And somewhere along the way, I stopped being the girl who painted, who dreamed, who made choices because they felt right instead of because they were convenient.
That’s what scares me.
Not him.
But what I was willing to give up.
I rake my fingers through my hair, shove the phone into the pocket of my jeans, then spin around and head back inside.
And that’s when Harlee steps out.
“Hey,” she says, a concerned look on her face. “They needed the table.” She holds out a to-go box with, what I assume is, the rest of my sandwich.
My shoulders sag as I take the box from her. “I’m so sorry. I got stuck on the phone, and then…”
“I saw him.” Harlee gives me a sympathetic look. “Forget that guy.”
“For sure,” I say with a light laugh.
And for once, I mean it.
Forget him,not just so I can be better. I meanforget himbecause I don’t want to be that version of me anymore.
“You wanna come to my place and watch a movie or something?” I glance up at the overcast skies. “It looks like it’s going to rain anyway.”
She nods eagerly. “That sounds like the perfect afternoon to me.”
We make the short walk back to my apartment, but I stop at my mailbox, just in case. I’ve been waiting for something from Weston for days now, and every day I’ve checked, I’ve been left completely disappointed.
Maybe the postcard was too much.
“Anything from your pen pal?” Harlee asks, standing a few feet behind me. She’s giving me adequate space to process what I probablywon’tfind, and I have to respect her for that. She knows that I’ve been anxiously awaiting a reply, too.
“Let’s see…” I turn the key in the box, and then pull the door open, bracing for more disappointment. I grab the stack of what I know will just be bills, and start to flip through them one by one.
Please…
My breath catches as I get to a regular envelope, my heart skipping a beat as I see the handwriting that’s found its way under my skin.
“You got something!” Harlee explodes into a fit of happy laughter, and I look over at her, feeling heat creep across my face. I love that she’s excited. “Here, I’ll hold your other mail, so you can open it right now!”
I nervously laugh then pass her all but Weston’s letter. I tear it open carefully, revealing notebook paper that’s been colored green with a colored pencil or crayon. I unfold it, and catch a picture before it falls out of the card and onto the floor.
It’s of Polly, the stuffed cat, wearing a Saint Patrick’s Day headband with, what I assume is, a dog shirt that saysKiss Me, I’m Irish.
I erupt in laughter, the sound surprising even me. And it hits me how different this feels. Light. Easy. Like I don’t have to be anything but exactly who I am.
I turn to the letter.
Brittany,
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, I think? This should be getting to you about that time. It’s hard to plan the delivery dates appropriately. I just want you to know that your postcard was an amazing surprise. I hope you enjoyed Florida. I’ve been there a few times with my family as a teenager, and it was nice. Though, I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed I didn’t see a gator on a lounger. That would’ve been epic.
I hope your day is as lovely as you.
Wes
P.S. Your brother is really obnoxious about Monopoly. Just saying.
