unlike Jazzy’s lighthearted banter. It was kind of sexy.
Jeez. She didn’t even know him. And how could emails sound sexy? This was bad. She could not possibly feel chemistry with a guy when the only contact she’d received from him was three emails—could she? It was impossible. It was crazy.
Besides, he could be married for all she knew.
Wait. Jazzy had pictures of the tank crew posted on his page on the support site. Maureen glanced quickly at the clock. She had the double date with Peter and she still had to find something to wear and put on makeup.
Ah, what the hell. She’d make it if she rushed.
Maureen logged onto the support site and pulled up the photo Jazzy had posted showing his crew in front of their tank. Pushing her coffee mug farther away, she leaned forward and squinted. Finally, she located the man whose uniform read Blake across his chest. Immediately she looked at his left hand.
No ring. That was a good sign, although she knew not all married men wore wedd
ing rings.
She looked closer at the other men in the picture. There was no wedding ring on Jazzy’s hand either.
“Damn.” Her voice echoed through the empty apartment. This didn’t prove anything. They obviously didn’t wear rings while driving around in tanks or whatever else they did over there.
Maureen looked back at John and studied his face. Serious, just like his emails. Handsome though, from what she could see beneath the dirt and dust and the body armor that covered him practically from head to toe.
With a quick right-click of her mouse, Maureen set the picture as her desktop background, strictly so she could look at it and keep Jazzy in her mind while he recovered, she told herself.
With one more glance at the photo now installed on her screen, Maureen rose and took the last sip from her mug. Caffeinated coffee in the evening would normally be the last thing she would ever be drinking. But then again, she was usually in her pajamas by the six-o’clock news, working or writing her book in bed on her laptop. Not tonight though. Tonight she would have to be witty, charming, funny, beautiful, awake and wear something other than flannel pajamas. Oh joy.
The phone rang, and she’d barely said hello when Peter demanded, “Are you dressed yet?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Liar.”
She sighed. “I’m deciding what to wear.” She moved to her closet and slid open the door so it wouldn’t be a total lie.
“No, you’re procrastinating because although you asked me to—and I actually managed to—arrange for a pair of handsome eligible men willing to take the both of us out tonight, you don’t really want to go.”
“That’s not true.”
“Maureen—”
“Look. I do want to go. I just don’t know what to wear.” Good thing he couldn’t see her expression. A poker face she did not have.
Peter let out a frustrated and extremely loud sigh in Maureen’s ear. “Lucky for you, my fashion-challenged friend, you have me. Wear the wrap dress and your boots.”
She kicked her toe into the carpet and pouted. She wore that dress for work functions and stuff. “Really? I don’t think—”
“You’re going to disagree with me about fashion?”
“No, of course not. But do you really think the wrap dress is dressy enough?”
“Of course it is, don’t be silly. Besides, you have cleavage for days in that dress, and with your obvious attitude regarding this date tonight, you’ll need every advantage you can get.”
Maureen scowled. “Fine. I’ll be over in an hour.”
“I’ll see you here.”
“Oh, one more thing. What are the lucky dates’ names?” Maybe if she started trying to remember them now, she wouldn’t forget in the middle of dinner. That had happened to her once or twice already.
“Bruce and Wayne.”
Maureen started to giggle. “Are they picking up the Batmobile from the Batcave on the way over?” Sometimes too much caffeine made her more giggly than an excessive amount of alcohol. Apparently tonight was one of those times. She found herself wiping the tears of laugher from her eyes and trying to catch her breath.
“What in the world are you talking about?” Peter asked not so indulgently.
“You know…Bruce Wayne. Batman’s real name.”
“Ah, yes, Batman, the first gay superhero. How could I forget?” She heard his short laugh over the phone.
“Do you really think so? Mmm. You could be right. I’ve often wondered about the whole Batman-Robin relationship dynamic and the tights. Although Superman and Spiderman both wore those too.”
“Are you procrastinating getting dressed or are you really as enthralled with the fashion choices and sexual leanings of twentieth century superheroes as you seem?”
A little of both actually. “Okay, I’m going. See you later.”
Chapter Six
“So, Bruce, Peter told me you enjoy musical theater. I’m so behind on seeing the new shows. Have you seen anything good lately?”
Bruce, who had just sipped delicately at his sickeningly sweet-looking green apple martini, fluttered his hand excitedly as he swallowed. “Actually, I have. Wayne and I got front row tickets to the new Nathan Lane show. Oh my God. I laughed so hard I thought I would pee my pants. Wasn’t that right, Wayne?”
Bruce slapped Wayne’s arm playfully to get his attention, which elicited a dramatic eye roll in response. “You have to understand, Maureen. Bruce practically pees his pants at every show he sees. I nearly bought him adult diapers as a birthday gift.”
Bruce scowled. “So anyway, our friend is in the chorus of the new show Disney has on Broadway and has tons of connections. If you need tickets for anything, just give me or Wayne a call.”
She might actually take Bruce up on that offer. Maureen caught Peter’s eye and smiled. She was having a great time. She would freely admit that to him later.
The trendy new restaurant was the hottest ticket in town at the moment, and Wayne had managed to get them not only reservations but also a great table—one right in the front bay window that overlooked the bustling city street outside. The food was fabulous. Wayne knew the chef personally and ordered for them all, which on a normal date would have pissed her off, but for some reason it didn’t this time because she loved everything he ordered for her.
However, there was one problem with this whole scenario, quite an insurmountable one, and that was that Wayne was Peter’s gay date and Bruce was her supposedly straight one. Everyone at the table of four seemed to know he was gay except for Bruce himself.
If the goal for the evening had been to find a man who was easy to talk to, funny and enjoyed what she did, then the evening could be considered a resounding success. Since she already had Peter for all of that and the goal had been to find the love of her life, or a guy she could date or at least sleep with for a while… Well, it was obvious that was not happening tonight.
“Can I get anyone anything else?”
The waiter standing next to Maureen knocked her out of her ponderings. She glanced sideways at him, getting an eyeful of a tight young ass in black polyester. Her gaze traveled upward to his face. Too young. Way, way too young. She stifled a sigh at herself for even considering it, but she was truly getting tired of battery-operated sex.
“Oh my God, no. I couldn’t eat another bite.” Bruce rubbed his perfectly flat belly.
“I’ll take the check.” Wayne picked up the leather folder from the waiter’s hand and shoved in his gold card without even asking for her or Peter’s share of the bill.
A nice meal for which she didn’t have to pay, and there were no demands made on her sexually by any of the three gay men—in fact not one of them even glanced at her cleavage. They actually spoke while looking at her eyes. It was a strange sensation, but not entirely unpleasant.
Maureen hadn’t had a night this nice in a long time. Yet sadly, it just reinforced her original assertion, the one that had led them to this great dating experiment in the first place—all the good ones were gay or in the military.
After dinner, the two dropped Peter and Maureen off at Peter’s building and drove merrily off in a whirlwind of show tunes on the CD player in the car.
Maureen smiled all the way to Peter’s apartment. He closed and locked the door behind them and turned to her. “Go on. Get it all out. I know. I screwed up.”
Maureen threw herself on the couch, finally allowing herself to laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Peter scowled, obviously not sharing the humor of the events, which seemed so obvious to Maureen.
“Come on, Peter. Lighten up. Besides, who knows what my picks for next week will bring. Coming from Tiffany’s little black book, they could be anything. And Bruce really was nice, once again proving my theory—”
“That all the good men are gay. I know. I know. Well, I do agree with you there. But Bruce was supposed to be straight. He asked Wayne to find him a woman a
nd he was married for ten years, for God’s sake.” He finished the sentence as he helped pull off her boots and then plopped down on the couch with her feet in his lap.
“It took his wife ten years to figure out he was gay and divorce him? What the hell took her so long? The love of musical theater and impeccable fashion sense weren’t enough of a clue?”
Peter shook his head. “Sweetie, you’d be surprised at how many straight married men I’ve met who are looking for action. They come to the bars and think no one will notice the minivan with the car seat parked outside. And in Bruce’s wife’s defense, they must have been having sex. They’ve got a kid together.”
Maureen shook her head. Maybe being single wasn’t so bad after all if your husband could turn out to be gay after ten years of marriage. Or straight and going to gay bars. She didn’t know which was worse. “So, are you going to see Wayne again?”
“Maybe.” Peter began to absently massage her feet, making her eyes roll back in her head.
With her head lolling against the arm of the couch, she managed to open her eyes. “Why only maybe? He was nice.”
He crinkled his nose and shrugged. “I didn’t like how he ordered for us all at the restaurant. And then how he paid for everyone. That have-to-be-in-control-of-everything attitude pisses me off.”
Maureen giggled. “You and I are so alike sometimes it’s scary.”
“Is this where you start complaining that if I were straight all your problems would be solved because we could just get married?” He raised a brow in her direction.
She narrowed her eyes at him even though those words had come out of her mouth on more than one occasion. “No, there is going to be room for only one bitchy woman in my marriage, whenever that happens, and I will be it.”
He laughed. “You got that right, sister.”
Maureen whacked him in the head with a throw pillow. “Hey. Are you insulting me?”