Page 109 of More Than Pen Pals

“Again, you didn’t ask. I’m offering.” Even if Diego decides not to move forward with the foundation, I’ve learned enough about immigration issues over the past week that I know I have to do something about it—with or without him.

I’m about to ask if I can share her story with Diego when an idea comes to me so quickly, I can almost see the imaginary lightbulb over my head. “Carmela, are you free next Wednesday morning at ten o’clock?”

Her brow furrows. “I am usually sleeping then, but if you need something, I will be happy to help.”

“Well, you’ll be helping me, but you may also be helping yourself. Would you be willing to share your story about Javier with a few of my friends at a meeting on Wednesday?”

She thinks for several seconds and then nods. “Yes. If you trust these people, then I trust them. I will tell my story.”

* * *

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and before I know it, Saturday is almost here—or “doomsday,” as Randall has been referring to it. He can’t stop reminding me about my talk with Mom tomorrow.

He’s at my place after work on Friday, which hasn’t happened since he first moved back a year ago. A month after he came back, he met Colleen, and after that I saw little of him outside of work.

The Cubs are out of town, which means they’re playing a night game, so we’ve tuned into WGN. We’re watching the game while reminiscing about junior high and what happened to all our former friends, few of whom we still keep in touch with. Most of them left the area for prep school or college and haven’t returned.

“What about those two girls Melissa was always with?” Randall asks from the couch. “What were their names?”

“Crystal and Shelley.”

“Ah, yes. Crystal was the blonde.”

“Yep.”

He takes a swig of his beer and says nonchalantly, “I had a thing for her.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“What?” he asks defensively. “She was cute.”

“And dumber than a bag of sticks.”

“Like I cared when I was thirteen.”

“Do you care now?”

“I do. I kinda even want a woman who’s smarter than me … although she’d be a rare find.” He chuckles at himself.

“I know a woman who is most definitely smarter than you. Goes by the name of—”

“Ashley.” His tone is full of warning.

I don’t heed it. “Nope, her name is not Ashley.”

He grabs a coaster from the coffee table and flings it at me. I snag it with one hand and flip it back onto the table without a word.

“So Leslie and Melissa are going to dinner.” I note he doesn’t also mention Wendy’s name, although he knows she’s tagging along, too. “How do you feel about that?”

I sigh. “I’m okay with it, because even though Melissa completely understood why I had to cancel on her, I still felt bad. So if she and Leslie get along and become friends, hopefully that’ll make this whole mess worthwhile. But, at the same time, …”

“They’ll spend a good chunk of their time together talking about you,” my brother finishes for me.

“Yeah.” I don’t love the idea of the two of them comparing notes on me.

“Get used to it. That’s what women do. They talk about us, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

His declaration makes me a little uneasy—not only the women-talking-about-us part, but also the stereotypical attitude he has about it.

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