Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Brittany
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
“There will be nothing,” I tell myself under my breath for the hundredth time as I try to push away the tightness in my chest. I stab the key into the lock and turn, holding my breath as the door swings open.
No way!
My heart jumps to my throat as I reach in, my fingers brushing a plain white envelope. There’s an urgency in the way I pull it out, my eyes raking over the blocky, black lettering.
He actually wrote me back.
But I don’t let myself get too excited over it. I mean, he could totally have written me a hateful letter and ignored the truce. He could be telling me to leave him alone…
Ugh.
I slide my index finger under the tab and peel the flap open, trying not to do any damage to the letter itself. I pull the contents out, a smile stretching across my lips as I catch sight of the back of a picture.
Buddy. I read the word, unsure of exactly what conclusion I’m supposed to draw from that until I manage to flip it over in my hand.
It’s a dog.
A very large, brown dog, who I can assume is Buddy.
He’s got his tongue lolling out, and he’s sitting beside a park bench, the leash leading to whoever was taking the picture—Weston, presumably.
I admire the cute, not-so-little fluff ball and then return my attention to the letter.
It’s written on a piece of notebook paper this time.
“You’re blocking the boxes,” the lady who works behind the counter—and I think hates me—calls out.
“Sorry,” I mutter, taking a few steps back and resting against a plain wall. Right beside me, there’s a picture that matches the strange one that once hung in my apartment. A light laugh slips from my lips as I think about what started this whole thing.
But it fades as soon as I unfold the paper.
Well, this is short.
A frown pulls at my mouth as I realize it doesn’t even make it halfway down the page. He’s barely written me anything at all, but I try to shrug that off as I start to read.
Brittany,
Happy First Day of Summer! I hope you’re staying cool.
I heard that it’s supposed to be a hot one.
It always seems weird to me that summer starts at the end of June.
It feels like the start of summer is May, but maybe that’s because school always gets out for summer vacation in May? Hmm. What are your thoughts?
Best,
Weston
P.S. I started volunteering at an animal shelter, and I accidentally made too good of friends with a dog named Rambo. I took him home. Oh, and changed his name. Meet Buddy. Haha.
My teeth press together tightly as I fold the notebook paper back into the thirds that it had been folded in to make it fit in the envelope. I take one last look at Buddy, who has the sweetest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, and then put that picture back in the envelope as well.
I should be relieved. This is what I asked for.
Polite. Easy. Friendly.
Weston didn’t mention the party, or the kiss, or the truce. He hasn’t said anything that could make my pulse stutter or my thoughts spiral. He’s stayed right on the surface.
So why does it feel like something just closed instead of opened?
I swallow hard, running my fingers through my blonde hair. They tangle in the leftover hairspray that was sprayed there early this morning. I wince at the feeling, and then head for the elevator.
As I smash the Up button, my phone vibrates in the pocket of my blazer. I fish it out, not surprised to see Harlee sending me another meme of some sort that she found on the internet. Normally, I’d open it and probably laugh, but today?
Nope. I use it as an excuse to call her.
“Well, hey,” Harlee drawls as she answers. “It’s been a minute since we talked. Literally. A minute.” She bursts into a giggle.
I try to laugh, but my stomach is in knots. “Ha, yeah … I know I just saw you at work … but what’re you doing tonight? I got another letter.” I blurt the last sentence out like I’m holding back some great secret, and the moment of silence from Harlee only makes it feel more so.
She finally lets out a breath. “You don’t sound like the letter is a good thing. You sound … apprehensive.”
“It just…” My voice trails off, and I suddenly feel stupid for being so nitpicky about it. “I don’t know.”
“I’m on my way,” she says. “Whatever’s in this letter must be important. I took a handwriting analysis class in college. I can totally try to analyze what’s up with him.”
“I mean, the handwriting is the same though,” I reason, hesitating outside of the elevator as the doors slide open. I decide to wait for Harlee, opting to also ignore the stares from the front desk lady.
“I’m just citing my credentials.”
“Got it.” I laugh, finding relief in my best friend’s humor. She’s seriously been one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.
And the moment she steps through the front doors of the apartment complex, I feel even more of that relief.
“You look tense.” Harlee’s brows knit together. “You’ve got me thinking he said something bad. Do I need to take a trip to his side of the city? Because I will.”
“No.” I shake my head, pushing off the wall. “It’s more like … what he didn’t say?” I glance down at the envelope cradled in my hand.
“Okay, okay.” Harlee blows out a sharp breath.
“I’ve got this. We can totally dig into it.
” She hits the button for the elevator and the doors immediately slide open.
“I want you to gather all the letters you have from him and lay them out on the table, and I will order us pizza. I’m starving, and I need fuel to do this level of investigating.
” The seriousness in her tone contradicts the grin on her face, and I can’t help but laugh.
“You should also totally change into something more comfy,” she adds, eyeing me as the elevator rises.
“And spare me a pair of sweatpants too, because I might die if I have to wear these slacks all evening.” Her eyes drop to her work attire, which basically mirrors my own.
She couldn’t have been more than a few blocks from me before I called her.
“I can supply sweatpants,” I confirm. “And I can also buy the pizza, since you’ll be providing your sleuthing services.”
She gives me a curt nod, her hair bouncing against her shoulder. “You got it. I’ll totally let you do that. Between you and my boyfriend, I’ll never have to buy another meal for the rest of my life.”
“Wait…” I narrow my eyes at her. “Your boyfriend?”
A mischievous grin tugs at her lips. “I mean, that’s what he called himself as of a few minutes ago. He even popped the question. Well, you know, the will you be my girlfriend question.”
“Aw.” I use my free arm to pull her into a side hug as we reach my floor. “I’m so happy for you Harlee.” And I mean it—I do. Even if there’s a tiny, tiny pang of jealousy that accompanies that happiness for her.
“Yes, but that’s neither here nor there.” She dismisses me as she steps out into the hallway and heads for my door. “This evening is about figuring out what’s going on with your pen pal.”
We step into the entryway of my place, and I set the letter down on the kitchen island. “I’ll go grab the others.”
“I’ll order pizza.”
Over the next few minutes, I gather every single letter Weston’s sent me and lay them out in the order I received them, spreading them across the kitchen island like a paper timeline. Envelopes. Notecards. Folded pages softened from being opened too many times.
I even grab the jacket he let me wear on the walk home the night we went ice skating, and drape it over a chair. Then I go one step further and pull the red Superman cape from my nightstand, smoothing it out and laying it beside the letters like it belongs there.
Because it does.
Harlee sets her phone down once the pizza has been ordered.
“Okay … what’s the jacket for?” she asks.
I glance at it, then at her. “He gave it to me. The first night we really talked.”
She smirks. “Of course he did.” Her gaze drifts from the jacket to the cape to the spread of letters. “Wow, Brit…”
She leans in, starting to sift through the pages, smiling and giggling softly to herself. “He’s totally into you, but I already knew that.”
“Yeah … then he kissed me at the party—”
Harlee’s head snaps up.
“Wait. Hold on.” She blinks at me. “He kissed you?! You never told me that!”
I shift my weight, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the countertop. “You didn’t exactly ask.”
“Brittany.” Her voice slows, sharpens. “You’re telling me, now, that your mysterious, letter-writing, Superman-cape-sending pen pal kissed you, and you just … skipped over that part?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “It didn’t feel like something I could just … summarize.”
She carefully sets the letter down. “Okay, then don’t. How was it?”
“It was … just a kiss,” I say.
Even to my own ears, it sounds like a lie I’ve outgrown.
Harlee crosses her arms, unimpressed.
I let out a breath. “Okay, fine. It was…” I search for the words, my stomach fluttering as the memory rises. “It was the kind of kiss that makes the whole world go quiet. Like everything else backed away and it was just … him. His hands were warm, steady. And for a second, I just felt … safe.”
Her expression softens.
“It was the best kiss I’ve ever had,” I admit.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Yeah. That changes things.”
She picks the letters back up, scanning them again with new eyes.
“This man is very much into you,” she says, tapping the Saint Patrick’s one. “And you don’t kiss someone like that if you’re indifferent.”
She continues flipping through them, one after another, her smile fading into something more thoughtful. When she reaches the most recent one, her expression changes.
“This one’s different.”
“Different how?” I ask.
“He’s not leaning the same way.” She taps the page lightly. “The others feel … open. This one feels … careful.”
My stomach dips. “So, you think he doesn’t care anymore?”
She looks up at me. “No. I think he cares a lot, that’s why it’s careful.”
The words settle slower than the rest.
“This doesn’t read like someone pulling away,” she continues. “It reads like someone who’s trying not to cross a line.”
A line I drew.
The realization presses in quietly. I stare at his handwriting—at how familiar it feels. At how much space he’s left.
“You wanted space,” Harlee says gently. “And it looks like he gave it to you.”
My throat tightens. “So, you think this is … respect?”
“I think this is restraint.”
Silence settles between us, filled only by the distant city noise outside my windows.
“And you can tell all that from the way he wrote the letter? Like his handwriting?” I murmur.
Harlee shrugs. “I mean, like I said, I’m basically a professional. I took a whole one class on it. You can pretty much bet your life on it.”
I grin at her. “I love you.”
She winks. “I love you too.” Then her expression shifts. “So, if he respected what you wanted, why does this still hurt?”
I open my mouth, then close it.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit. “I guess it’s because it feels like I lost something.”
“Lost what?”
“Us,” I admit. “The way it was, before it got complicated.”
“And what made it complicated?”
The answer sits heavy in my chest.
“Me.”
She doesn’t argue.
“I don’t just date,” I continue. “I rearrange—my time, my plans, my future—and I don’t notice it happening until I don’t recognize what’s left.”
Her voice is gentle. “That’s what happened with Cal.”
I nod. “When that ended, it didn’t just feel like losing him,” I say. “It felt like losing myself.”
Harlee’s gaze softens. “And what about with Weston?”
I hesitate. “Weston didn’t feel like that.”
“How did he feel?”
“Like I didn’t have to move anything to make room for him. Like I could just … exist. And he met me there.” The truth slips out before I can filter it.
She exhales slowly. “And that scared you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it was … easy,” I admit. “And I don’t trust easy anymore.”
Harlee glances at the careful letter, then back at me. “Brit … does this look like someone trying to consume your life?”
My eyes drift over the spread on the counter—the stack of cards and letters, the jacket slung over the chair, the red cape resting beside the paper trail. Evidence of something built quietly, slowly.
“You told him you weren’t ready,” she says. “And he stepped back.”
My chest tightens.
“That’s not someone who makes you disappear,” she adds. “That’s someone who leaves room for you.”
I swallow. “I just … I don’t know if I’m brave enough.”
“For what?”
“To stop pushing him away.”
The words sit between us.
“I like him,” I say, softer. “I miss him. And when I’m with him, I don’t feel … smaller.”
Harlee’s smile curves, gentle and knowing.
And now that I’ve finally said it out loud, something in my chest loosens.
This doesn’t feel like something I need to run from.
Bzz Bzz.
My thoughts are interrupted by my phone vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a work notification, a group chat, anything normal. But it’s a text from Amy.
That’s … unexpected.
I open it up and a bright graphic fills my screen. It’s got red, white, and blue stars and too many exclamation points.
Fourth of July in the Hamptons!!!
A party. A house rental. Fireworks on the beach.
My pulse stutters.
Weston will most likely be there. Which means…
I’m going to see him.
The realization moves through me slowly, then all at once. My grip tightens on my phone. Something warm lifts in my chest, surprising me with its immediacy.
Excitement.
Not nerves. Not dread.
Excitement.
I don’t even realize I’m smiling until Harlee’s eyes flick up to my face.
“What is it?” she asks.
I shake my head once, like I’m clearing it. “It’s … Amy. She just sent me an invite for a Fourth of July party in the Hamptons.”
“And?” Harlee presses, already knowing.
I look back down at the screen—at the date. At the little fireworks emojis. The implication sitting quietly between every line.
“Weston will probably be there,” I say.
I hope he is.