Page 69 of More Than Pen Pals

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not twelve.”

“I’m telling him. Problem solved.”

* * *

I sleep like the dead and wake up to a sunshiny May Saturday. There’s nothing on my calendar for the day, so I decide I’ll spend it exploring my new neighborhood and reading LaVyrle Spencer’s latest book,Vows,that I picked up at Waldenbooks last weekend.

I sit straight up in bed when I remember Ash mailed his letter yesterday. I’m not sure if it’ll arrive today, and I don’t know what time the mail typically arrives, but I throw some clothes on and rush downstairs to the mailboxes. My hand shakes as I spin the combination lock on my box. I spot at least one envelope through the tiny window, and it takes me four tries get the combination right. By the time the box swings open, my heart is pounding. I pull out three envelopes.

The top one is from my bank. The second is from the utility company. The third has a Chicago P.O. box as a return address and is addressed in what I imagine the grown-up version of Ash’s handwriting would look like.

I press the envelope to my chest and race back upstairs. I throw the other two pieces of mail on the tiny kitchen counter and carry Ash’s letter over to my bed. I sit and look at it for a few seconds before carefully opening it and pulling out the folded piece of notebook paper. He has covered every square inch of both sides. I smooth out the creases and begin to read.

Dear Leslie,

I can’t believe I’m writing to you again after all this time—and you’re a girl. Or, to be more accurate, a woman. I want to say more, but that’s against the rules, so I’ll answer your question.

My dad has always known I want to practice law so I can help people. It’s not about the money or prestige for me. It’s about the power—the influence lawyers hold that can change people’s lives. I want to use that power to make people’s lives better, to bring justice for the wronged, to help powerless people fight the systems and leaders that oppress them.

When I came back after law school, I thought Dad would put me on pro bono cases or assign me to a few nonprofits we provide counsel for. But no, he had other plans for me—plans to break me and mold me into the cutthroat, high-visibility, high-earning attorney he wants me to be.

He had to know I would hate being assigned to Carter-Jenkins, and he wasn’t mistaken at first. Don’t get me wrong, I like the people there. George is stern and demanding but fair. Wendy understands how people tick better than anyone I’ve ever known. There’s nobody I don’t like there. But the work feels pointless in so many ways. Creating NDAs and standard PR contracts and negotiating settlements for frivolous lawsuits is not what I ever thought I’d end up doing.

However, I appreciate the unwritten philosophy behind what Carter-Jenkins does. You likely know this, but one thing George pushes on his clients is charity work. His personal motive isn’t for them to get positive publicity—though they do, and that’s sadly often why the clients agree to it—but because he wants people with money and influence to use those privileges to do good in the world.

Dad said I had to work with Carter-Jenkins for three years, and then he’d consider letting me do something else I’d rather do. I’m honestly not sure he will, but I’m trying to be positive. I’ve got a year left, and I used to think I’d simply slog through it, but lately I’ve been thinking I’d love to use this last year to prove my father wrong by working to make something happen that helps people in a big way. Diego Sanchez’s arrival may give me that opportunity. You and I need to sit down and talk about how we might help direct him to put his vast amounts of money and influence to good use.

I’ve filled up all my space, and I didn’t get to cover another topic, but I have enough room left to ask you a question.

Why did you choose Chicago instead of another big city?

Yours,

Ash

Yours.Yours.

Mine.

Is he mine?

I feel nauseous, but in a good way, if that’s a thing. This letter has filled me with so many emotions, my body doesn’t know what to do with them. What I do know is I want to find Ash and wrap my arms around him and do all number of other things to and with him. Which is why we have the rules.

What’s interesting is I don’t want to tell anyone else about Ash’s letter—not Aunt Star, not Wendy, not anybody. I want to keep it all to myself, so I’ll know things about grown-up Ash that nobody else knows.

I want to sit right down and write my letter back to him, but I also want to take some time to think about it before I do. While there are limits to how long the letters can be and how long we can spend writing them, there was no mention of how much time we can spend thinking about them. Not that I’d have any control over that, anyway. I have a feeling I won’t have many thoughts over the coming days and weeks that aren’t related to Ash Hamilton.

thirty-four

“Melissa, it’s so great to see you again after all this time.” I smile at her and stick my hand out. I’m tempted to put on a big show and open my arms for a hug, but since hugging isn’t my thing, Mom will know something’s up if I do.

Melissa places her hand in mine as she stifles a giggle. “You have certainly grown up,” she says, comically craning her neck, “and up.”

Mom looks back and forth between the two of us and then focuses in on our hands, which are still connected. I detect a gleam in her eye as I squeeze Melissa’s hand and then slowly let go of it. I focus on the top of Melissa’s head, because I’m afraid I’ll laugh if I look her in the face.

“Welcome, Melissa. Come on in,” my mother says, ushering her from the foyer toward the sitting room. “Your parents are already here.”

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