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One
Dear Hattie
Iknow this is a huge cliche. I know you must get thousands of letters like these; whole tottering piles of them in your office. I’m sure you could paper the walls with letters like mine, but here goes: I’m in love with my neighbor.
Here’s some background. I’m twenty three and he’s in his thirties. I live with my older brother, and my crush lives alone. We moved to this small town four years ago, and I’ve been pining for the man next door since I first caught sight of him around the moving van.
It was like the clouds parted. I remember that first glance so clearly, in technicolor and HD.
Hattie, when I tell you he’s gorgeous, please know that’s an understatement. Traffic slows when this man walks down the street. Crowds cram themselves into the diner he owns—and yes, the food is amazing, but there would still be droves if he served from a slop bucket. We’re all hungry forhim.
Picture this: deep tan, shoulder length brown hair, serious creases around his eyes. Scruff on his jaw and thick, dark eyebrows lowered in concentration. When he cooks, he goes to some inner reservoir of calm, and it’s beautiful. A sensual dance with the flash of knives.
Hattie, he makes me ache. I want to slather him in whipped cream and lick it off again. I want to fit my palm to his wrist, his knee, the crook of his elbow—all the bits of him that strangers don’t get to touch. Iwanthim.
And it’s not just his looks—obviously. My neighbor is sharp and clever and good with his hands; he’s fit and strong and kind to little old ladies. And he’s grumpy. The fun, attractive kind of grumpy: the kind that feels like a silent invitation to tease. The kind that feels like a challenge to make him laugh out loud.
But he’s out of my league. Hell, he’s playing major, and I’m peewee. Four years I’ve known him, and my neighbor has never looked at me twice. He’s ignored my best efforts at flirting; he’s blind to my clumsy offers of a date.
Everyone wants him, and I’m invisible. I’ve gotnochance.
So here’s my question, Hattie. How do I move on?
My brain understands that this man isn’t interested, but my heart won’t get the memo. Every morning I wake up half sick with hope. I lie there in bed, every cell in my body vibrating with longing for my chef neighbor. I remind myself of all the reasons I should move on, all the ways he’s already subtly turned me down, and ithurts,but my heart is so stubborn.
It wants what it wants.
And it wants the man next door. Ask and it will tell you: no one else will do.
Please, Hattie. Don’t hold back.
Give me the cold, hard truth, and help convince my heart that we’ve already lost.
Yours,
Stubborn Heart
Two
Faith
The bar is packed with the Friday night crowd, all the windows thrown open to the summer heat. It’s dark outside, stars speckling the night sky, and the salty ocean breeze washes in through the open windows and cools our flushed cheeks.
Ancient fans sit atop the wooden bar, clicking and whirring as they turn back and forth. They’re not so much helping as moving the warm air around. A sea shanty hums from the dusty speakers on the walls.
Someone’s propped the front and back doors open with two sandy rocks carried up from the beach. It’s long past The Buccaneer’s official closing time, but the Sweet Cherry Cove locals are just getting started. When we party, we go hard.
“Drink?” my brother leans down to ask over the din, his elbows propped on the bar. I’m wedged by his side, head and shoulders below most of the men in this room. Ask me how many times I’ve been stepped on already.
“Rum and coke, please. With lots of ice.”
Stephen rolls his eyes at my basic bitch order, but it’s a hot summer night, okay? And we’re in a bar called The Buccaneer. A sweet, cold rum drink is called for, and I won’t be told otherwise.
“You could order anything,” my brother says grandly, waving one arm at the shelves behind the bar. They’re groaning with dusty, obscure liquor bottles with names I can’t pronounce. “This next assignment will set us up for months. Go wild, Faith.”
“I don’t want to go wild. I want a rum and coke.”
Stephen shakes his head, muttering, but when the bartender reaches us, he orders my boring drink and something that smells like aniseed for himself.
