Maritza

Maritza,

Thank you for the package that you didn’t have to send. Let me remind you that we agreed to letters and letters only.

And yes, there is such a thing as being too nice.

Anyway, I won’t be able to write for a while. I’ll be headed to the Syrian border after today. Not sure how long I’ll be away.

Take care,

Isaiah

I stuff his letter back into the envelope, smile fading and hot tears welling in my eyes, and check the date. He sent this two weeks ago. Every part of me knows I shouldn’t read into this letter but it’s just … different. There was no “Maritza the Waitress,” no playful “P.S. I hate you” at the end. And he signed off with a cold “take care.”

Biting my lip, I place the letter aside and sink back into my bed, dragging my palms along my floral velvet duvet.

It’s almost like he was intentionally distancing himself …

Maybe I came on too strong? Maybe he read into the care package thing and took it as I like him and I’m trying to move things to the next level? I don’t know. I don’t know what was going through his head because he’s a closed effing book and I knew him for all of nine days or whatever.

I allow myself to overanalyze for a solid ten minutes before snapping out of it and giving him the benefit of the doubt. Rising from my bed, I peel off my pajamas and head to the shower. I have to be at work in a couple of hours.

When I’m finished getting ready, I trek over to Gram’s to grab breakfast, only the second I slide the back door open, I find myself face to face with Constance’s grandson, Myles, seated at my grandmother’s kitchen table.

“Oh. Hi.” I stop in my tracks.

His thin lips curl. “Maritza. Hey. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Yeah …

“How have you been?” he asks, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his long nose. Nothing has changed since the last time I saw him. With a plaid shirt cuffed at his elbows, black skinny jeans, and white chucks, he’s rocking the quintessential film studies major uniform.

“Good. You?” I head to the coffee bar off the butler’s pantry and he careens his body, tracking me with his narrow eyes.

“Great.” I grab a porcelain mug and turn my back to him. “Where’s Gram and Constance?”

“Around here somewhere.” He chuckles. “Probably polishing Gram’s Oscars or something.”

I don’t laugh. He isn’t funny. He’s awkward and obvious and gives off this intrusive, invasive vibe that I can’t fully explain.

Heading back to the kitchen, I don’t find Gram’s usual Saturday morning breakfast spread, no scent of bacon or steel cut oats, no buffet of fresh sliced strawberries and pineapples. She must’ve given her chef the day off.

“All right, well, I have to get to work,” I say, striding toward the sliding door. “Good seeing you, Myles.”

He stands. “You came all the way here for a cup of coffee?”

Pausing, I nod. “Gram has the good stuff.”

His thin lips meld together and he exhales through his nose. “I see.”

Reaching for the door handle, I give it a solid tug and embrace the mild morning air that hits my face.

Freedom.

Freedom from Myles Bridger.

I can’t get back to the guesthouse fast enough. The way he stares. The way he stalls. The way his energy just lingers and clings and makes me feel like I need another shower.

By the time I get back to my place a minute later, I chide myself for overreacting. We had one date. One. And he was weird and tried to kiss me and he wasn’t my type. He called me every day for two weeks afterwards and finally stopped when he got the hint.

He’s just a nerdy, awkward guy. And he’s nice. I don’t give him enough credit for being nice. He’s just … not for me.

I should cut him some slack. I shouldn’t fault him for having an innocent crush. The worst thing the guy ever did was try to kiss me after eating four pieces of garlic bread during a god-awful date at a horrendous hole-in-the-wall Italian place in South Gate.

Grabbing my apron and slipping into my work shoes, I find my keys and head out to my car, my mind returning to Isaiah’s letter.

I promise myself I’ll stop thinking about it. I promise myself I won’t read into it anymore.

But promises are fragile.

And sometimes they break.