Chapter Twenty-Four
Brittany
Please. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and turn the key in the lock of my mailbox. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. I don’t know why this has become the most apprehensive part of my day.
I’ve literally been in court all week. Presenting evidence and arguing points should be way more nerve-racking than just checking my mail. But alas, here I am, worked up over a letter that I’m certain won’t come.
And it’s all my fault.
My stomach stays knotted up as I swing the small metal door open, then open one eye, peering through a blurry lens at what I know is going to be disappointing.
And it is.
My shoulders immediately sag beneath my black blazer as I open a second eye, seeing nothing at all in the box. There’s not even a bill. No junk mail. Just … nothing.
The disappointment hits harder than it should. Not only because there isn’t a letter, but also because writing back had become part of my day—something small that was mine. Something I chose. And now, even that feels like it slipped out of my hands.
“You check your mail more than anyone I’ve ever met,” a voice says, and I blow out a sigh, already knowing who it is—the redheaded lady who basically finds my entire existence something to poke at every time she sees me.
“Doesn’t everyone check their mail once a day?” I keep my voice light as I shut the box, locking it.
She folds her arms across her chest from behind the desk, eyeing me with her usual judgmental gaze. “Well, sure. But you check it in the morning and in the evening. Like the postman’s gonna drop by an extra time or something.”
Okay, she pays way too much attention to me.
“He could run late,” I reason, shrugging my shoulders as I drop my keys back into my bag. “It could happen.”
“He comes at two o’clock in the afternoon every day.” She snorts, shaking her head at me. “I think you got something important coming. You in trouble or something?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “No, I’m not in trouble.
” Not the kind you’re thinking of. “I just have a friend who writes me sometimes.” I know I’m giving her way more information than I should, but the last thing I want the woman doing is conjuring up that I’m in tax trouble …
or whatever other kind of trouble she’s referring to.
“A friend, huh?” The look that flashes across her face is unmistakable. This woman thinks I’m a lunatic. “Using snail mail?”
“It’s just something we started doing.” I jump to our defense, but I don’t know why. I seriously don’t owe this woman any kind of explanation for anything I do. She just works the front desk.
“So, why not just call your friend and ask them why they haven’t sent you another letter or package?” She leans back in her chair, raising her brows in the same way the judge did today in court.
“I don’t have his phone number.”
That gets a smile to form on her face.
“So, you’re telling me that you have a friend sending you letters, it’s a he, and he doesn’t even have your phone number, but he sends you consistent mail? Are you pretending this is the fifties? You know they have groups for that.”
Yeah, it’s called therapy.
“It’s not like that. I’m sure I could find his phone number if I needed to, but…” My voice trails off. Why in the world am I still trying to justify anything to her? “Never mind.”
“You should just call him,” she calls after me as I head for the elevator. “You’d be amazed at how quickly you can get a hold of someone.”
“Thank you for the information,” I mutter under my breath, nearly punching the Up button on the wall. As much as I can’t stand the woman picking at me, she’s right.
I could just call Weston.
I could tell him that I’m sorry for being so weird about the kiss, and that we can still be pen pals, if he wants. I could say sorry for poking fun at the way he wants to find love so badly.
But then what? My stomach knots as I step inside, wrapping my arms around myself. Because the moment I open the door back up for Weston, I’m going to owe him a reason.
For the kiss.
For not stopping it.
I could’ve easily told him “no” the moment he leaned in and pressed his lips against mine. But that’s not what I did.
Because I liked it.
And that part scares me more than I want to admit.
I swallow hard as I ride the elevator up. I know there’s something beneath the surface when it comes to Weston. He has everything a woman could ever want—stability, looks, humor, and integrity.
But something still feels off as I step into my apartment and set my things down on the kitchen island. My eyes shift to my painting on the wall, the one Weston’s gift card compelled me to paint. My heart squeezes at the thought of the first gesture—the one that led to our writing exchange.
Ugh. Why did I have to go and ruin everything?
My phone vibrates against the counter just as I’m about to walk away, intending to take a shower. I scoop it up and smile as Harlee’s text message comes through.
Harlee: Still on for a movie night tonight?
I send her back an “Absolutely! I’ll order pizza now!” and proceed to do exactly as I told her, ordering a large supreme for the two of us to split. I then make my way to my room, strip off my work clothes for the day, and head straight for the shower.
Maybe the hot water will wash away the confusion and disappointment.
“I swear I could eat this pizza every freaking day.” Harlee groans as she leans back against my couch, taking a bite of her second slice.
“You know,” she adds, chewing, “you haven’t told me anything about the birthday party you went to recently. It was for your pen pal guy, right?”
I cringe at her words and glance toward the TV, wishing I’d started the rom com we picked out a few minutes ago. “It was just a party.”
“Okay, but…” She swallows. “This is the man who mailed you a Superman cape. There’s no way you don’t have anything to tell me at all. Was it just too crowded? Did you not get to talk to him?”
I chew on my lower lip, unsure of exactly what to tell her. I don’t know if I’m ready to admit to the full scale of everything that went … wrong. “Um…”
She straightens. “Something happened.”
“I just—” I exhale. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
Her pizza lands on the plate. “Brittany.”
I wince. “We had a moment. It got … tense, and I may or may not have told him he only likes me because he’s desperate to be in love.” The words hurt coming out. “And then he said he wouldn’t bother me anymore.”
“And?” she prompts.
“And he hasn’t.”
Harlee doesn’t react. Instead, she studies me, calm and unreadable. It’s a classic lawyer move, and apparently, it’s one that she’s very good at. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat. “That’s it?
“I think there’s more to the story,” she says lightly. “And I’m guessing you’re not thrilled with how it ended.”
I look down. “I just want things to go back to how they were—writing letters, being normal. He’s my brother’s best friend. There’s no way it could ever be more than that.”
“Uh-huh, sure.” She huffs. “That’s funny.”
“There’s nothing funny about it,” I counter.
“You like him,” she insists.
“I just got out of an engagement—”
“Months ago,” Harlee reminds me. “You’re allowed to feel things.”
“Okay, sure. But all I’ve ever done is build my life around whoever I’m with,” I admit. “Their schedule. Their needs. Their dreams. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I don’t recognize myself anymore.”
My gaze drifts to the painting on the wall.
“I just got pieces of me back, Harlee, and I’m scared to let someone close enough to take them again.”
Harlee’s expression softens. “Okay … that part makes sense.” She shifts closer on the couch. “But being with someone doesn’t have to mean disappearing into them. The right person doesn’t replace your world, Brit, they fit into it.”
Her eyes follow mine to the painting. “They don’t take things from you. They make room for them.”
I swallow. “That sounds really nice.”
And painfully far away.
She waits.
“I just don’t know how to let someone in without rearranging everything,” I admit. “I don’t know how to not disappear.”
“And that’s okay.” She shifts closer on the couch.
“I hate that I hurt him.” I sigh.
“He put something out there,” she says gently, “and you weren’t ready. Neither of those things are wrong.” She gives a small shrug. “They just collided.”
My chest tightens.
“I do think you should write to him,” she continues gently. “Not to open a door you’re not ready to walk through. Just … to own your part. To apologize for hurting him.”
“But what if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“Then at least you won’t be carrying this around anymore,” she says. “And besides, he’s your brother’s best friend. You’re not exactly disappearing from each other’s lives.”
I stare at my untouched pizza. “Maybe I will write to him—say I’m sorry.”
Harlee nods. “That’s all I’m saying. Make amends.”
“But what if he doesn’t reply?” I ask quietly.
“Then you let it go.” She shrugs. “Or—wild idea—you use a phone. I know you love the vintage romance of the postal service, but sometimes modern technology exists for a reason.”
I take a deep breath, leaning back in the arm chair. “I guess … my best option for making amends is to write to him, considering I freaked out when I was around him…” And he kissed me.
I don’t know why I’m keeping that detail from Harlee, but something about it feels too private to share. Maybe it’s because I’m used to having these personal conversations with my journal, so to tell it to a living, breathing person is way more terrifying.
“I think you should,” Harlee says, confidence in her tone. Then she pauses, pursing her lips. “Also—completely unrelated—but you know who may be the most unhappy person alive?”
“Who?” I laugh.
“The lady who works the front desk of your apartment. I don’t think she’s ever smiled at me. I think next time I’m going to bring her some flowers or something … Try to brighten her mood.”
“Ha.” I giggle. “Good luck with that.”
She turns to me, grinning. “And good luck with your pen pal.”