Sincerely, Yours

by Whitney G.

  “Bullshit, Lisa.” I rolled my eyes. “If the certain someone you’re attempting to talk about is my old neighbor Rachel Dawson—who I’ve told you time and time again that I honestly can’t standI haven’t written her back in three months. You and I have only been dating for four.”

  “Ethan, I am sorry. Is there anything I can do to rebuild your trust?”

  “Yes, you can step back onto the grass.”

  “Okay …” She stepped onto the grass and smiled. “Is that it?”

  I slammed my car in reverse without answering her, beating my fist against the steering wheel as I made it onto the backroad. I’d suspected something was off with her months ago, and I knew that this wasn’t her first time cheating on me. I also knew that I was going to have to drink her away tonight and make sure that she was a distant memory as soon as possible.

  Approaching a red light, I pulled out my phone, and double checked the address for my new apartment. Since this year was my first year living off campus, I was looking forward to not having to deal with drunk first-year students, endless dorm parties, and well, trouble. I had two strikes with the campus police after hosting several wild night parties in the past, and I knew they weren’t going to be so lenient with my next strike.

  I opened my glove compartment to find the house’s entry pass number, and a slew of purple envelopes and letters fell onto the floor.

  Ugh, Rachel.

  I picked them up and locked them away again.

  Turning into my new subdivision, I sped past all the white houses—looking for the only one in blue. I slammed the brakes once I saw the heap of burnt wood and metal in the place where my house was supposed to be.

  I must be on the wrong street …

  Refusing to believe that this was a reality, I blinked a few times. Then I circled the block, but when I returned, 3376 Sun Swept Lane was still the same.

  Burned down to the ground.

  What the hell?

  I turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.

  There was yellow tape where my fireplace was supposed to be, and a red smiley face button was staring at me from where my kitchen counters should’ve stood. There was also a charred “Welcome Home” sign next to the mailbox.

  “About time you showed up!” My randomly selected roommate for the year, Greg, tapped my shoulder from behind. “I’ve been waiting on you for hours, man.”

  “What happened to our house, Greg?”

  “It looks like it burned down.”

  “I can see that.” I crossed my arms. “What the hell happened?”

  “You have to promise that you won’t get mad first.”

  “No, you need to tell me what happened first.”

  “I need the promise,” he said, smiling. “I’ve heard about what happens when you get angry. People tend to get their jaws broken.”

  “What? You just made that shit up.”

  “Is it true, though?”

  I gave him a blank stare.

  “Okay, okay.” He shrugged. “Well, while you were away, I threw a little housewarming party with a bonfire. When we ran out of alcohol, we took the party a few blocks down to a football player’s apartment, and I might’ve forgotten to put out all the embers before leaving. At least I’m alive and well, right? I think that’s all that truly matters in this unfortunate situation.”

  I stared at him in utter disbelief. The main reason why I’d picked Greg to be my roommate was because he wasn’t my close friend. He was a fellow honors student who swore he just wanted a break from campus life like me, and he swore that he was responsible.

  “I take it that our three-thousand-dollar security deposit is down the drain?” I asked.

  “Hell yeah.” He laughed. “We’re never getting that shit back, and I don’t think we’re getting a reference.”

  “So, are we supposed to live out of our cars while we make insurance payments for the damage?” I clenched my jaw.

  “Not at all, my friend.”

  “You and I are not friends.”

  “We’re going to be.” He smiled. “The landlord was pretty chill when he found out about the fire. Well, he wasn't necessarily ‘happy’, and I think he called me a dumbass, but the insurance company is going to cover everything on his end.”

  “Then where does that leave us?”

  “Well, I asked him if he could let us rent the house next door, but he said hell no. So, I spent yesterday house-hunting and I found us a new place that’s ten times better than this.”

  I refused to believe that. All of the best campus houses were already rented for the semester, and our house was a significant upgrade before he burned it down.

  “Okay,” I said. “Show me where this new place is.”

  I slid behind my wheel again and followed him down a winding road that was dotted with massive houses that overlooked the beach. Each one was four times the size of our burnt house, and each one looked as if it wasn’t meant for college students.

  Is that a pool on the roof?

  He pulled into the driveway at the last house on the block—a huge white beach house with light grey shutters, and I was hoping like hell that this place belonged to someone in his well-connected family.

  “You have to see the inside of this thing!” Greg got out of his car and walked up to the wraparound porch. He opened the door, and I knew from the moment I stepped inside, that we’d never be able to afford this.

  There’s no damn way.

  “Four bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a hot tub out back.” He walked through the kitchen. “It comes furnished, too!”

  “Does your dad own this place?”

  “Ha! No. He would only let me stay in his beach house, if I agreed to go to his alma mater.” He opened the door to a guest room. “By the way, please don’t vote for him in the next mayoral election. I’m voting for his opponent.”

  I wanted to laugh, but I was still pissed at him. “How much does this place cost?”

  “The beach is right outside our back door, and the deck wraps all the way around the house,” he said. “Oh, and check this out.”

  He picked up a remote and the shades in the living room moved up, revealing a beautiful ocean view. Seconds later, the fireplace in the living room came to life.

  “How much does this place cost, Greg?”

  “You’ve got to see the basement! There are two pool tables and a wet bar. And let’s not forget the temperature-controlled pool on the roof—Like, the roof!”

  “Greg.” I blocked his way. “How much does this place cost?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty a month.”

  “Really? That’s it?”

  “Well, it’s seven hundred and fifty per person if it’s just you and me. Oh, and that doesn’t include any of the bills, which are like four hundred bucks easy, but it does include the view. It goes to five hundred a month, if we get a third person. It’ll be even less with four, but I know you didn’t really want to do four roommates for your senior year.”

  I barely wanted to do one roommate … “Please tell me that this is some big-ass joke.”

  “It’s this or the Lobos Street condos, man. I mean, those Lobos places are only two hundred and fifty dollars per person, but availability is scarce, so we’d probably have to share a studio at this point.” He looked around. “You did say that you wanted to live somewhere super quiet.”

  “What we had before was super quiet.”

  “It didn’t have a hot tub, though.” He pressed the remote again, and the doors to the deck slid open, revealing a huge, steaming hot tub. “You can’t say I didn’t try …”

  “I can say a lot of things to you at this moment, but something tells me it won’t matter.”

  “It really won’t.” He smiled. “Mostly because I already signed the lease … Oh, and um. I also forged your name. You were out of town, and since homelessness wasn’t an appealing option, I had to make an executive decision for us both.”

  What the fuck? “So, we’ll
definitely need a roommate.” I gritted my teeth and walked over to the refrigerator, shaking my head at the ‘I’m sooooo sorry, dude!’ note he’d placed in front of a six pack of beer. “Preferably one by the end of the week. That is, unless you’ve already covered the first month of rent?”

  “Yeah, right.” He laughed. “The new landlord took one last look at my last name and gave me the benefit of the doubt because of my dad. We have until the end of the week.”

  “Have you listed an ad anywhere yet?”

  “I’m ten steps ahead of you.” He smiled and showed me a copy of the latest student newspaper. “People have already emailed me about the space, and a few are coming by Thursday. Well, unless you want to ask your girlfriend.”

  “Ex-girlfriend. Even if she weren’t, I’d rather live with a goddamn stranger.”

  “Wait, ex?” He raised his eyebrow. “Weren’t you two just together last week?”

  “We were before she cheated.” I opened a beer and chugged it. “Want to invite a few people over for drinks to help me forget about her?”

  “Absolutely.” He smiled, pulling out his phone. “You know, if you want me to host another backyard bonfire, so I can show that I do know how to put one out—”

  “No more bonfires while you’re living with me, Greg. Ever.”

  “Yeah, that’s—” He cleared his throat. “That’s probably a good thing. For now, anyway. Sorry about your girl cheating on you, by the way. I’m sure you didn’t see that coming.”

  “I really didn’t,” I said, thinking about how Rachel somehow saw it coming miles away (literally) in her smart-ass letter. “I’ll be right back.”

  I headed outside to my car and opened my glove box. I pulled out Rachel’s port schedule and a blank sheet of paper.

  I finally knew how I was going to respond to her latest letter.

  Track 2. So It Goes … (4:23)

  Rachel

  I honestly wished that romance authors would start tacking some type of Warning: This Shit Will Never Happen to You in Real Life stickers on all their books. That one little thing could save me from getting my hopes up, from expecting each of my new relationships to end differently than the one before.

  And maybe, just maybe, if we started with the stickers on the romance books, the trend could spread to colleges who mislead people into thinking that the phrase, “Semester at Sea: Fall in Love with Your Education as You Sail,” isn’t total bullshit.

  When my academic advisor first uttered the words “Semester at Sea”, I swooned over all the things the program offered. A “cruise ship remodeled for the classroom,” a way to “take your classes on the water,” and a way “to expand your worldview by spending time at the numerous port stops in foreign countries.”

  I envisioned endless nights by the pool, countless hours spent watching the waves roll by, and making friends for a lifetime. I even convinced myself that I’d find the love of my life onboard and we would share the seas together.

  Since I was a seventeen-year-old freshman who wanted to get the hell away from my dad, Ethan Wyatt, and all things that reminded me of our small beach town, I signed my name on the dotted line for three years of the sea in a row.

  I now regretted the hell out of that decision, and the only nice thing I could say was that all the traveling might give me a slight advantage in my post-college career, since I was a Visual Arts & Design major. (Keyword: might.)

  The “endless nights at the pool” were nothing more than false hopes, since the pool was always crowded, and it closed at eight o’clock. The constant sight of rolling waves became a reminder of how much I missed seeing the shore at home, and the “friends” I made weren’t for a lifetime. They were only mine for a semester at a time.

  Most people—smart people, chose to do the “one-semester” option and treated the trip like a summer of studying abroad, and all of their “I’ll keep in touch!” promises always fizzled away after a few weeks.

  Between the nonexistent Wi-Fi, the predictable daily food in the dining hall, and the never-ending seas, this didn’t feel like the education of my dreams anymore. It was a nightmare.

  Not only that, but my hopes of finding love at sea were just as dismal. Most of the guys who joined the program were only looking for sex, and the few that weren’t? They were only good until the end of the voyage.

  In fact, my latest relationship was yet another reminder that only a sad and misinformed person would sign up for three years aboard this ship.

  “Hey, Babe.” My boyfriend of two semesters, Tate, smiled as he walked into my room. “What are you up to?”

  “Writing down some thoughts,” I said, pointing to my calendar. “I’m also counting down the minutes to my last day aboard.”

  “Cool.” He shut the door and handed me a stack of envelopes. “I checked your message box for you. Want to take a break?”

  I nodded and closed my notebook. “Let’s get coffee at the café for an hour.”

  “Well, I was thinking I could have you for an hour instead.”

  “You want to have sex?” I smiled.

  “Well, our special version of sex.” He walked over to me and pulled me up, walking me over to my bed. “We’re still not ready for the real thing yet.”

  Sighing, I lay back on the bed, fully clothed in a sweatshirt and jeans, and he flipped me over—positioning me on all fours.

  “You look so sexy in your sweatshirt, Babe,” he whispered into my ear, as he held my hips. “Are you ready to feel me?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You can’t say ‘Yeah, sure’, at a pivotal moment like this, Rachel.” He whined. “I told you what you’ll need to say to make this work for me, what I need to make sure that you’re the one. Say it.”

  “I’m beyond ready to feel you, Babe,” I said, as convincingly as possible. “I want us to become one soul.”

  “What else are you supposed to say after that?”

  “Hurry up and make me feel good, Big Bear.”

  “Yes, that’s it.” He growled. Like a goddamn grizzly. He kissed the back of my neck—moving his tongue in circles, before pushing my head down onto the mattress. He whispered something about taking things slow, and then he began grinding his sweats against my jeans. Like all the other times before that we’d done this, I could only feel a small, hard nub between his legs, and I knew I was going to have another case of jean burn on my ass cheeks when he was finished.

  “Babe, I feel like you’re not here in the zone with me,” he whispered into my ear. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here.” I faked a moan. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Oh yeah, Big Bear.” He corrected me. “Say it louder and growl with me.”

  I didn’t respond to that.

  He picked up the pace, and I felt my body begging me to do something more fulfilling with my time.

  Something like sleep …

  “Ohhh yeah,” he said. “Imagine me deep inside of you, slipping inside of your greedy wet sponge.” He grabbed at my breasts like they were detachable, growling even louder than before.

  “Ahhh….” He grinded his nub against me a few more times, and then he let me go before flopping onto the bed.

  I turned around and noticed that his entire face was coated in sweat, as if we’d actually had sex.

  What is that stain on the front of his pants? Did he really come after THAT?

  I let out a sigh and grabbed a small towel from my bin, handing it to him.

  “Was it good for you, Little Bear?” he asked.

  I nodded, still refusing to verbally answer to that name.

  We sat in silence for several minutes, and I was about to suggest that we grab an espresso from the dining hall, but he cleared his throat.

  “Do you love me, Rachel?” he asked.

  “What?” I raised my eyebrow. “We just met last semester.”

  “So?” He sat up. “I can say with all honesty that I love you.”

  “We barely know each other, Tate.”


  “Well, that’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you before we arrived at the next port …” He sat up. “I mean, even though what we just shared on your mattress was magical—just like all the other times, I don’t think you’re my soul, Rachel.”

  “You mean your soulmate?”

  “No, I mean my soul. Like, the other half of it.” He looked as if he was struggling to find the words. “I feel like you don’t get excited about the things I like anymore.”

  I leaned against the wall. “Is that because I’m not always excited about all the dry humping?”

  “It’s not dry humping, Rachel.” He looked offended. “It’s preparation for whenever we finally make love. Something I don’t think we’ll ever get to now.”

  “Okay, but—” I sighed. “Outside of the preparation for making love, I thought we were on the same page about everything else.” Well, almost everything else.

  “Ha!” He snorted. “I’ve written you tons of love notes on post-it paper, and you’ve never responded. Not once.”

  “That’s because you write all your notes in Russian.”

  “So? If you were truly in love with me, you would learn Russian,” he said. “It’s called Google translate.”

  I didn’t bother reminding him that the Russian alphabet looks nothing like the English alphabet and I wouldn’t even know where to start.

  “I find it quite telling that instead of you giving me the written devotion I need, you’d rather write letters to your friend Ethan back home.”

  “For the umpteenth time, Ethan is not my friend.”

  “Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s your enemy who you supposedly can’t stand, yet for some reason, you write him letters all the time. Is that right?”

  “We haven’t written each other in over three months.”

  “And?” He stood up and walked over to my desk—sending envelopes flying everywhere, as he yanked the left drawer open.

  “Let’s see …” He picked them up one by one. “A letter from Ethan Wyatt. A letter from Ethan Wyatt. A letter from Ethan Wyatt. A letter from Richard Dawson? Who the hell is Richard Dawson?”