Ethan

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DEAR ETHAN,

I want you to know that I really enjoyed all the time we spent together over the summer. The sex was really hot and amazing—especially when we did it in your car, but I think the two of us can be more than fuck buddies. (You seem like a deep guy who’d be into more, right?) Anyway, since I’m out of state at a different college, I think this is the best way for us to communicate for the time being. I know you’re into letter writing, so I hope you’ll find the time to write me back and perhaps we can become friends (and hopefully a little more) with time.

With Love,

Alicia

PS—Did I mention that the sex was really hot? We can do it whenever you want on the holiday breaks when I come back into town.

PSS—As long as you write me back...

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I ROLLED MY EYES AND crumpled her letter. I was done dealing with anyone from my past, and from what I remembered, our “relationship” hadn’t been much of a relationship at all. We barely talked about anything substantial, and she never wanted to do anything except have sex (I didn’t mind that) and gossip about other girls. The only reason I put up with it was because I didn’t really have anyone else to talk to.

College was officially my fucking reset button. I had no desire to date anyone seriously, and I wasn’t interested in staying connected to anyone I’d met over the summer. The only people in my life were my newest roommate (who had a crazy girlfriend who screamed all the time) and my parents.

Tossing the rest of my mail onto my desk, I rushed across campus to the business department for the first day of class.

“Nice of you to join us on your own time, Mr. Wyatt,” the department head said. “I guess since you’re a SBU Scholar, I’ll look past the fact that you’re thirty minutes late.”

Laughter filled the room.

I looked at my watch and realized I’d never set it to the right time. “My apologies.”

“No worries,” he said, still smiling. “I have a feeling that this is going to be a very interesting year for you. Seeing as though you already feel like you live in this building and all.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

He picked up a purple envelope and handed it to me. “Be sure to tell your friends that your mail should go to your dorm room, not your major’s department.” He looked away from me. “Now, back to what I was saying about the intensity of this program, ladies and gentlemen. If you think the next four years are going to be easy, you have another think coming.”

I tuned him out as I read the return address on the envelope.

Rachel Dawson

Semester @ Sea—The Eurodam V.S.

Wing B. Room 221.

Ugh.

I hadn’t heard from Rachel since the day we argued in the bathroom. She’d permanently shut her window and covered it with newspaper, and I’d done the same to mine.

Despite the fact that we’d always run into each other every day of our lives, we’d somehow managed to avoid each other right after we graduated.

I debated burning her envelope the second I returned to my room, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I left it unopened on my desk for an entire week before curiosity finally got the best of me.

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DEAR ETHAN,

I’m writing you this letter because I hope you’re miserable in your major. (I still don’t understand why you’re majoring in business instead of writing, but I don’t care enough to ask you why.)

I know you’re wondering how I was allowed to do Semester at Sea as a freshman, so: I was able to talk to the dean about studying abroad for my first year of school and they agreed to let me as long as I take my seminar in art classes and keep a 3.5 GPA. (Who’s smarter than who, now?)

:::Truce moment:::

Okay, in all seriousness, this ship is not what I thought it would be. I’ve been onboard for two weeks and in that time I’ve gotten seasick, homesick, and motion-sick. I’m the only freshman here, and I didn’t realize that most of the people are juniors and seniors, and that most of them have already been friends for years and are taking this trip together as some sort of last hurrah before they graduate.

Our first stop will be next week in London, and I feel like I should be a lot more excited for that than I am, but maybe it’ll come with time. (If I see any of those writing pens that look similar to the ones I used to burn when we were younger, I’ll consider getting them for you. Maybe. It depends...) After London, we’re sailing around the coast of Europe, and then we’ll be at sea until we arrive in Australia.

I signed up for three years, but I plan to reapply for Semester at Sea for my senior year as well, unless they tell me that I can’t do it anymore...

Anyway...I hope you’re doing well (But not too well) and I hope I wrote down your address correctly and you get this before the semester starts.

I know you hate me (and I definitely hate you), but if you ever find the time, would you mind writing me back?

Forget You (In Advance),

Rachel

PS—Could you like, once and for all admit that you were an ass to me from the moment we met? I feel like I might hate you slightly less if you finally admitted it...

PSS—I won’t really hate you slightly less, but it would be nice if you finally told the truth about that.

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I REREAD HER LETTER a couple times and sat down at my desk to pen a response. I sent it via express mail in the morning, and a week later, she sent me another purple envelope.

Before I knew it, not a month went by without her signature purple envelopes arriving in my mailbox, and after a while I looked forward to hearing about her travels and her troubles. The letters were short at first—a half a page here, a full page there, but after the first semester, our letters were always at least five pages each.

I told her everything about my personal life, and she told me everything in return. I stopped correcting her spelling and she stopped ending her PS notes with insulting questions.

Every now and then, I’d date someone new who would question me about the purple envelopes that came like clockwork in the mail, but I vowed to never explain myself until our relationship lasted longer than me and Rachel’s letters did.

Sometimes she’d take too long to write back, so she’d call me at three o’clock in the morning on her phone day—Sunday, to give me her life updates. (We agreed to always act like these phone calls never happened) And sometimes, instead of saying, “I know you’re still working on your next letter, Rachel,” and hanging up in her face, I talked to her until sunrise.

Sometimes I took too long to write back, so I’d send small packages with postcards and chocolate—telling her I was studying for an exam, but my letter was on the way. (Sometimes she’d write back, “Keep your next letter. Send more chocolate!”)

Even after all the letters, I still couldn’t bring myself to call her a friend. She was still an enemy. I was just keeping her close in a completely different way now.