Wes
I'm leaning against my truck out in the field when I see her across the bonfire. It's been over a year and even just a glimpse of her makes my heart twist and fold in my chest. I remember how it used to feel to be at these parties with her, back before I graduated and long before I joined the Marines. It always feels like a lifetime ago until I see her and suddenly we're there again—carefree teenagers in love. Only now all of that is behind us and I can't bring myself to go to her because I'm afraid we'll have nothing to talk about.
"Did you visit Coach earlier?" Cam asks from beside me. His words are starting to slur together. I move my eyes to him as he takes a long pull from his drink. We used to be the top football players on our team, but it seems like maybe he didn't get the memo that it's time to grow up and get to living off that field.
"No. I just got in this morning. I stayed around family. Didn't even leave the house until an hour ago. I had a hangover from spending the night at my buddy's place before my flight." I wish it were Mateo, Liam, or Lucas beside me instead of Cam.
"You should stop by. I hang out there all the time. Coach has me helping some of the players run plays." I can tell he's pretty proud of himself for that. I sigh and take another sip of my drink. This would have been my life if I stayed. I'd be doing exactly what he has been doing. Working a 9-5 job, dropping out of the local junior college, and hanging out like a never-left at my old stomping grounds. I'd be a loser.
"Maybe," I say with a noncommittal shrug. I watch Liz talking to one of her friends, wondering what she's doing now. I don't really keep in touch with anyone in town, but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't looked her up on social media to see what she's been doing with her life. It's her senior year. If she stuck to her plans, she cheers for the school and has dreams of heading straight for beautician school in the fall. She tips her head back and laughs at something and I'm instantly flooded with a million images of her doing that over the years. We have such a long history together. Our parents became neighbors when I was a freshman and she was still in eighth grade. Before we were together as a couple, we were family friends.
As if she can feel me watching her, she turns her gaze in my direction and our eyes lock over the orange glow of the fire. I'm frozen in place, my beer half way to my lips again. Her eyes dip to look at me from the dusty old boots I'm wearing up to my shortly cut hair. I wonder if she thinks about me as often as I've thought about her. The way things ended didn't give either of us much closure.
I can't take my eyes off of her. It's like watching my past meet my present and I stand there wondering how all these pieces are going to fit together. It sometimes feels like my life in the Marines is not connected to my life in this town. Everything about the two makes them clash like a fairytale meeting a thriller. She was my princess and I was the prince of this town for a while. But then came the plot twist no one saw coming. Liz Weatherly broke up with me the day I signed that contract and turned my life over to the Corps. I guess we both made a life changing decision that day. I just wonder if I'll ever get over the consequences.
I stumble into my small room back home, the taste of whiskey strong on my tongue. Cam's younger brother picked us both up and made sure we got home safely. I started doing shots when Liz left with a boy from school I barely recognized. I catch my toe on the corner of my old desk and try to hold in the yelp as the pain shoots up my leg, barely numbed by the alcohol in my blood. Damn it. That corner always gets me. I turn and sit in the chair and squeeze my toe until the sharp pain gives way to the throb.
My phone buzzes in my pants pocket and I lean back so I can slide my hand inside and fish it out. I have to blink a few times to get my eyes to focus on the bright screen, but I see the new notifications and can't help but open up my mail to read the messages waiting in my inbox. Why? Because for the last three months I've been getting email meant for someone else. Apparently while I was overseas, a new advice column was started at some newspaper somewhere. Weslee Richmond answers questions much like her predecessor, Dear Abby, every Friday in some paper. What does that have to do with me? It just so happens that our email addresses are one typo away from disaster. Mine has been WesLeeUSMC (at) biznet.com since I joined the Marines at 17, and hers is WesLeeUSME (at)biz.net.com. If you type too quickly or let your finger slip in the wrong direction, your question will be sent to an 18 year-old (probably drunk) Marine instead of some old lady behind the desk waiting with a wealth of experience to answer it.
I didn't look her up the first ten or so times that an email meant for her showed up in my inbox instead, but when it became a regular thing, I did a little research. I even sent her an email letting her know that I was getting some of her mail. The poor woman gets hundreds of emails a day from all across the country so she sent a quick response thanking me and letting me know she'd run a quick notice reminding her readers to be more careful when typing in the address. It hasn't really helped.
I haven't checked my phone since before the party so three new emails are waiting for me. On second thought, none of the three are actually for me. I click open the first message and try to focus on the words through the hazy fog of alcohol.
From: Jill Holt>
To: WesLee >
__________________________________________________
Rude Mother-in-Law
July 23, 2015 at 7:56 PM
__________________________________________________
Dear Weslee,
My mother-in-law is constantly telling me that my children smell like they've been playing in the dirt on a hot day. I know that I often let my kids go for days without bathing, but I feel like it is rude of her to say such things. How should I tell her to mind her own business and just love my children for who they are?
Sincerely,
A very angry daughter-in-law
I scrunch my nose up as I imagine dirty kids running amuck while their grandma is in town. I guess she will never know how to tell her mother-in-law to mind her own business because I delete the email with a sloppy press of my thumb and don't even feel guilty about it at all. Attention to detail. If she were paying better attention, her email would have made it to her intended target. Next.
From: Jane Hoiser >
To: WesLee >
____________________________________________________
Socks have gone missing
____________________________________________________
July 23, 2015 at 8:26 PM
Dear Weslee,
My socks keep going missing. I have two teenage boys living in my house and all of the socks keep going missing. I'm not sure how to bring it up. Do you have any advise on how to approach this topic without embarrassment?
Thank you,
Sockless
I almost fall off my chair laughing at that one. I want to write her back and let her know she should probably just buy more socks because nothing good is going to come out of that conversation. Instead I forward it to my buddy's because they too have been enjoying this little email mishap. We have the best ones printed out and hanging in our barracks back at base. This one will make top twenty for sure.
I click open the last email ready to forward it if it gets any better than poor Sockless. I'm doubtful given that the subject line read Books? Nothing very funny can follow that.
From: Secret >
To: WesLee >
________________________________________________
Books?
July 23, 2015 at 10:26 PM
________________________________________________
Dear Weslee,
I'm in a serious relationship with a boy I've known for a few years. Everything was great until a few months ago. The first time he hit me I thought it must have been an accident, but he's done it again tonight and I don't know how to help us. Maybe it's something I've done. I don't think he's hit any of his other girlfriends. Obviously this isn't something I can go to friends or my parents about so I'm hoping you could point me in the direction of a few books that might help me figure out how to make it all stop.
Sincerely,
Heartbroken
I feel the smile that was on my lips drop. My heart races in my chest and my hand that's not holding my phone tightens into a fist. I wish this were a joke because the thought of some girl out there being hit by a man makes my stomach turn. I reread it to be sure I've read it correctly. Even with my brain marinating in alcohol, I can still see trouble when it's spelled out in front of me. I think about forwarding the email to the person it was really intended for, but I don't know if I trust her enough to answer it correctly. What if she makes this girl feel like it's her fault? What if she actually gives her books to read instead of telling her that she shouldn't even waste her time with a man like that?
Without another moment of hesitation, I hit reply and reach out to Heartbroken—an anonymous girl in a world of trouble.