Aaron. [Aaron Paul]

Sixteen.

"She thinks it's your fault." I say, tossing the pebble I was turning over in my hand to keep me busy.

"But it's not. We both know that." Aaron responds, looking out into the large field in front of us.

We lean against the front hood of Zeke's car that I drove here with, staring at the view of the fields full of wheat in front of us. It's a nice lonely spot to talk.

Aaron crosses his arms and squints through the sun. I look down at my shoes, unsure of how to break the silence. It seems to fragile to be broken by our voices.

"I'm sorry. I don't know how to handle this whole thing." he says.

I shake my head, agreeing. The whole thing is too much. And I have scars and recent bruises to show for it. "You think she'll change her mind?" I ask.

Aaron shrugs. The one thing I didn't want him to do; because shrugging means uncertainty and when I don't know what's going to happen, I am at risk of breaking down and giving up. 

*        *        *

I decide not to go home, and instead, follow Aaron on his bike back to the apartments. Whatever Zeke is working out with my mom I want nothing to do with it. I need a break.

When we get to the building, I park as Aaron locks his bike up to a silver pole sticking out of the cement in an arch. "Hey, I'm gonna run to the store." Aaron says, approaching my rolled down window. Before I turn the car off, I offer to go myself. "No, let me. What do you need?" I ask him.

Aaron hands me a small list of things, and thanks me before he skips up the stairs to his apartment.

The few things that Aaron need only take about five minutes to gather up and another two minutes to check out.
As I drive back, grocery's in the trunk, my cellphone buzzes. At the nearest stop-light, pull it out and unlock it:

Aaron: Could you pick up the mail? I forgot my key down in my bike's satchel. The number is 18. 

I don't have time to respond before the light turns green, so I put my phone down and start driving again. As I pull into the parking lot, I grab Aaron's mailbox key from his bag and head over to the mail room.

"Eighteen, eighteen, eighteen. . ." I mumble to myself, scanning the rows of boxes for his number.

I find it, and it's on the top row. And lucky me can't reach it.

After about five minutes of searching the room for a chair, I'm about ready to walk up to Aaron's house to tell him that I can't reach it, when some super tall man walks in. I'm surprised and lucky, but don't want to ask him. But he's here now, and so am I, so I might as well. "Hey, could you, uh, help me reach my mailbox?" 

The man smiles and walks over, "No trouble." 

I hand him the key, tell him which number, and with ease, he barely reaches up and unlocks it. Before the man can reach in and hand the mail to me, Aaron's mail slips out and soars to the ground.

I let out my air in a tired sound, and we both bend down and start to gather it up.

"Thanks," I say as we both stand.

He nods and is about to hand me the few letters that he is holding, but stops. He's reading over the front of on envelope.

"Department of The Army? Whoa! Best of luck to ya'!" he says, handing me the letters and the keys

Though I'm more than confused and baffled, I smile at him to be polite, as if I know exactly what he means. But once he's gone, my face darkens and I stare down at the envelope with a big black eagle stamped on the front. Department of The Army? I read it ten times over, processing that that is what it really says. And then, I read it again.

I know it's not nice to go through people's mail, or people's anything for that matter, but this was a letter in Aaron's mailbox. And it's all professional or whatever, so I sort of let my curiosity win me over.

Before I know it, I'm sitting on the ground, reading a typed letter talking all about Aaron Paul and the army.

  Dear Mr. Paul,

      You have been been selected for admission and are authorized to report to the United States Military Academy--- 

I can't force myself to read any further. Could this really be for Aaron?

It's a stupid question, really. His name is all over it - literally. But how come he didn't tell me? And the date reads. . . .  NEXT WEEK?! In NEW YORK!?

All I can do is clench my jaw and stand to my feet. I feel anger and my face is burning from trying not to yell. The only thing I can think of doing is stomping up to Aaron's house and confronting him about it.

I mumble to myself the whole way, furious, sad, and fearful that Aaron will leave me. When I get to his door, I turn the knob and let myself in, marching until I reach him putting clean dishes away in the kitchen.

He hears me before he sees me first. I stomp my foot, as if defending my territory, and then hold the letter up. That's when I feel the heavy burning in my nose and throat. Don't cry now, just show him that your mad. So I inhale super deeply and hold it in until Aaron turns around.

When he sees the paper, I can tell it takes him a minute to realize what it is. And when he does, I can also tell that he doesn't have a clue how to react. With happiness for himself or pity for me. 

Aaron doesn't decide and instead just stands there looking at me and the paper. I know he's angry for me opening it, but I don't have time to apologize. I'm already throwing the papers at him, and stomping my foot.

"You're leaving me?!" I yell, furious.

Aaron stutters something. I don't listen.

"The least you could've done is told me that you were even applying!" that's when the tears come. Rolling down my cheek's faster than I can blink them away. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, and keep staring at Aaron until he reaches his arms out, attempting to hug me. But I react by pushing him away.

"No," I grunt, "get off of me." I turn around, and then mumble that I need some time to think and calm down.

And before he can stop me, I walk out, slamming the door behind me.