Page 1 of Sloane

Chapter One

Sloane

“Mail call!” Shawn O’Brien, my second lieutenant called as he walked into the mess tent holding a canvas sack containing letters and packages. The Marines hanging out at the tables instantly quieted, listening intently as O’Brien called out names from the stack of mail he’d pulled from the bag.

“Jacobs!”

My most senior first lieutenant jumped up from his seat to take the envelope being offered.

“O’Bri—oh, that’s me,” the man said with a grin. He came to the next piece of mail. “Me, again. Oh, this one too.”

He dropped the letters in a separate pile. Everyone knew O’Brien would receive at least a handful of letters, probably along with some packages.

I had signed the entire company up—myself included—with Military Angels, the organization that paired people to correspond with service members overseas, and letters began to arrive at camp shortly after Labor Day, not long after we did.

O’Brien had hit the jackpot when he was matched with a fourth-grade class. Not only did the kids write him weekly, but their teacher did, too, and some of the parents sent him care packages in addition to the one the class sent to him every month.

A few of the sergeants had church groups that also spoiled them with a deluge of letters and packages—which was a windfall for the rest of the company, too. One Marine could only eat so many baked goods before they went bad. But most of us just had one thoughtful person corresponding weekly and sending a package monthly.

The thoughtful people who did that for service members were extraordinary. I enrolled my men with every tour we deployed, so I’d had a few pen pals during my time overseas. But I never imagined having feelings for one.

Yet here I was. Anxiously awaiting letters from a woman I’d not only never met but had no idea what she even looked like. And still, I was ninety-nine percent sure I was in love with her.

“A love letter for Captain Davidson,” the second lieutenant said with a smirk as he dropped the pink envelope on the table where I sat. I didn’t even try denying it—everyone had seen the goofy grin on my face when I’d read her letters.

Our weekly exchange had started innocuous enough—nothing outside the norm. Ashley would tell me about her week, her observations on life, and she’d inquire about me and my company, and send awesome care packages—far more than the monthly one the Angels organization required. Her thoughtfulness had compelled me to write back right away, and our exchanges soon became a lot more than me just saying “thank you for the beef jerky”.

I wasn’t inappropriate, I just found myself telling this stranger with perfect penmanship things I’d never tell someone in person. It had been so easy to bare my soul to her—probably because the first time I did, I’d thought I’d never actually meet her in real life. Throughout our correspondence, I found myself opening up to her in ways I’d never done before. Not even with the therapists I’d seen on and off over the years.

She’d responded in kind, and I might have fallen a little more in love with every letter we’d exchanged over the last two months.

I had found myself looking forward to her witty letters and told her as much. Then she started writing daily, and I reciprocated. As we began to reveal more about ourselves, our exchanges became flirty and soon, I envisioned more with her than just being her pen pal. It had felt like fate to discover she was also from San Diego. I’d never corresponded with someone from my hometown before, and now… well, now I wanted her there waiting on the tarmac with the rest of the families when I returned home with my company.

Glancing at the date in the lefthand corner, I knew there would be more. We’d started writing each other every day about a month ago, but since mail where we were in the Middle East was unpredictable at best, usually several days’ worth of letters would arrive at once—at the same time all mine were sent. We dated the envelopes, so they’d be read in the right order. Eyeing the stack in O’Brien’s hand for more pink envelopes, I waited patiently for my name to be called again.

O’Brien came to another pink envelope and called out, “Franklin!”

Unfazed, I held out my hand. “Nice try.”

“Dammit,” the second lieutenant grumbled as he slapped the letter into my waiting palm. “She needs a new color.”

“No, she doesn’t,” I said as I arranged the envelope by date in the stack.

She didn’t need to change a damn thing about herself.

“Oooh, a package,” O’Brien said with a smirk as he dropped a box in front of me.

The perfect penmanship on the address label, along with the hand-drawn design on the box, made my heart beat a little faster, and I couldn’t help but smile as I traced my finger over the drawing.

I’d never anticipated a piece of mail more in my entire life—and that included my college acceptance letters. Not that any of them had mattered once I decided to enlist instead of going to school. Fortunately, I eventually completed my degree and became an officer—which had been my original plan all along, I just took the long route to it.

Lost in thought, I continued tracing the swirly design on the box. Her letters and packages were always the bright spot in days otherwise filled with dust, heat, sand, and trying to keep my Marines alive.

When the mailbag was empty, I gathered my stack and headed to my bunk to be alone when I read my mail and opened my package.

Opening the pink envelope with the earliest date, I took a deep breath in. She must have been spritzing the stationary with her perfume, because for the last month, her letters had smelled fucking awesome. I’d tuck the most recent letter in my inner jacket pocket and would sneak sniffs like a cokehead doing a bump.

Dear Sloane,

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