Chapter Nineteen
To: Peyton Turner
From: Bo Porter
Peyton,
I’ve never beaten around the bush before and I’m not going to start now. In fact, I’ve been blunt with you to the point of being an asshole. So before I say anything to you, I want you to know that I’ve been granted parole.
I’m getting out Friday.
My hearing was last week and I admit I should’ve told you. I didn’t because I’m an asshole. Because I know this is just a dream for you. A fantasy on paper. A safe way to have an adventure. The felon you’ve been writing to suddenly on the other side of the bars is the opposite of that.
I get it. I also get that what I’m about to say is probably the last thing I should say to you. If someone else had said this to you, I’d tell you to run. Or call the cops. I’d tell you to tear his letter into pieces and never write back.
But I have to.
I will be at the university cafe, next Tuesday at 11AM (around the same time I usually get your letters on the inside).
I’ll order a cup of coffee, and I’ll find a seat in the direct view of the entrance.
I’ll sit there for an hour, until the clock strikes twelve, looking at the door, hoping to see a girl come in wearing a white dress.
I’m telling you this because I want that girl to be you. The girl who filled my lonely days with her words.
Bo