Ethan

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IT ONLY TOOK ME EIGHT weeks to realize that I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. (Only one if I honestly counted the seven weeks of denial.)

I hated my classes in New York, despised my classmates and their cutthroat competitive ways, and I missed the hell out of Rachel. She’d been beyond right about this program, and even though I was doing the required work, I spent most of my time working on my novel.

Not a single purple envelope graced my mailbox in weeks, and for the first time in my life, I was realizing what it was like to truly miss someone.

Before, when we were apart, I never minded any of the times when it took her too long to answer, never cared when it took me longer than it should’ve. But after finally realizing how much she meant to me, I was going insane not hearing from her.

I checked her port schedule for the umpteenth time, knowing that she’d received all my letters and my care package. Out of desperation, I sent an email to her alternate email address that I hoped she would check when they stopped again.

Groaning, I clicked through another page of lecture notes, trying my best to focus on something other than the growing ache in my chest. Knowing just how long Rachel was capable of holding a grudge, it would be next Christmas before she finally caved and sent me a holiday postcard.

Fuck...

My Dad’s name crossed my screen via Skype, and since I’d ignored ten of his recent calls, I decided to finally give him five minutes.

“Yes?” I answered, waiting for his face to appear on my screen. “If you’re calling about the Harrison numbers, I emailed them to your personal address since the file was flagged at your work email.”

“That’s not why I’m calling,” he said, his voice soft.

I brightened my screen a bit, unsure of what to make of his expression. His face was slightly pale, and he looked far more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him.

“Did something happen to Mom?” I asked.

“No.” He smiled. “Although she did want me to let you know that she’s alive and well. She would also appreciate a phone call directly from you from time to time, instead of pages of text messages.”

“Noted.”

He cleared his throat. “I was doing some cleaning in the attic today,” he said, holding up a sheet of paper. “And I came across this.”

I squinted at the sheet and made out the words I Hate My Next-Door Neighbor. “You found my old essay?”

“I found a ton of them,” he said. “And then I went to your room and found your um—your box of all the essays you’ve submitted for publications and copies of stuff you sent for your mom to read and I um...” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

“For going through my shit?”

“No.” He smiled and wiped his eyes. “Anything under my roof is my shit. I’m sorry that I pushed you into majoring in Business.”

“It wasn’t all you. I’m good at it.”

“But you’re great at writing,” he said, his expression wistful. “I’m sure I’ll always wonder what could’ve been down the road if you took over my business one day, but that’s not your burden to bear anymore.”

“I was following up until that last sentence, Dad. What are you trying to say?”

“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life by being in business school right now,” he said. “You don’t belong there at all.”

“You mean you want me to pursue the pansy-ass penmanship shit?” I smiled.

“Yes.” He laughed. “I think your true passion is in the pansy-ass shit, and I don’t want you to regret not taking a chance on your real dreams like I did...”

I decided not to tell him that I’d already decided to do that, that I’d drafted one hell of a withdrawal letter from this terrible-ass program weeks ago. “Good to finally get your approval on something for a change.”

“Don’t get used to it.” He shook his head, still laughing. “Oh! By the way, I can’t believe that even after all these years, and you telling me that you and Rachel Dawson were finally on good terms, that you both still resort to mailing petty ass letters when you’re upset. I owe your mom five hundred bucks because you’re both full-grown adults who haven’t learned how to deal with your differences.”

“What are you talking about?” I sat up a bit straighter. “Rachel sent me a letter?”

“Yeah.” He flipped through a few papers. “A postcard actually. Want me to read it to you?”

“Please.” I motioned for him to show it to me as well.

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Dear Ethan,

I’m sending this letter to your home address because I refuse to send anything to you in New York. (& also because I doubt Greg will forward this to you anytime soon)

You don’t belong in business school. You know it, I know it, anyone who knows anything about you knows it.

Although I appreciate the well-wishes you’ve sent me, I will not give you the same.

I hope you’re absolutely miserable in business school, and I won’t be writing you again until next Christmas, even though I won’t be on this boat.

How does that fill?

Forget You,

Rachel

PS—I realized that I used the wrong “feel” hours after I wrote this, but I can’t afford to let a postcard go to waste. THEIR.