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"I'll see you later, okay?" I tell her, striding out of the room. Hopefully, me leaving will give her the hint.
I make it to my bedroom, only faintly aware of the door slamming shut a few seconds later. I'm probably going to have to find a new assistant, but that's only a distant thought at the moment as my gaze continues to devour her elegant script.
Suddenly, I realize again that I'm still in my bathrobe. It feels wrong to open a letter from Valentina in my fucking bathrobe, but I'm not really sure why.
Maybe it's because I would have been embarrassed for her to see who I've become.
My head bows over the letter and a rough sob erupts from my chest.
Fuck, I need to get my life together.
Taking a deep breath, I gently tear open the letter.
As I read, my eyes widen and my heart starts beating rapidly.
There's a strange feeling in my chest.
It almost feels like hope.
Something I haven't had for a very long time.
There are a million reasons I should forget this letter. A million reasons why I should tear it up and forget that Valentina ever existed.
But I can't do that.
I suddenly feel like I've been blasted with energy.
Somehow, the universe has decided that I'm going to get a chance with the only girl I could never forget.
This time, Val, you're going to be mine.
Carter
This place is fucking hell.And I'm not exaggerating when I say that. It's been over a hundred and ten degrees for three straight weeks and there's so much dirt and sand in the air that I'm no longer sure what my actual skin color is. I can never shower enough to get clean.
Sgt. Tennyson lets out a long drag of his cigarette as he stares out over the horizon, looking for anything amiss.
The 46th Infantry lost six men in a blast last week and everyone is on edge, including me, the interloper photographer sent to capture the realities of war for the Times.
I've made a career of traveling to the worst places on Earth for the last five years, but this one may take the cake.
When I get home in a week, I need to look into assignments with warlords located in the jungle, because I've decided that I fucking hate the desert. Utter loathing might actually be a more apt description.
I spit, trying to get the grime out of my fucking teeth but it doesn't work.
"You get used to the dirt," the sergeant comments mildly, his eyes still locked on the view in front of us, as if he's expecting an enemy tank to come blowing through the front gates of our encampment at any moment.
"That's what you all keep saying," I reply, giving up on getting the dirt out of my mouth and getting to work on trying to clean the lens on my camera. It’s quite the ordeal to keep camera equipment clean in this shit hole, I can tell you that much.
Yet another reason why a jungle assignment sounded good, even if it meant the threat of poisoned darts.
Surely that would be a nice break from bullets.
"Six weeks," he says softly.
I look up from my task.
"Six weeks? I thought you still have five months out here?"
