I noticed, though, that you didn’t take me seriously about not needing to send me packages. You really don’t have to do that.
The messages are enough.
I wish I could respond more often. But I bet you’re used to not hearing from Remy and Wade when they’re deployed, so you know the drill.
I always enjoy your stories of life in Austin and whatever you’re reading lately.
I’m not sure that I can trust your assessment of the weather in Texas, though. Sure, you say it’s hot, but surely it’s not as hot as it is here.
Cheers,
Nick
* * *
From:[emailprotected]
To:[emailprotected]
Subject: I have to ask
Nick,
Yes, you said I didn’t have to send you packages. But you didn’t say I couldn’t. Besides, I figure everyone needs a new toothbrush every once in a while. Even before Remi was in the Navy, he never switched out his toothbrushes as often as he should’ve. Besides, if I’m going to send candy, I need to balance it out with dental care. It’s all part of the circle of life, yin/yang of care packages.
The real question is this: did you enjoy the snacks?
I know hard candy can be a bit controversial, since everyone under the age of 82 prefers chocolate, but I simply don’t trust the military to get your mail in time for me to send chocolate, so butter scotches it is. After all, wherever you are, by not be as hot as Austin, but it’s probably close.
Also, even if it is hotter than Austin, at least you don’t have to fight with your annoying coworkers over how low to keep the air conditioner. I like to think that if it was merely the heat in Austin, I could handle it better. My boss keeping the offices in the low 60s in the summer makes everything worse.
Also, I have to ask. What’s with the email address? I get the frogman part. But “52”? Did you just pick a random number? If you’re anything like my brothers, you probably tried multiple variations of “FrogmenHaveBigDicks.”
Until next time,
Cassie
Despite myself, I chuckle when I get to her line about “FrogmenHaveBigDicks.”
Remy glances up from his phone, a question in his gaze.
I close the file I keep her emails in and shrug. “The Onion,” I say to explain my chuckle.
He nods, then glances to the door, then breaks into a grin and stands.
I swear, my damn heart catches in my chest.
I haven’t even seen her yet, but I know his smile means she’s just walked in.
I haven’t even seen her yet, and my heart is fucking pounding like my tank is low on oxygen and I’m on my last breath of O2, just knowing she’s in the room.
It takes every ounce of control I have to focus on my phone a little longer—because I don’t want to seem as pathetically desperate as I feel—before slowly standing and sliding my phone into my back pocket.
Only then do I let my gaze travel to the woman who’s just walked in the door.
Like I said, I’ve seen pictures. I’ve seen the professionally taken portrait on her law firm’s website. I’ve seen posed, well-lit, filtered shots on her Instagram page. I’ve seen the temporary stories she puts up, hair in a ponytail, sweaty from running a 5K. I was in the room when she FaceTime with Remy about Wade’s accident, when she’d been crying all night and her eyes were puffy, her skin red and splotchy.
I’ve seen a hundred versions of her and imagined a thousand more. And I’m still not prepared for that first in person sight of her. She’s tall and lean, too inherently energetic to be graceful. Heart-shaped face, brown hair shot through with reddish highlights, mouth just a little too large. She’s stunning and perfect.
I know the second I see her, that even though I tried to prepare for the worst, I’m in trouble here.
If the worst happens, if she refuses to even give me a chance, then I am well and truly fucked.
