“I don’t know,” I admitted. I turned toward the entryway where I had dropped all my stuff, including the note, but Lana had cleaned it up.
“Oh!” She popped up. “I saw it and stuffed it in your bag.” She brought my backpack over, and I rooted through it to pull out the folded piece of lined notebook paper.
The note felt combustible. I was afraid to unfold it. I shoved it back into the bag, as if I could hide the whole situation away without having to deal with it again.
“What does it say?” Lana leaned toward me, peering into the bag.
“I don’t care. What could he say?”
She shrugged and pointed out, “You don’t have to guess. The answer is right there. Want me to read it for you?”
In all the years that Noah and I had been writing, no one else had read his letters to me. They were my private property, and I had hoarded my stash like a dragon guarding her gold. But for the very first time, I was afraid of what one of Noah’s letters said, so I reluctantly handed it over and covered my eyes.
I heard the crinkle of paper as Lana unfolded the note, and then silence. Impatient despite my fear, I lifted my hand and peeked over at her. I could see the pen marks through the back of the lined paper. The note was short. Without even thinking about it, I grabbed the note back and read.
Dear Grace,
I thought about how to introduce, or should I say re-introduce, myself to you a million times. In all of my scenarios, I looked like a douche, but I don’t feel right explaining the last two years to you in a letter. But I need you to know that your letters to me while I was in Afghanistan were the only things that kept me sane. I don’t want to lose the friendship we built over those four years. Meet me and let me make amends for what happened. I have an explanation. Whether it is any good, whether you forgive me, is all in your hands.
Text me at 619-867-5309. I’ll meet you. Any time. Any place.
Love,
Noah
“Love?” He had never written those four letters before. I had. Like an ass, when I wrote to him and told him I wanted to meet him, I signed my letter “Love, Grace.” I wondered if that was partly what set him off, what made him decide he couldn’t meet the teenage freak he’d conned out of forty-eight care packages and letters. I crumpled the letter into a ball.
“Are you going to meet him?” Lana asked, leaning over and prying the ball of paper out of my hand. She tossed it onto the coffee table. I immediately reached over and started smoothing it out. Even now, after everything he had done, I couldn’t help myself.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. Why was he here? Was he a student? He had a backpack, but that could mean anything. It must have really been him in the library the other day.
“Let it go for tonight. Come to the party and enjoy yourself.” Lana looked at her watch. “We can toss back a few drinks here and then go to the Delt house.”
The mention of the fraternity reminded me I had promised to take rush photos for Amy and the other Alpha Phis. I groaned in dismay and embarrassment. “I totally forgot about the photos. Is Amy furious?”
“Nah, I called her right away and said that you weren’t feeling well. She said tomorrow would be fine.”
“Lana, if you weren’t my cousin, I would kiss you on the lips.”
“It’s only the cousin thing that is stopping you?” She teased me.
“You’re the finest piece of ass here at Central, but I have to resist your charms. It’s the law.”
“If you’re making jokes, I pronounce you sufficiently recovered to go and get shit-faced and leer at the Delt rush candidates,” Lana proclaimed.
Lana went to make some calls, and I sat on the sofa and tried to stop all the crazy thoughts I had from racing through my mind.
Noah
Bo was lounging against my truck when I returned from Grace’s apartment. He was chatting up some blonde chick who looked like all the other girls he’d ever been with. They were interchangeable to me, and likely to Bo, too, since he called them all “babe.”
I figured I would know if he ever fell for a girl when he called her by her first name instead of some random endearment.
“That was a clusterfuck, eh?” he asked as I approached.
“Yup,” I climbed into my truck and threw my books into the back. I revved the engine a couple of times to signal that I wanted Bo to get in the damn truck. He could pick up chicks another time.
“At the risk of sounding like a girl, do you want to talk about it?” Bo asked when he finally got into the passenger seat. I threw the truck in reverse and peeled out of campus parking lot.
“No, Bo Peep, I don’t,” I bit out.
So much for being good at doing.
“What were you thinking?”
“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ did you not understand?”
“Are you giving up?”
“What?” I swung my head toward him. Bo threw up his hands. “No way.” I looked back at the road.
“Then let’s strategize.”
“I’ve already made every strategic mistake possible. I left too late last night to catch her. I surprised and maybe embarrassed her after class. If I see her at a party and spill beer all over her, my trifecta of stupidity would be complete.”
“So now what?”
“Now, it’s time to regroup.”
“You want to fight or drink tonight?”
“Both.”
Chapter Three
Dear Grace,
I’m luckier than most. There are plenty of guys that are homesick and haven’t seen their kids or wives or girlfriends for months except over the Internet.
I don’t have much to miss back home but I’m here with my best bud, Bo Randolph. We’ve been friends since we tried to beat the piss out of each other in seventh grade. Served two weeks of suspension and found out we had a lot in common.
Bo’s my battle buddy. This means wherever he goes, I go, and vice versa. You never go anywhere without your battle buddy, including (or maybe especially) the bars.
Yours,
Noah
Grace
“Calm down, jitterbug,” Lana said for what seemed like the fiftieth time. She handed me another glass of Vodka and pink lemonade—the lazy college student’s version of the Cosmo.
“What’s up with you, anyway?” Amy asked. We were pregaming at our apartment, drinking just enough to feel good before we hit the frat party. Knowing when to show up was just as important as knowing which keg to drink from. The keg in the backyard would be cheap and watered down. Kegs kept in the kitchen or interior bar, surrounded by all the brothers in the house, would be more expensive, although not always better tasting.
“I’m sorry about this afternoon and the photo shoot,” I told Amy. “I’m totally on board for tomorrow.”
Amy waved her hand dismissively. “It was fine. Lana called and said you had eaten something bad at lunch. Why are you two still eating at the café?” She gave a little shudder. “Tomorrow is perfect. More of the house will be there.”
I threw Lana a grateful look, and she just patted me on the back. “You’d do it for me,” she murmured so only I could hear.
“So are you thinking junior college transfers or freshman targets tonight?” I asked her as I finished applying my makeup, pretending like I was interested in finding a hookup.
I didn’t want to answer questions about Noah. I didn’t want to think about him at all. If I pretended to be interested in other things, then perhaps I could make that happen. It was worth a try, anyway.
“Depends on what you’re looking for. One night hookup? Freshman. Some date potential? JuCo transfer,” Lana said, sorting through tubes of lip-gloss. “And can I recommend we do away with lumberjack couture for the night? Your wardrobe suggests that you’re gearing up to haul logs out of the forest. If you’re aiming for Paul Bunyan, then your collection of plaid shirts is a great start—otherwise choose something that isn’t flannel,” Lana said.
I looked down at my plaid shirt. “I thought the thrift-shop, country-girl look was in.”
“Maybe at State, where Josh goes. In fact, isn’t that Josh’s shirt?”
I looked away guiltily. It was Josh’s shirt. I’d stolen a few things from him this summer. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because he never said a word. But Lana had already seen my expression and started to wrestle the shirt off my shoulders. Lana is thin but strong. It must be all the yoga she does. I stood there in my thin, ribbed tank top, and Lana looked at my reflection in the mirror, quirking one eyebrow at me.
“Let’s just say the guy-who-shall-not-be-named is there. Do you want to look hot? Or like you just got back from a gold dig in Alaska?”
“Hot,” I mumbled.
“Super.” She proceeded to drag me into her room and throw a silky blue shirt at me. “Put this on with your denim skirt and take off your sneakers.”
I looked at the shirt. I wasn’t even sure how to put it on. There were long straps and a sheet of fabric on one side. “Are you missing a piece, like a camisole that goes underneath?”
“No,” Lana snorted and pulled my tank up over my arms. Surprised, I let her manipulate me like a doll. The blue satin turned out to be a halter top with a low scoop back and ties around the neck. It had an elasticized waist that helped keep it in place. I grudgingly admitted to myself that this was actually a good style for me.
The shirt had a low back, so I couldn’t wear a bra. Unlike Lana, I had a generous C cup. Not wearing a bra made me feel like I was completely naked. Plus, everyone would be able to tell if the temperature dropped just by looking at my chest.
“Lana, I can’t wear this. I feel like a small breeze will reveal all my worldly goods.”
“You’ll wear it and stop complaining about it,” Lana instructed, handing me some silicone rubbery things that connected in the middle.
“Is this supposed to be a bra? It looks like two uninflated balloons connected by plastic.”
She reached out to grab it back from me. “Works for me. I’ll be sure to stare at your tits to see if I need to bring a sweater.”
I hugged the balloons to my chest. “No, I’m all for hiding defective birthday favors under my shirt.”
“Well?” she asked after I had attached the sticky silicone to my skin.
“It fits.”
“I’m mentally translating that into ‘my God, Lana, your taste is exquisite.’”
“My God, Lana, your taste is exquisite,” I repeated dutifully.
Lana quickly tied the knot around my neck and spun me around. “I bought the shirt for you last weekend.”
I could feel the ends of my hair tickle against my bare back. “I still don’t feel comfortable about the back.”
“We can tape it just in case,” Lana brought out some double-stick tape and adhered the folded seam of the blouse to my back. Double-stick tape was Lana’s answer to every fashion emergency. She carried strips of it in her purse and her messenger bag. If I was ever looking for reasons to join a sorority, learning how to avoid visible panty lines, exposed bra straps, and wardrobe malfunctions would be as good as any.
“There,” she said slapping my back lightly. “Ready to go.”
I went to slip on my tennis shoes, but stopped when Lana gave me the stink eye and held up a pair of low-heeled strappy sandals in the same sky blue as my blouse. “No way,” I said.
“They match,” Lana replied.
“ I won’t wear heels, but I’ll wear my ballet flats.” I would be the only one. Lana’s feet were shod with pencil-slim stilettos, and Amy had on cork wedges. Thankfully, I was slightly taller than average and didn’t feel like I was standing amongst a tribe of Amazonians.
Without allowing Lana more time to launch a shoe offensive, I scurried to my bedroom and pulled out a pair of silver flats. The parts of my body that I had always liked, no matter how much I weighed, were my calves, ankles, and feet. They were so nice that even strangers noticed, and I tried to focus on them now, when so much of me was feeling exposed.
One time Lana and I drove down into Chicago to shop, we stopped at a shoe store a classmate had raved about. A shoe clerk had stroked my instep and stuck his phone number in the shoebox. I was creeped out and never returned to that store, but I always remembered that event with confused pride. Hey, some stranger thought my feet were a turn on. Yay! Quickly followed by, Eww.
I saw my reflection in the full-length mirror that hung over the back of my door. Lana was right. The color of the blue top looked perfect with my late-summer tan and brown hair. It brought out the green in my hazel eyes. The blousiness at the bottom of the shirt meant I could stand without worrying that my pooch of a belly would be hanging out.
And my skirt was long enough that it hid the worst part of my legs—my thunderous thighs—while showing off the best part. If Noah was there, I definitely wasn’t going to be embarrassed by what I was wearing. All my fantasies and the letters I had sent, yes. My clothing, no.