P.P.S. After even more contemplation, I’ve made a decision. You’re my witness to this pledge. If I ever get married (it’s a long shot, but a girl can dream), I’m going to the JP (that’s justice of the peace in case you didn’t know). Then I’m having a reception at Olive Garden because, damn, I love their salad and breadsticks.
If I ever meet someone who’s willing to take me on, remind me of this vow, Alec. Promise me. Especially about the Olive Garden part. Wow. Now I’m hungry for The O.G.
That’s what the cool people call it—The O.G. Feel free to adopt it as your own.
Thank you very much.
M.A.C.
I’m not sure why, but I’m crying, and not with laughter, although this letter was filled with one funny line after another. No, the reason I’m crying is, well, I think it’s because I wish Matilda were here talking like that, fast and furious, next to me.
Jesus, I need a friend right now.
Not just any friend either. I need Matilda, and I’m not sure when that happened.
Don’t give me any shit for admitting that to you.
It’s been one of the worst days of my life, and I wasn’t the one shot by a fucking drug addict at the shoppette.
I wish I had her number; I could give her a call. Writing letters is great. I’m enjoying it, but it takes too much fucking time. You write your letter and put it in the envelope. Then, when you realize you’re out of stamps, you have to make a point to stop at the PX or somewhere off-post before you can mail it. Then you forget you’ve got the damn thing in your pocket because you’re busy, so two days later, you’re finally mailing it. After that, who the fuck knows how long it takes to get where it’s going. In this case, Oak Park, Illinois.
Still, I like getting them. A lot.
Picking the phone up from the spot on the coffee table, I press Anthony’s number. He answers on the second ring. “What?” he snaps.
I can’t be upset by his greeting; I do the same to him. “Give me Matilda’s number.”
“Matilda? Vicky’s cousin? Why the fuck do you need her number?”
“Why the fuck are you letting your woman stew over someone you slept with five years ago? Get on your fucking knees, literally, and ask forgiveness or your marriage will be over before it starts.”
“How the hell did you find out?”
“Her uncle.”
“Chuck? When did you talk to him?”
I decide to approach this differently. With a calm, cool, and collected tone, I ask, “May I please get Matilda’s phone number, Anthony? It’s important.”
He’s silent for a minute. “Do you think that’ll work? If I beg forgiveness?”
“The fact you haven’t thought of that on your own is troubling, bro.”
“She won’t fucking speak to me. How can I beg when she turns and locks herself in our—I mean her—bedroom?”
“Kick it open.”
“She’ll kill me.”
“I guess you’ve got to decide, divorce or death.”
“Death. I choose death.”
“Then kick it down.” I hear him shuffling around. “But give me Matilda’s number first.”
“I don’t have it. Vicky’s got her phone with her.”
“You have Aunt Annabelle’s number?”
