CHAPTER THREE
WYATT
Thanks for delivering me! :)
That’s what’s written on the back of Dugan’s fifth letter. I know it’s not meant for me specifically, but it feels like it is.
Because you’ve been reading Chris’s discarded letters, pretending they’re for you.
Ignoring the silent jab of my conscience, I study the pretty cursive and smiley face before handing the letter to Dugan. Stickers of woodland creatures decorate the blue envelope this time. There have been positive affirmations, the solar system, flowers, modes of transportation, and now these cute critters. Kennedy must be a teacher or something to have so many stickers on hand.
Or maybe she purchases them special for Chris as a simple way to brighten his day.
A vein throbs in my temple. Dugan doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Kennedy’s letters. Each time he receives one, he rips it open, scans the contents in a quick sweep, then tosses it. And each time, I conjure a reason to hang around long enough to save it from the trash bin without anyone the wiser.
And if I happen to read the letters, too, who’s going to berate me for snooping through another soldier’s mail? It becomes fair game once it’s been thrown away, right?
Keep telling yourself that, stalker.
Thirty seconds after scanning the page, Dugan shoots the balled-up letter in the trash, and just like the past four times, I reach into the bin minutes later and pull out the crumpled paper, waiting to smooth it out until I'm in my room.
As I learn more about Suitor’s Crossing, a town that sounds idyllic and too good to be true, the more homesick I become for a life I’ve never had. One filled with friendly neighbors and quaint traditions versus shuffling between tired foster parents and harried social workers. The only tradition I had was stuffing my meager belongings in a black trash bag before moving on to the next family.
A therapist would probably say that’s why I joined the military—I was looking for stability. Structure. A career and life built upon years of traditions.
“Major Lincoln.” A private nods as we pass in the hall, and I return his greeting before ducking into my room and sitting at my desk. Flattening my prize over the scuffed wood top, I eagerly pore over Kennedy’s latest musings and smile at her enthusiasm about work.
As the event coordinator at her family's lodge, it's obvious how much she loves what she does. She's passionate about people and her town, and it makes me wonder how that would translate into a relationship.
Not that you'll ever know.
Nor will Chris for that matter. He's too busy blowing her off instead of seeing the gem he has right under his nose.
Another wave of frustration crashes through me. I hate that Kennedy is being treated so poorly by him. She doesn't deserve it. No one does.
Placing the letter with the other ones I've saved, my eye catches on the sweet message she left on the envelope again.
Thanks for delivering me! :)
A crazy idea bursts to life as I trace the words.
What if I write Kennedy back?
She opened the door by addressing me first, right?
“Sure, let's go with that,” I mutter judgmentally. But I can't shake the thrill of writing to her and potentially getting a response in return.
“Fuck it.” Ripping out a sheet of paper from a notebook, I scribble down a quick reply before common sense reminds me why this is a bad idea.
***
Dear Kennedy,
You don't know me, but I saw the ‘thank you’ note on your letter to Chris, and it made me smile. So I figured I should let you know how much I appreciated the kind gesture since there's not a lot to cheer a guy up out here.
I don't say that to make you feel sorry for me, just to let you know that even the smallest things can have a big impact.
Anyway, I hope the wedding at the lodge goes smoothly. I'm confident you've got everything under control.
Thanks again for your message.
Yours,
Wyatt Lincoln