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.

Giving myself one last look in my full-length mirror, I smooth my hands down the black, strapless Herve Leger bandage dress I “borrowed” from my mom’s closet before they moved to New York and then step into a set of killer Jimmy Choos—also “borrowed.”

I don’t get the chance to dress up that much these days so when I do, I tend to go all out. Plus, Melrose picked the club tonight and she’s got Cristal taste, which means we’re not going to some dive bar in South-Central.

“About damn time.” Melrose takes a giant gulp of her white wine when she sees me. “Look at you, little mama. God, I wish I had your legs. It’s so not fair. Those should have been mine.”

Rachael’s eyes move between us and her wine glass is as frozen as her expression.

“My mom dated her dad before she married my dad,” I explain, waving my hands around as I talk. “My mom is super tall.”

“I bet the wedding was super awkward.” Rachael winces.

“That’s what we’ve been told,” I say. “Apparently Melrose’s dad almost no-showed and he had the ring. They made up though. He actually ended up hooking up with one of Mom’s bridesmaids that night … and that was Mel’s mom. Everyone got a happy ending.”

“We’re meeting some of my girls at Willow House in an hour,” Melrose changes the subject, tossing back the rest of her drink before setting it aside and gathering her phone, keys, and the satin Chanel clutch she claimed was a thank you gift from a producer last year.

“Which girls? Have I met them?” I ask.

Melrose shrugs, like she doesn’t know and she doesn’t care. I’ve never seen someone make so many friends she can’t keep them straight. I tried looking someone up in her phone once and counted at least six “Taylors,” eight “Joshes,” and twelve “Megans,” each of them with descriptions like, “Taylor BLUE HAIR CHATTY” and “Josh DIRTY CONVERSE BAD KISSER” and “Megan CRAZY DO NOT ANSWER.” There must be at least eight hundred people in there, if not more.

“Come on girls,” my cousin glances at her phone screen as she ushers us out the door. “Ride’s here.”

* * *

Professionally DJ’d music pumps.

Top shelf liquor flows.

Gorgeous people surround us.

And yet, I’d rather be anywhere but here.

Not that I’m not having a good time—Rachael is always a blast and Melrose has the most outlandish and eclectic group of “friends” providing ample entertainment. One of them is a Swedish pop star who came to America to try to “make it big.” Another is the heiress to a Spanish oil fortune. The tall brunette in the corner is from some reality show that was really popular a few years ago. And the redhead beside me has been fighting with her boyfriend on the phone all night and airing allllll his dirty laundry in the process—which I’m pretty sure she’s going to live to regret in the morning when they get back together.

But while I’m physically here, mentally I can’t stop thinking about Isaiah. What he’s doing. If he’s comfortable. If he’s happy. If he’s having a good time. I can’t imagine there’s much for them to do in Afghanistan on a Saturday night.

“Why are you so quiet tonight?” Melrose moves her redheaded friend out of the way and squeezes between us. “You have cramps?”

I almost spit my drink out. “No, I don’t have cramps.”

“You’ve had, like, four drinks,” she says, glancing at me with unfocused eyes. “You should be dancing on the table by now.”

“When have I ever danced on a table?” I pride myself on being a good time girl, but certain things just aren’t my style.

“Figuratively,” she says, trying not to slur.

“I think this is only my second anyway,” I say, lifting my martini.

“Okay, don’t look now, but there’s a guy standing at the bar in a navy-blue suit with a blue gingham tie and he’s been staring at you for the past hour,” she says, leaning close.

I don’t look because it doesn’t matter. I’m not looking to be picked up tonight. I’m not looking for a one-night stand. I just wanted to have a good time with my girls.

“Oh, my God. He’s coming over here,” Melrose flaps her hands, making it overly obvious that we’re talking about him. I know he’s arrived when she crosses her legs and bats her lashes and cups her hand under her chin. “Hi, stranger.”

I turn to face him, eyes locking with a set of the bluest irises I’ve ever seen, tawny skin, and sandy, too-cool-to-care hair that makes some kind of casually defiant statement against his impeccable Tom Ford suit.

The man ignores my cousin. He ignores all the girls at our table. He’s completely and unapologetically fixated on me.

“I’m Ansel,” he says, lifting a tumbler of amber-colored liquor to his Cheshire grin. “My apologies for staring at you all night. I have a weakness for beautiful women.”

Out of politeness, I don’t roll my eyes.

Plus, Ansel doesn’t seem greasy or skeevy. There’s an air of class about him and his apology seems genuine from what I can tell.

“Do you mind if I ask your name?” He hasn’t looked away from me yet. Not once. And I detect some kind of non-American accent, though I can’t quite place it. German, maybe?

“Maritza,” I say.

“That’s a very beautiful name,” he says. “Would it be all right if I bought you a drink?”

I hesitate, looking for a way to turn him down without hurting his feelings.

He’s exotic and gorgeous and polite and I’m sure it took a lot for him to come over and introduce himself in a society where most people hide behind their dating apps, but when I look at him … I feel … nothing.

Melrose nudges me in the ribs and Ansel chuckles.

It’s just a drink, I guess.

“Yeah. Sure,” I say. “That’d be nice.”

Ansel’s mouth pulls wide and he extends his hand, helping me up. Everything about him is formal, his mannerisms, his way of speaking, the way he walks beside me as if we’re Prince Harry and Meghan Markle.

But at the end of the day, beautiful Ansel is beautifully boring.

And I can’t ignore the fact that for some completely insane reason, I wish it were Isaiah buying me this drink.