Page 78 of The Very First Night

I hate the way my body reacts to the stern tone of his voice, the way every nerve comes alive.

“I went to go get coffee,” he repeats. “I had to go to the place downtown because Brendan decided the creamer in the fridge was ‘close enough’ to half-and-half for him to make White Russians last night. Spoiler alert, it wasn’t.”

“Oh.”

“And since I know you are incapable of drinking coffee that isn’t at least fifty percent creamer and a quarter sugar, I thought it best to just go pick us up some.” His previously serious expression melts into a soft, comforting smile. “No, I don’t regret last night. Do you?”

“No,” I mumble.

“Good.” He reaches into the carrier and extracts a steaming cup, placing it gently in front of me.

The smell of rich hazelnut instantly envelops my senses, confirming that he remembered my usual order. I can’t hide the smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth as I read the label: Hazelnut latte, extra hot. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Now, what are you working on?”

“I was thinking about writing my brother back.”

Tanner nods in understanding as he opens the bag, setting one of two chocolate eclairs on a napkin next to the paper. “What do you think you’re going to say?”

I realize that beyond saying hello, I have no idea what to say to Patrick. How do you write to the brother you’ve never met who didn’t know you existed until he was the ripe old age of twenty-one?

“I…don’t know.”

Tanner pulls a chair up next to me and we spend the next hour working together to craft a letter.

A letter to which even a man with the same name as the father who has never wanted to know me might want to write back.

THIRTY-SEVEN

KAT

Three times.

The mailman forgot to pick up our outgoing mail not once, not twice, but three times. Who does that? I mean, it’s not like most people tend to have a ton of outgoing mail in a day, but after the third time he simply forgot to grab my letter despite the little flag being up, I just ended up grabbing it with the intention of taking it to the post office myself.

That was a little over three weeks ago.

It’s not that I’m scared to mail it; it just hasn’t been convenient. Of course, I could have taken it with me to campus and dropped it at the post office in the student center, but that is beside the point.

Ultimately, I’ve decided to just send it while home for the weekend, since my mom’s house is right next to the post office.

Or I could drop it off at his apartment. I mean, I have the address—but that would be weird.

Post office it is.

My hand slips from the worn handle of my weekender bag, and it thuds loudly against the polished hardwood floor. I quickly toss my camera bag onto the nearby credenza before heading toward the comforting smell of dinner cooking in the kitchen. As I turn the corner, I find my mom standing at the counter, cutting onions. I take in the array of ingredients laid out all over the countertop and notice a thick steak sizzling in a cast-iron skillet on the stove behind her.

“Hey, Mom, whatcha makin’?” I ask, inspecting the ingredients more thoroughly.

“Hey, honey. I was thinking we could do steak salads. I picked up your favorite house dressing from the grocery store.”

“It smells great.”

My mom’s eyebrows raise in surprise and a grin slowly spreads across her face, causing the slight wrinkles around her eyes to deepen. “Thank you,” she says, her voice soft and sincere. I can see the corners of her lips quivering slightly as she speaks. “Do you have any plans for tonight? I know the wedding is tomorrow, but I wasn’t sure if any of your friends from high school were in town.”

I don’t have the heart to remind her that I don’t talk to many people from high school anymore—it’s just another reminder of how little we talk these days. “Um, no. No one is home. I figured we could just hang out tonight.”

Her grin grows into an undeniably infectious smile. “I would love that.”

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