Page 19 of More Than Pen Pals

“Not quite ready.” I call for a busboy to remove our dishes and then pour Leslie another glass of wine. “Now we’re ready.”

She looks down at her lap. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Will it help if I ask questions?” Law school trained me well in that area.

She nods.

“All right.” I take a deep breath and ask the question I most want—and least want—to know the answer to. “Did you know I was a boy from the beginning? Or that I thought you were a boy?”

“No,” Leslie says forcefully, as she shakes her head, still looking down.

I briefly close my eyes in relief at her response. “When did you figure it out?”

She peeks up at me through her eyelashes.

I lean toward her. “You can look at me, all right? I promise I won’t lash out at you again. I simply want to know the truth.” Including the parts I might not like.

“Okay.” She raises her head and gives her body a little shake, and I can almost see her confidence increase, which fills me with an odd sense of pride.

“I figured both out with the same letter. It was when you sent the first picture.”

I nod. I can still see that family photo in my head.

“The moment I saw it I knew you were a boy. Then I read the letter.”

I have no idea what I wrote in that letter, but I bet she could quote it word for word.

“At the very end,” she says, “you asked if it was weird having a girl as my twin. At first the question confused me, but then I realized that like I thought I was writing to a girl, you thought you were writing to a boy. You assumed I was the boy in my family photo, which meant Shannon was the girl.”

I remember asking the question, and I remember her response. “You said you didn’t care if your twin was a boy or a girl—you would love them the same.”

“It was the truth,” she says defensively, though I hadn’t used an accusatory tone.

“I know. But you didn’t exactly answer the question.” I cock my head. “How many times did you give me a half truth or not answer a question to keep from telling me the whole truth?”

She avoids my eyes and picks at a fingernail. “A lot. But I never did lie.”

I study her face in the flickering candlelight until she meets my gaze again. “Why did you decide not to tell me you’re a girl?” I thought the first question I asked was the most important one, but I’ve changed my mind. This one is. Her answer will determine whether we can salvage our friendship, and I realize with a jolt that I hope we can. Regardless of how this dinner came to be, I’ve enjoyed it. A lot.

“I was afraid you’d stop writing to me if I told you. I liked you. Our lives were so very different, but we had so much in common. I loved writing the letters, and I looked forward to getting yours and finding out more about you. I didn’t want that to end.”

It was the answer I was hoping for, and I pray it’s the entire truth. I understand what she’s saying, because it’s the same way I felt about writing to Les—to her.

“When I was ten,” she says, “I didn’t think much about the consequences of my actions. It seemed harmless, even though my aunt warned me not to do it.”

“Aunt Star?” Leslie talked about her aunt a lot in her letters.

“Yes. She’s the only person I ever told about you being a boy.”

“Your parents didn’t know?”

She shakes her head. “They still don’t. At the time, I knew they wouldn’t like the idea of me writing to a boy—and especially not as we got older. They might have been partly okay with it when I was ten, but not when I was twelve or thirteen. They would’ve made me stop then, but I didn’t want to. You were so understanding and,” she dips her head, and a blush climbs up her neck, “you were cute. It kind of felt like I had a boyfriend, if I forgot about the fact that you didn’t know I was a girl.”

Her confession knocks the wind out of me.

She keeps going, “But most of all, I didn’t tell them because then I’d have to tell you I was a girl, which I was sure would mean you would stop writing to me. My parents wouldn’t have allowed me to not tell you the truth.”

I’m relieved to hear the adults in her family weren’t in on the charade. Or at least not all of them. “But your aunt thought it was fine you didn’t tell me?”

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