“Matilda?”my dad yells from down at the bottom of the stairs.
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got mail.”
Mail? Probably a bill. Except, he usually doesn’t announce that sort of thing. “Be right down.”
I quickly descend the staircase to see my father still there holding a small, white envelope. “It’s from Texas.”
“Texas?”
Taking it from him, I flip it to the front. Sure enough, it’s addressed to me. The return address lists an apartment in “Killeen.” A weird sensation floods through me. Anticipation. Excitement. Could this be from…. I tear open the envelope carefully. Pulling out the single sheet of wide-ruled notebook paper that, thankfully, has those annoying torn edges removed. I unfold it carefully, and my heart leaps in my chest as my eyes scan to the bottom of the letter. “It’s from Alec.”
Wait one second… I got a letter from Alec?
No, I said that wrong. I received ahandwrittenletter from Alec Marchesani.
“Hmm.” At his slight sound, I glance up at my dad, whose expression gives nothing away.
I ask, “What are you ‘hmm-ing’ about?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Just not all that surprised, I guess.”
“Not all that surprised? About Alex writing?”
Dad smirks. “That young man was smitten.”
“Smitten?”
“Yeah, smitten. With you.” He points at me for emphasis.
I scoff, then choke a little. “Uh, no way, Dad. He wasn’t.”
“Uh, yes way, Matilda. He was.”
“No, Dad….” I want to explain to my father how it works in this day and age, but he’s already turned and headed toward the kitchen.
Rather than engaging in a pointless argument with my father, I choose instead to spend that time with this letter. Arealletter.
Pulling the paper open again, the first thing I notice is his handwriting. It’s masculine—legible but a little messy for sure. He writes like his personality, intense. At least, the little bit I know about him seems intense. Maybe, on his off days when he’s lazy at home, he’s more laid-back.
What am I saying?
I don’t believe he’s got a lazy bone in his body, nor do I believe he’s ever “laid-back.”
Placing the envelope in my right hand, something falls out. Something silver. Bending, I grasp the item and see it’s a charm. I have to use my short fingernails to pick it up because it’s not as three-dimensional as the other one he gave me. Once it’s between my thumb and first finger, I stand and bring it close enough to see what it is. “A dog.” He gave me a dog charm. And by the looks of it, it’s a silhouette of a German shepherd.
I smile down at it, then place it on the table next to our staircase. As soon as I’m done reading the letter, I’ll attach it to my bracelet, the one I keep upstairs in my jewelry box, so I don’t damage it or, worse, lose it.
On second thought, I pick the charm back up and race up the stairs. I’ve got twenty minutes before I need to leave for work. Just enough time to read the letter. Then, maybe read it again depending on what it says. Glancing at the paper, I see it’s not a very long letter—a few sentences at best. That doesn’t matter.
In my bedroom, I open the jewelry box that houses my bracelet and several pieces of my mom’s jewelry. Once it’s secure, I flop back onto my bed and open the letter again.
I sigh at just the first two words.
August 23rd
Dear Matilda,
