Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 45414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
“Oh.”
“So…” She drums a manicured hand against her leg, her eyes flitting to more passersby as though she’s wondering if she’s wasting her time with me. “Are you interested?”
Part of me wants to tell her no – I have no clue what to write – but that would be allowing my nervousness to rule me again. I start every day specifically saying I won’t do that, and even if I fail a lot of the time, I refuse to stop trying.
“Okay.” I let out a long breath, far heavier than the situation warrants, probably. “Let’s do this.”
Her grin spreads widely. “Wonderful. Follow me.”
I walk beside her into the booth, glancing at the photographs on the walls as I pass. There are small tables laid out here and there. One elderly man hunches over one with a pen in his hand, scrawling at a piece of paper. I imagine he served once upon a time and he wants to show his appreciation to his fellow troops, and my chest grows hot and love-filled for a blistering moment.
See, I tell the cynic inside of me. Not everybody is out to cause harm.
Sara walks us over to a table set in the corner.
There’s a box laid out on it with a big question mark on the front.
“So you reach in here for an envelope to find out who you’re writing a letter to.” She gestures to the box. “There’s a photo of the veteran and a little biographical information, to help you decide what to write. Once you’re done, you post it in the box outside and go on your way.”
“That sounds… simple,” I say with a short laugh.
The laughter just comes out, all jagged and strange-sounding. I regret it already.
I also regret the regret, because it means I’m failing at living in the moment.
A self-help podcast I listened to recently said that one of the ways to overcome nervousness is to look out instead of in, to stop analyzing my own behavior.
I try, but it’s freaking difficult when I’ve lived so long as the shy girl trying my best to be invisible.
“Exactly.” Sara beams. “Are you ready?”
I reach into the box and root around and then pull out an envelope.
“Great.” Sara nods over to an empty table, where a pen is already waiting for me. “The only thing we ask is that you don’t leave your address. Otherwise, you can write whatever you want.”
“Do you check them?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “We’ve done this event fifty-seven times all over the country, and so far we haven’t received one complaint about the letters our veterans have received.”
“I guess people can be pretty nice sometimes, huh?”
“Most times, in my experience.”
I wander over to the table and sit down, laying my envelope flat and running my hand along it.
I wonder who it is, where he – or she – served.
Finally, I open the envelope and pull out the photograph.
A gasp tries to explode out of me as I study him, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest, my whole body tingling as though a fire has started inside of me.
Zack Stone, retired Navy SEAL, 42 years old, served five tours, owns and operates self-defense gyms in…
Here, in my city, where I live.
But it’s not the fact we live in the same place that sends flurrying compulsion all through my body.
It’s him.
The photo is taken from the waist up, showing Zack in a military uniform. He’s a huge man, his shoulders wide, his muscles seeming like they could erupt from his jacket even in the still image. His hair is steel, iron, metal, silver, making way for his searing ice-blue eyes. He stares at the camera as though he’s filled with rage and desire at the same time.
The envelope comes with a smaller envelope inside, big enough to hold a short letter, with Zack’s name on the front. I guess they collect them all at the end of the day and then send them on.
I tap my pen against the table, staring at his photo as my thighs start to whir with sensations I never let myself feel.
There was a time when I allowed my fantasies to spiral, but that ended in a hailstorm one summer when Jerry came into my life and changed everything.
I sit and think for a long time, wondering what I could say to this man, to this stranger who has ignited such sudden need inside of me.
Is it just sexual?
Or is there something else here?
I find myself wanting to be held by him, to feel those thick arms wrapped around me, hugging me close.
Okay…
I need to write something.
I can’t just sit here like a weirdo all day, plus I need to get a new T-shirt in time for my shift at the diner.
Leaning forward, my thoughts swirling with a thousand things, I begin to write.