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“I actually do have an answer for that,” Riley muttered. “It’s called hindsight. Because Fate has a fantastic poker face. You never know what’s in the cards until someone dumps the deck all over the ground.”
“What inspiring advice for a ninth-grader,” Emma said, quickly putting the letter into the rejection pile.
“Oooh, this lady claims that she’s dated your Bruce Dinkle and that he tried to push her off a mechanical bull for drinking his Bud Light. Has Sam ever spent some time in Denver?”
Riley pointed to the no pile.
“Here’s one that’s actually legit,” Julie said. “Alyssa from San Diego wants to know what you do after the guy who couldn’t commit to you commits to someone else.”
Riley felt like someone had kicked her in the stomach. It was hard enough to accept that Sam couldn’t love her. What would happen the day she had to watch him love someone else? Because even if he stayed true to his never-getting-married plan, he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life celibate. He’d eventually sleep with another woman.
Maybe even care about one.
“Not ready for that one,” she said quietly. “Isn’t there some harmless, fluffy letter asking for recommendations on breakup movies or something?”
Something that won’t rip my heart out?
“The real question is, who are these people who write letters? I don’t even know where to buy a stamp if I wanted to,” Julie said. “Has email gone out of style?”
“Uh-uh,” Grace said. “We haven’t even gotten to those yet.”
“Greaaaat.”
An hour and a half later, the four women had amassed at least a handful of viable options, and Riley was on the verge of telling her friends to just pick two at random so that she could write a generic response and be done with this whole business.
But just as Julie and Grace were arguing over whether they should go with the letter from Nina in Seattle, who wanted to know if she should invite her Bruce to her sister’s wedding, or Kerry from St. Paul, who needed advice on whether she had to return her Bruce’s cat, Camille appeared in the doorway.
“What are you wearing?” Julie asked their boss in horror.
Camille glanced down. “It’s new. Purple is the new black, Greene.”
“Not when it’s shaped like a tent, it’s not.”
Their boss ignored her important reporter. “What are you girls doing in here? I haven’t seen this much paper since college.”
Riley frowned. “They had paper back then? You didn’t etch shit in stone?”
Camille used the envelope in her hand to give a warning point at Riley. “Funny. And I forgot to mention it earlier, but I’ve selected one of the letters to the editor I want you to respond to.”
Four pairs of annoyed eyes gave her a death glare.
Camille shrugged and dropped the envelope into Riley’s lap. “Here you go, dear.”
“Thanks for not giving this to us an hour ago,” Julie hollered after her.
“I hope it’s another one of the Bruce-pushed-me-off-the-mechanical-bull letters,” Grace said, leaning forward and plucking up the letter.
Riley snatched it back. “This is Stiletto, not Rodeo Times.”
“Rodeo Times,” Emma mused. “Is that a real magazine? Because I’ve always thought I could go for a cowboy … there’s something about those boots and tight jeans.”
“I bet Alex Cassidy looks uh-mazing in tight jeans,” Julie said in a singsong voice. Emma threw a paper clip at Julie, which got caught in Julie’s mess of curls, so that Grace had to fish it out.
But Riley wasn’t paying attention to any of this.
The letter Camille handed her wasn’t like the rest.
For starters, the writing was distinctly masculine. She flipped the envelope over. No postage, and no return address. It had been hand-delivered, which was creepy.
