Sloane (San Diego Social Scene #8)
Chapter One
Sloane
San Diego Social Scene Book 7
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,
I’m praying this letter finds you safe and comfortable. (I loved that she always began her letters that way.)
I’m so glad your birthday package arrived on time! I was a little worried because I ended up sending your package later than I was planning. Ralph’s had been out of your favorite beef jerky, so it took me a few days to track some down.
My birthday had been at the beginning of the month, and her package had arrived exactly on the day—October fourth.
It had been the most thoughtful thing I’d ever received. When I opened it, a Happy Birthday! sign popped up at me. Inside the box were bright, festive colors—such a stark contrast to the sand hue I couldn’t escape. It was everywhere—clothing, housing, vehicles, and landscape.
I hadn’t been able to help but smile while going through the contents. I’d never met anyone as thoughtful as Ashley. She’d even included a cake I could make in a mug, along with an actual mug—because the woman thought of everything.
I couldn’t remember the last time someone had thought about a birthday cake for me. Or hell, even my birthday at all.
For my ninth birthday, my grandparents had come into town, so my parents put on a show as if it was something they did every year for me.
What a joke.
That was the only one I ever remembered celebrating as a kid. My eighteenth one was commemorated by my step-dad informing me that I’d now have to pay rent if I wanted to continue living in his house.
The ones as an adult were either spent overseas or in a strip club with my buddies, usually at their insistence as a means of celebrating. Although the lap dances my friends would buy me were spent with the woman a foot away from me. It wasn’t like I complained—I definitely liked to watch; I just didn’t let any strippers touch me. God only knew how many men those chicks had grinded on in a night. I had a thing about cleanliness, probably because I’d been raised in filth. My compulsion for things to be clean and orderly had served me well in boot camp, but I knew I needed to try to keep it in check in my everyday life. No easy feat.
When my birthday had rolled around, I’d almost forgotten what day it was. Not even when her package arrived had I given it a second thought. Then I opened the box, and almost felt like a kid again. That was just one of the many little things she did to make me feel so damn special.
I wanted to return the favor on her birthday and told her that we were going to celebrate big for her twenty-eighth, since I knew I was probably going to miss her twenty-seventh, not to mention Christmas and Valentine’s Day.
It had seemed serendipitous that the next day I learned half my company was going home for ten days in time to celebrate Thanksgiving and the other half would be arriving for Christmas. I tried to schedule the men who had kids for Christmas, and had no problem being in the group to go for Thanksgiving. It coincided with Ashley’s birthday on November thirtieth. It looked like I was going to be able to make good on my promise a year earlier than I’d planned.
I continued reading about her day, then opened the next envelope, skimming until I found what I was hoping for.
I would be honored to be a part of your welcoming party on November 27th -ish LOL! Of course, I understand I need to be flexible about the exact date. I’ll wait to hear from your friend Ryan.
And I would love for you to take me out on my birthday! I can’t believe you might really be here to help me celebrate. Just know, you being home is the only present I need, so don’t get any crazy ideas about a gift.
I’ll see what I can do about sending a photo of me in your next care package. Although, I have to be honest… I checked out your Instagram like you told me to, and you’re kinda out of my league. I’m worried you might be disappointed.
Not possible.
In my letter telling her I was coming home for Thanksgiving and inviting her to the airport along with the rest of my welcoming committee, I’d asked her to send me a photo.
“I’m not trying to be pervy or anything, I just want to know what you look like, so I know who to look for when I get off the plane. If you haven’t already, check out my Instagram.”
Her next paragraph was cryptic.
I probably should have sent one the second we started talking about more than the weather differences between San Diego and where you’re at. You need to see what I look like before this goes any further.
What the hell did that mean?
I let my imagination run wild about what she was trying to say.
Was she morbidly obese—like so much so that she was bedridden? Probably not, since she worked at the VA as a physical therapist assistant.
Older than the twenty-six years she’d told me? Was she disfigured? Or maybe the other end of the speculation spectrum and she was drop-dead gorgeous? I kind of hoped not—I’d dated women like that before and they had been a lot of work. I didn’t mind high maintenance women, but a few of them had been over-the-top.
Yet with each scenario I conjured up, I realized she could be as attractive as a fencepost or a goddamn supermodel, and I’d still think she was perfect for me. Because I knew her soul.
In my mind, she was beautiful, no matter what. I’d be a fool not to pursue her when I returned from this deployment for good. I’d thought her being from San Diego had been another sign from the universe that she was the one , since none of my other pen pals had been from anywhere near California.
The rest of her letter was more about her everyday life. Things that maybe to anyone not stuck overseas in a sandbox might find boring, but I treasured every miniscule detail. It’s what got me through the hardest days.
The package had the latest date, so I saved it for last. It was the one I'd been waiting for.
I was finally going to know what she looked like—this woman I’d slowly been falling for through her cards and letters.
My hands shook as I cut the tape that sealed the box. Inside were the usual thoughtful things she’d send with each package: socks, sunblock, lip balm, batteries, cookies in a resealable bag then wrapped in bubble wrap, along with other items that I didn’t register as I removed them in search of what I was looking for.
Finally, at the bottom of the box were two envelopes. One I recognized immediately as the pink stationary she wrote her letters on, and the other was a plain white envelope with a yellow Post It note on the front that read, “I hope we can still at least continue to write each other.”
WTF?
Sliding my index finger along the back flap, I opened the envelope and pulled out her picture then sucked in a deep breath. She was stunning.
Her long brown hair looked like silk as it fell below her shoulders, and I flexed my fingers as I imagined what it would feel like in my hands.
Her button nose was perfect. And her full, pink, glossy lips were just begging to be kissed. And her smile… it was just like I imagined—warm and inviting.
Studying the photo, I tried to determine if her round eyes were green or hazel. It looked like she had a port wine stain birthmark along her temple that ran under her right eye.
Was that what she was worried about?
If so, I was going to have to make sure she knew I thought her imperfection only made her more beautiful.
God, I couldn’t wait to hold her in my arms.
Thanksgiving couldn’t get here fast enough.
In the meantime, I’d lay on my cot and daydream about a future that included waking up to my dream girl every morning instead of waiting impatiently for her letters to arrive.