“Who says I want to have a thing with you?” I tease. Kind of.
She gives my chest a playful jab. “This could be fun.”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“I wish I could, Corporal.” Her full mouth pulls wide, framing her perfect smile as she tilts her head. “But I don’t think I can.”
Chapter Thirteen
Maritza
He left before the sun came up but those still small hours lying in my bed, our bodies melded, I’ll never forget as long as I live. He kissed the inside of my palm, his touch gentle and his gaze soft. I wasn’t sure if it was a silent apology or a surrender of his ironclad heart.
Whatever our time together meant, I just know I’m never going to forget my week of Saturdays with Corporal Isaiah Torres—and I’d like to think the same for him.
Curled up in an arm chair in the living room sipping a coffee, I clutch the piece of paper with his address in my hands, torn from the same sheet of paper I used to write mine earlier this morning, before I watched him fold it into halves and tuck it in his wallet.
He kissed me goodbye after I walked him to the door—laughing through his nose as he told me not to read into it, that he was kissing me for purely selfish reasons that I’d never understand. I promised him it was not romantic, though in retrospect, it kind of was …
I swear when I closed the front door and watched through the window as he made his way back to his car, there was a cannon-sized hole in the middle of my chest.
He’s not my boyfriend.
And I’d hardly call us good, close friends.
But he’s special.
Our week was special.
I finish my coffee and hit the shower, reluctantly washing him off of me. My body is filled with aches and I trace the parts of me his mouth and tongue caressed mere hours before. By the time I’m finished, the delicious soreness between my thighs is all that remains, a fleeting memento of our final night together.
An hour later, I trek across my grandmother’s back yard and head into her kitchen where she and her best friend, Constance, are eating the breakfast Gram’s chef prepared.
“Morning, sunshine,” Grandma says, pointing her spoon at me.
My stomach rumbles when I spot the layout of exotic fruits and Greek yogurts and artisan bagels, and I help myself to a plate before joining the two of them.
“Morning,” I say. Each minute that passes is a reminder that I’m firmly planted back in reality whether or not I want to be.
As I sit here, spooning cinnamon granola into a dish of vanilla Greek-style yogurt, somewhere Isaiah’s boarding a bus to get to a plane that’s going to take him to a dangerous place for the better part of a year.
“Constance and I have lunch reservations at Mr. Chow,” Grandma says. “One o’clock today. Would you like to join us? Her grandson, Myles, is going to be there.”
The two of them exchange looks and ward off sheepish grins.
They’ve been trying to hook me up with Myles for years, and while I admit he’s cute, he just isn’t my type. He’s one of those film-school types who takes everything entirely too seriously. People like that just can’t sit back and enjoy things. They have to pick them apart until there’s nothing left but a few threads and crumbs, and that’s just not my thing.
“He’s been asking about you,” Constance says. “I’m not supposed to tell you that though.”
She giggles, lifting her finger to her lips.
“Oh, Maritza, you should come!” Grandma says, an oversized smile taking up half of her face. As much as I’d love to keep her happiness afloat, I can’t.
And for several reasons.
The biggest of which is the fact that I’m scheduled to work today.
“Have to be at work in an hour,” I say, taking a spoonful of yogurt. “Thanks for the invite though.”
“It’s fine, sweetheart,” Constance says. “Poor planning on our part. We shouldn’t have sprung it on you last minute. I’ll talk to Myles today and see what his schedule’s like these next few weeks. Maybe the two of you could have another little date?”
Ugh.
Please don’t.
I smile out of politeness. Constance is sweet as pie and cute as a button and she means well, but the first time I got roped into going on a date with Myles, I vowed to myself it would be the last time.
We don’t speak the same language, and by that, I mean he uses words like “cinematic universe” and “framing” and “bridge shot” and “aspect ratio” and “revisionistic” and the only language I speak is plain English.
And don’t even get me started on the fact that he made me see some artistic French movie with subtitles. Longest night of my life.
And then he tried to kiss me after all of that.
I turned and gave him my cheek like a proper girl would do in one of those black and white movies Gram is always watching. He smiled, pushing his thick-framed glasses up his nose, slightly embarrassed. And then he made a comment about how this felt like an awkward scene in some Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy.
The fact that he’s still interested in me years later blows my mind and proves how out of touch he is with reality. And why wouldn’t he be? He lives and breathes movies and things that simply aren’t real.
I prefer real.
Real is flawed men with complicated personalities who do brave things like fight wars.
War is real.
The newest Darren Aronofsky film? Not real.
Afghanistan? Real as fuck.
Finishing breakfast, I kiss Gram goodbye for now and give Constance a wave before heading back to the guesthouse to grab my keys and apron and hit the road before I get stuck in traffic.
Forty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot and hang my permit from my rear-view mirror. Heading inside, I punch in and tie my apron around my hips. The scent of cinnamon pancakes and fried bacon fills my lungs and the sound of dishes clinking and cooks shouting and patrons conversing all blurs into the background.
Everything is gray.
And I feel his absence already.
I feel it in my bones, in the hollow of my chest. The twist of my stomach, the ache in the deepest part of me. The void of his touch on my skin, the nonexistent comfort of his low whispers in my ear.
I miss him.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Chapter Fourteen
Isaiah
“Hey, Corp. Look at this.” One of my guys flags me down, pulling up a picture from his email.
“What’s this?” I ask, hunched over him.
“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.
Chapter Fifteen
Maritza
“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.
Chapter Sixteen
Isaiah
“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, surprise), 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.
Chapter Seventeen
Maritza
“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.
P.S. I Hate You Page 13