Sincerely, Yours

by Whitney G.

  “Creative Writing.”

  “Yeah, that.” He laughed. “The one that doesn’t make any money. I’ll try to find someone to fill your shifts over the next few weeks, but next time, a heads-up would be greatly appreciated. Anyway, let me run this week’s numbers by you.”

  I didn’t listen to a single word he said. I muttered “Um hmm,” and “Yeah,” every few seconds, so he would think I was paying attention.

  My father had yet to admit it, but he lived vicariously through me. He wanted us to have the relationship he never had with his own dad. Wanted to hand over his company to me, in a way his father didn’t for him.

  The idea of this was cool when I was younger—when I was tagging along to his construction worksites all week, dragging Rachel along with me to some of the more exciting meetings at baseball games. But as I grew older, I realized that although every subject in school came easy as hell to me, the only one I actually enjoyed was writing.

  I told him this on my thirteenth birthday, showing him an essay called, “I Hate My Next-Door Neighbor,” but he never read it. Instead, he laughed and said, “If you ever plan on knowing what it’s like to get a girl, I highly suggest that you don’t tell anyone what you just told me about wanting to be a writer.”

  So, I buried the thought and never brought it up again. But when I came to college, I couldn’t help but pursue it as my second major. And although I would never admit it, I enjoyed writing letters over the years; it kept my skills sharp.

  “Can I expect to see you at the grand opening of the Perlman offices next week?” My father asked, finally done talking about the numbers.

  I doubt it … “I’ll let you know later,” I said, watching a guy approach Rachel in the store. She smiled at him, quickly gave him her phone number, and blushed once he left.

  “Hey, Dad.” I watched Rachel pick up another book. “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  “You’d better, son.”

  I ended the call and crossed the street, stopping when I made it into the store. The walls were freshly coated in pink, and with the exception of the cashier and Rachel, no one else was here.

  “May I interest you in some erotica today, sir?” The cashier smiled. “Each purchase comes with a set of fluffy pink handcuffs.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I smiled, and her cheeks turned red.

  I walked over to Rachel, and she immediately turned around.

  “Why are you in this store?” she asked, making her way to the register. “The sign out front says, No Romance Haters Allowed.”

  “This place is across from my senior research assignment.” I noticed light pink makeup on her eyelids. “And I’ve told you before that I don’t hate romance. Since you know flowers, I may need your help from time to time. If I can’t find someone else who I can tolerate better, that is.”

  “Well, in that case, I’ll need your help giving me a ride to campus every day and not leaving me like you did this morning.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I pulled out my wallet and paid for her books. “How are you adjusting to the first week of classes on land so far?” I held the door open as we stepped out of the shop.

  “The classes are fine. The social life isn’t what I thought it would be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I think I’ve ruined my chances of making any life-long college friends, since I was away for so long,” she said. “Everyone already has their set group of friends and we’ll all be going our separate ways in less than nine months.”

  “Well, if you can’t make life-long friends, try making life-long enemies,” I said, smiling. “You’re great at making those.”

  “Thank you for that excellent advice.” She rolled her eyes. “Always good to remember why the two of us will never be friends.”

  “I’m always happy to remind you of that,” I said. “Just go to some more clubs and parties this week. It’s not that hard. Hell, you should probably go to one of the bars up the street right now and meet someone new. That would also save us from this conversation.”

  “Does that mean that you’re not willing to give me a ride home?”

  “It means that I’ll do it, but only if you can agree not to talk the entire way there.”

  “Ugh. Fine.”

  As we walked, I couldn’t help but notice how every man who caught sight of Rachel did a slow and noticeable double-take, and for some strange reason, I felt some type of way about that.

  When we made it to my car, I took one long look at her as she tossed her stuff onto my back seat.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she asked, looking up.

  “I’m not staring at you.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m waiting on you to remember how to ride in the front seat of a car and put on your damn seatbelt.”

  “Would you like me to sit in the back seat, then?”

  “If Greg’s stuff wasn’t back there, I’d highly suggest it.” I cranked the engine.

  “Well, if you’re going to be like that—”

  “You agreed not to talk,” I said. “If you don’t want a ride, feel free to get out. If you do want one, I would prefer driving in silence.”

  She glared at me as she clicked her seatbelt.

  She really is gorgeous as hell now …

  Back Then: 15½ Years Old

  (Well, Rachel is still 15½. I’m 16. It’s why I’m far more mature than she is …)

  Ethan

  Subject: Riding in Your Car

  Dear Ethan,

  It’s bad enough that I don’t have a driver’s permit (By the way, no one cares that you got to take one of the last tests right before our county changed the age requirement.) and my parents insist on me getting a ride to and from school with you every day, but the least you can do is not be rude as hell to me the whole time. You could at least give me time to get in your car and not start driving once I step out the front door.

  But you know what? Since I’m clearly the bigger person, I think the time has come for us to just be cordial with each other and nothing more. Since I’ll have to wait another year and a half to get my permit, do me a favor these next few months and don’t speak to me unless we’re in your car. And even then, anything other than “Hello” and “Goodbye” would be far too much.

  Fuck off and Forget You,

  Rachel

  Subject: Re: Riding in Your Car

  Dear Rachel,

  First of all, it’s bad enough that we even know each other—the specifics of why don’t really matter. If you started stepping out of your house on time, I wouldn’t have to do that.

  You’re NOT the bigger person at all. I told you that I wanted to be “just cordial” with you weeks ago, before you snitched on me about seeing cigarettes in my room. Cigarettes that weren’t even mine. (Is your life really that dull, to where you have to look out your bedroom window and into mine for entertainment?)

  Your latest snitching stunt has ended any shit about us ever being cordial again.

  Fuck off and Forget You, Too,

  Ethan

  P.S.—We both know you’re never going to get your driver’s permit because you consistently fail the written exam in Driver’s Ed. (Newsflash: The shit isn’t that hard.)

  P.P.S.—Congrats on learning how to use spellcheck for the first time in an email this year.

  Subject: Re: Re: Riding in Your Car

  Dear Ethan AND Rachel,

  Please log off your computer stations and report to the principal’s office right now. I’ve warned you two, time and time again, to stop using the school’s server to email each other these petty little notes.

  Do you have any idea how this can be misconstrued as cheating? Any idea how reckless you two are?

  You’re in the middle of taking an exam!

  Forget BOTH of you,

  Miss Washington

  I stared at Miss Washington’s email from yesterday, wondering why she didn’t end our conversation sooner, since we’d sent twenty-five emails before th
e one she decided to randomly interrupt.

  Thanks to Rachel’s pettiness, we’d been forced to leave school via an afternoon suspension for the rest of the day, and today was supposed to be a “fresh start”.

  And of course, she was late.

  I honked my horn at 7:05, knowing that she was just standing in her living room and staring at the clock. Waiting until her “preferred” pick up time of 7:15.

  At exactly 7:15, she opened the door and let up her flimsy umbrella, rushing across her front yard and into my car.

  “Would it kill you to pull all the way into my driveway?” She shook her hair, getting water all over my dashboard. “Especially on the days when it rains? That’s what a true gentleman would do.”

  “I never said I was a gentleman, especially not for you.”

  She rolled her eyes and buckled her seatbelt. Turning up the music, she pulled a bag of donuts from her backpack and handed it to me. I pointed to the fresh cup of vanilla coffee I always picked up at the new corner cafe for her.

  Even though we were hardly ever on speaking terms, we had an unwritten rule between us for the morning drives. She was responsible for getting breakfast the night before and I was responsible for picking up the hot chocolate (well, coffee for her) before I honked at her house.

  We didn’t have to like each other to adhere to that at all.

  I headed to my girlfriend Valerie’s house and pulled into her driveway. (I was a gentleman for her.) I let up an umbrella and walked to her porch, smiling at her bright pink dress and grey raincoat.

  “Morning, Ethan.” She blushed and kissed my lips.

  “Morning.” I returned her kiss and grabbed her backpack.

  “Wait, before we go, can I show you something?”

  “Now?” I looked at my watch. “We’re going to be late, if we don’t head out at this moment.”

  She kissed me again and bit my bottom lip, whispering. “It’ll be worth your while. I promise.”

  I sighed and obliged, following her inside her house and into her living room.

  “What do you think?” She pointed to two canvas paintings. One of them was a picture of a couple kissing (I thought …) and the other was of the new hotel that was across from our high school.

  “I painted ‘us’ as a present for you!” She smiled. “And since that hotel always distracts us during lunch, I decided to paint it for you, too. You want to put them in your car now or later?”

  “Later,” I said, quickly softening my tone. “I mean, it’s raining outside and I don’t want them to get wet.”

  “Oh yeah.” She smiled. “Good point.”

  I held back a sigh as she covered them with a sheet. Rachel would never stop talking shit about those pictures, if she saw them this morning. Mostly because Rachel knew how to draw better than anyone in our school and she never let me forget it.

  Ugh. Rachel’s good at almost everything. Except spelling …

  “Okay!” Valerie kissed me again. “I’ll bring them to your place this weekend.”

  We took our time walking to the car and I opened the back door for her.

  “Ugh!” She huffed and slid onto the backseat.

  I didn’t bother asking her what was wrong. The rain was falling even harder now and we were now running late, thanks to her anyway.

  As I pulled onto the street, she cleared her throat.

  “Ethan,” she said, sighing. “Why does Rachel always get to sit in the front seat of your car?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, why is it that Rachel—the girl who is not your girlfriend, is always in the front seat when you come to get me?”

  I looked at her through the rearview mirror, noticed that her arms were crossed and her face was beet red. “It’s because Rachel lives next door to me and she’s always sat in the front seat since I got this car.”

  “That’s not a good reason, Ethan.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m your girlfriend and you claim that she’s your so-called enemy, but you sure do treat her better than any enemy I’ve ever had. You treat her like she’s your best friend—more than just your best friend.”

  I rolled my eyes. This was the third time she’s picked a fight with me about Rachel and I wasn’t sure what else I could say to convince her that Rachel was just Rachel.

  There was nothing but hatred between us and there always would be.

  “Don’t you think this is messed up, Rachel?” She was still talking. “How would you feel if your boyfriend—Well, girlfriend because you’re a lesbo, right?”

  “I’m not a lesbian.” Rachel shook her head, looking completely unfazed.

  “Well, that’s what the rumors around school say. Based on the way you dress and the fact that you only hang out with guys, I’m certain you can see why people think that way. Not to mention the fact that you don’t have a single girl as a friend.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Would it bother you if I sat next to my boyfriend, please?”

  “Whatever.” Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt when we approached the next red light and climbed into the backseat. Valerie took her time letting up her umbrella and stepping outside to take two whole steps to get into the front seat.

  She kissed my cheek before buckling her seatbelt and smiled as I pulled off. Then she picked up the donut bag. “How sweet of you, Ethan! Did you get these donuts and that coffee for me?”

  “Actually, those are Rachel’s and my donuts,” I said. “Do you want me to stop somewhere so you can buy yourself some?”

  She gave me a blank stare, and then her face reddened. “Are you fucking serious?”

  Track 8. … Ready for It? (3:11)

  Rachel

  There’s a soundtrack to this town that I’ve always known by heart. It’s a compilation of sounds with special, real-world lyrics that I’d recognize anywhere. The morning tracks are always a mix of waves hitting the shore or tourists scattering across the beach to stake their claims on chairs. In the afternoon, the tracks slowly give way to the loud laughter and horns from the trolley lines, with the hard beats of residents ordering ice cream cones and cold coffee. And at night, the final tracks steal the day when the sand softly sifts back into place, and the couples share secret kisses on the beach.

  Today, I was learning the sound of a brand-new morning track. The silence of being stood up for the fifth day in a row.

  “Are you sure he didn’t call and say that he wasn’t coming?” I asked the barista at The Creamery. “Like, he had to have said something.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t call,” she said, flipping her long red hair over her shoulders. “Just like I’m sure that the guys from the past few days didn’t call and say anything either. They would’ve called you, not the coffee shop.”

  “Right …” I blew out a breath, and she moved from behind the counter—handing me a coffee.

  “It’s on the house,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Rachel.”

  “I’m Penelope, Rachel.” She extended her hand. “And something tells me that you’ve been out of the dating game for a minute.”

  “Kind of. I met all those guys at a bar, got their numbers, and after we texted for a few days, we set a date. Then, because I thought it was nice, I looked up their campus addresses and sent them a handwritten note saying how excited I was about our date later.”

  Her eyes widened. “You did what?”

  “I sent them all a note.” I shrugged. “I did that all the time when I was at Semester at Sea.”

  “Ah.” She nodded, laughing. “Okay, so you’re one of those sea-leg girls.” She picked up my cell phone and tapped the screen. “You know what? I’m going to give you my phone number and help you out from time to time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I work all the time between my classes and I need to make some new friends,” she said. “We’ve talked every day while you’ve been stood up this week, and since you don’t strike me as a psycho, I think we’ll get along. Just don�
�t look up my address and send me a letter.”

  I laughed. “I won’t.”

  “I’m here every morning, and this is our pre-rush time, if you ever want to drop by,” she said. “I’m off on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but other than that, I’m usually in class or stuck here. Feel free to text me whatever land-dating questions you may have, whenever you want. In the meantime, download Tinder and set up Facebook, since I know most of you sea-leg girls wait until the last minute to do that.”

  “I will.” I smiled. “Looking forward to it.”

  “Well, good morning, Rachel.” Greg walked into the café, smiling at me before gawking at Penelope. “Who is your friend here?”

  “I wasn’t interested in you yesterday,” Penelope said, crossing her arms. “And I’m still not interested in you today, whatever your name is.”

  “We didn’t even speak yesterday.” He winked at her, giving her one of his playful grins. “If we had, I would’ve asked you something important.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just that I can’t stop staring at a certain something that’s on your lips.” He smirked. “Would you like me to help you take it off with mine?”

  “Seriously?” She rolled her eyes. “Get the hell out of my coffee shop, Greg. Now.”

  “I thought you didn’t know my name.” He looked her over one last time and winked before leaving the store.

  I held back a laugh and stood up as customers began trickling inside. “I’ll text you sometime this week.”

  “Looking forward to it. Oh, and Rachel?”

  “Yeah?” I headed to the door.

  “For the record, if another guy suggests that you meet him at a coffee shop at seven thirty in the morning, for a first date, he probably will blow you off. That’s the standard brush-off hour.” She smiled and returned to the counter, and I stepped outside.

  Fresh out of “make a new best friend” options and officially done with Plans A through Y when it came to finding someone consistent to talk to, I decided it was time for Plan Z.