Hate Mail

by Donna Marchetti

My hands are sweating when I hang up the phone. Anne sends the link right away, and I click on it. I can’t believe I’m about to go to an airport and try to get on a plane. I put my information into the form and find that it’s surprisingly easy to buy my ticket. I’m worried that as soon as I hit the button to confirm my order, an alarm will sound, the screen will flash red, and I’ll be denied my ticket. Maybe my apartment will even be swarmed with TSA agents. My finger hovers over the button. I’m getting palpitations. I close my eyes and tap the screen.

What is this new adult shit

“I’m sure livestock veterinarians still eat burgers.” I shake my head. “I don’t think I could do it. I couldn’t spend all day fixing and healing those animals just to go home and eat them.” He leans against the tank, crossing his arms and watching me. “Good thing you’re a meteorologist and not a veterinarian, then,” he says. “You’re right. I can’t go home and eat a hurricane.” He smiles and pulls away from the tank, taking a step toward me. “You’re really something else, you know that, Naomi?” He’s so close that I have to crane my neck up to see him. When I do, he tilts his chin down, and a second later, his lips are on mine.

I don't understand the sudden cues in their romance.

also remember thinking that it was a cruel joke since he had led me to believe that I wouldn’t be able to get on a plane.

I SWEAR SHE IS STUPID

I pull the bottle of sunscreen out of my tote bag and offer it to him. “No thanks,” he says as he pulls his shirt off. “I don’t burn.” His skin is a nice golden tan, but I’ve seen darker men get sunburned. I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll be fine,” he assures me. I squeeze a large amount of sunscreen into my hand, then slap it onto his chest. He looks down at his chest, then up at me, his eyes narrowed.

WHAT

I pull the bottle of sunscreen out of my tote bag and offer it to him. “No thanks,” he says as he pulls his shirt off. “I don’t burn.” His skin is a nice golden tan, but I’ve seen darker men get sunburned. I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll be fine,” he assures me. I squeeze a large amount of sunscreen into my hand, then slap it onto his chest. He looks down at his chest, then up at me, his eyes narrowed.

Okay not as mad but still

I worry that Luca might be after more than just writing letters.

You read his last one, you moron?! Obviously sincere.

“No postmark. There isn’t even a stamp.” “What?” I turn it over and realize that he’s right. “It was in my mailbox, though. How is that possible? Maybe because there’s no return address?”

I'M LOSING BRAIN CELLS