Page 6 of Wyatt the Military Veteran

If he does, please let me know, so I can ask him to stop.

It's nothing against you or the rest of your group, but the thought of strangers knowing about my personal life makes me uncomfortable.

Sorry for being so weird. :(

It probably doesn't even make much sense since I'm writing to you—one of those strangers.

Anyway, sorry for rambling. It happens when I'm nervous in conversations, and I guess it spills over into writing, too.

Stay safe!

Kennedy

P.S. Here's an “Awk-wacado” sticker, then “I'll Seed Myself Out”.

CHAPTER FIVE

WYATT

A laugh bursts free at the two stickers that fall into my lap. The awkward avocado is cute, but it's the seed strutting through a doorway graphic that gets me. Smiling, I carefully place them back in the envelope and unfold my letter from Kennedy.

I'd hoped.

I'd prayed.

But I didn't really expect to receive a reply from her.

Yet when I handed a letter to Chris—decked out in more fruit and vegetable pun stickers—I found another decorated letter addressed to me. My fingers itched to tear it open immediately, but first, I had to wait for Dugan to abandon his message, save it from the trash, and then retreat for privacy.

Dugan's letter listed more upcoming events in Suitor’s Crossing, and the full social calendar for one small town amazed me. Made me yearn for something I've never had. Like fall festivals and community dances.

Then it was time formyletter.

I can’t help but notice that her words seemed more formal with Chris—focused on facts rather than sharing more about herself—compared to mine, and it causes a moment of happiness before the reason why becomes obvious.

She’s worried Dugan uses her letters to entertain the guys.

My stomach plummets, tying itself in knots.

No wonder she kept his letter impersonal. She doesn't want anyone else to read her words, yet I'm snatching them for myself. Invading her privacy.

It’s a sickening feeling. One that slicks my gut and causes sweat to dot my forehead.

“Shit,” I whisper, stuck in indecision.

I can't stop rescuing her letters from the incinerator, and I can’t tell her why they need saving in the first place—because Chris the Jackass throws them in the garbage. So, what the fuck am I going to do?

Save them, but don’t read them.

I don’t like that option either.

***

Dear Kennedy,

No, Chris doesn't share your letters. I'm sorry for upsetting you with the possibility. He mentioned the wedding in passing, and I stupidly thought I'd send an encouraging word.

Feel free to ramble as much as you want, though I don't want you to feel nervous. As a city boy, the insight into small-town living is a breath of fresh air, especially in this sand pit.

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