Page 73 of More Than Pen Pals

“I always have time for you. Tell me all of it.”

I make myself comfortable on my bed and tell him most of what’s happened over the past few days.

When I’m finished, he says, “I’m coming up there to meet this guy. I’m not sure I believe he not only forgave you but now wants to date you.”

I’m so not ready for my brother to meet Ash, but I want him to visit—for my sake and so he can meet Wendy. I don’t know if I want the two of them to hit it off or not, but if I ever want Wendy to shut up about him, I need to get them in the same room.

“I’d love to see you,” I say. “But Ash and I agreed not to see each other outside of work for now.”

“I don’t care. Your rules are not my rules. I cannot approve of what you’re doing until I check Ash out for myself. If you say no, I’ll come anyway. I now know where he works, and I don’t need your consent.”

While I want to say I’m a modern woman and don’t need my brother’s approval of my potential boyfriends, I do care whether the two most important men in my life like each other.

“Fine.” I sigh. “When can you come?”

“I’ll start driving as soon as I get off the phone.”

“Ha. Seriously, when?”

“Next weekend I have Danny’s wedding, so it’ll have to be the following weekend.”

“Oh, yeah. Tell Danny I say congrats.” Danny Taylor has been my brother’s best friend since he moved to our hometown in sixth grade.

“Will do. And I’ll let you know my flight information once I know it.”

“Good. But I probably won’t be able to meet you at the airport.”

“I think I can figure out how to get to your place on my own. And I’m staying with you, so dust off the sleeping bag I stuffed into the top of your Munchkin-sized closet expressly for that purpose. Before I go, though, where are you with the Glenn thing? You still mad at him?”

I tell him about last night.

“What an idiot,” he says. “Forget about him, Les. You deserve much better.”

“Thanks, Shan. Love you.”

“You, too. See you in a couple weeks.”

* * *

On Sunday morning, I walk to a church several blocks away. I haven’t been to church in too long, and when I’m sitting in the back pew singing the familiar hymns and listening to the preacher speak, I feel calmer than I have since I moved here.

The church isn’t too far from the lake, so I pick up a sandwich and Coke at a deli nearby and take my lunch to the beach to eat it. I watch a family playing frisbee and daydream about doing the same with my husband and kids someday. Unsurprisingly, my future husband looks a lot like Ash.

As I sit and stare at the waves gently lapping at the shore with my chin propped on my knees, I think about what Ash said in his letter. I want him to use his power to do good in the world, too. My heart races at the thought of possibly doing that with him, starting with Diego Sanchez. I wonder what Ash is thinking on that front. From what I know about Diego, I think he might be open to using his money to help others. While I head back home, I think about all the possibilities.

When I arrive back at my apartment, I jot down my thoughts and stick the notes in my briefcase. Then I settle in to write my letter to Ash. I already know I’ll be spending more than a half hour on it, but what Ash doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

thirty-six

Iknow it’s pointless to stop and check my post office box Monday morning on my way to work, because there’s no way I already have a response from Leslie, especially after the way we left things on Friday. Still, I’m disappointed when the box is empty.

Thankfully I have a busy morning, so I don’t have much time to brood about Leslie. But when I finally have a short break at noon, I drive back to the post office because I simply can’t help myself.

When I discover an envelope inside my box, I freeze. My hand shakes when I reach in and pull it out. Like the lovesick fool I am, I lift it to my nose to see if it smells like her perfume.

It does.

I stick the letter into the inside pocket of my suit coat and walk back to my car as casually as possible. When I slip into the driver’s seat, I pull the envelope back out and stare at it. Then I carefully open it and slide out a light-purple sheet of lined stationery. Leslie’s handwriting looks different than I remember, and I wonder if she made her writing look more masculine when we were kids.

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