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.