P.S.............

Amber

"Come on, show them to me." Sarah wiggles her eyebrows at me like she's asking me to show her my goodies. And I don't mean the last batch of baked goods I just pulled out of the oven.

"No, they're private." I can feel my face warming just talking about the letters.

"Oh, my God. Are they dirty?!" Her face lights up like she just struck gold.

"No, not really." They really aren't dirty at all. Maybe a few innuendoes here and there. One time I did admit to never having been with a man. I seem to be willing to tell him everything about myself, no matter how embarrassing it might be.

"Then what's with the blush?" She grabs her wine off the coffee table and takes a sip, leaning back on the sofa.

Sarah, as usual, kind of popped up on me. I usually keep all of Declan's letters in box in the living room, but I had them all splayed out on the coffee table as I reread each one while drinking a glass of wine. It's something I find myself doing more and more often these days. I haven't been on Wattpad in weeks.

I'd hurriedly gathered them up, putting them back safely into the box while she eyed me, helping herself to her own glass of wine.

Now we're both sitting on the sofa as she tries to pry about Declan. I share everything with Sarah, but for some reason the letters are now off-limits. They're mine, and I don't want to share. I've never been jealous over a man before. The feeling is strange and oddly enough, I like it.

"I think I'm in love with him," I admit, feeling a little silly. I've never even met the man.

"You think?" She says it with a teasing laugh, but I can't seem to join in.

I just bite my lip, not sure what to do at this point.

"You don't think it's silly I'm in love with a man I've never met?"

Her eyes soften at my question. Placing her glass back down on the table, she turns to look at me.

"No, it's not silly. It's sweet. I don't know what he's writing in those letters, but it's..." she pauses, looking for the right words, "changed you."

"Changed me?" I repeat, not sure what she means.

"In a good way. You've been happier and you've come out of your shell. Whatever he's doing or saying to you, it kinda makes you glow.

My face warms at her words.

"He called me," I blurt out. I hadn't planned ontelling her. I don't know why. Maybe I wanted to keep that to myself, too. Ormaybe I was worried she might get all judgy. People always seem to have anopinion about things, and I just hadn't wanted anything to dampen this. I'vebeen so happy, and I didn't want to jinx it.

I knew I'd felt happier lately. I just didn'tknow it was noticeable. I hadn't realized others could see it in me, too.

"Oh, really?" Her teasing humor is back, and itmakes me smile.

"He said he finally got somewhere he could callme from. Told me he was in Ireland for a few days. We talked for three hours."

"You gotta give me something here."

"We talk about everything and nothing." Wereally do. We used to operate by writing one letter and waiting for a responseand then sending one back. Now I find myself writing him every day. Almost likeI'm writing him a diary and sending it to him.

"Sounds like a relationship to me."

I wish. He's never said anything like that. Iknow he's single. Don't those guys get to base and hookup with women and stuff?I couldn't bring myself to ask. I wish I was more like Sarah and could've madea teasing joke about it, but my shyness still gets the best of me, even withhim sometimes.

I'd nudged him a little to see if he was goingto go out. He told me he was doing exactly what he wanted to be doing—talkingon the phone to me.

It made me feel warm and fuzzy all over.

I just shrug at Sarah's comment. No matter howmuch I wish that were true, it's not. We're just friends.

"Didn't you mention he'd be getting out soon?"

Her reminder sends a knot of dread rushing tothe pit of my stomach, crushing all my butterflies.

"Yeah," I mutter, picking up my own glass ofwine and taking a few big gulps.

"I can't wait to meet him!" She grabs the bottleof wine and tops us both off.

"I don't know about that."

"Come on. As much as you two talk, you can'tstill be shy around him. I know you sent him more photos of yourself."

I did, and Sarah had taken them for me. He askedfor them, and I sent them in the next letter, wanting him to have them, pushingpast my shyness for him. I'm almost sure there isn't a thing I wouldn't do ifhe asked. He's made a few side comments about traveling here, but nothingsolid.

"I don't even know if we'll write once he getsout. That's the whole point of this. I write him because he's in the Marines.That's the point of the program."

It's what I've been dreading. What if we stopwriting when he retires? Never hearing from him again would hurt. No, it wouldmore than hurt. I've formed an intense attachment to him and losing it...

"Oh, come on." Sarah slaps my shoulder, pullingme from my depressing thoughts. "A man doesn't write you like this," she picksup the box of letters, giving it a little shake, "and then just quit."

I cling to that sliver of hope. Maybe she'sright. The kids in the program don't get letters like I do. Most get maybe onea month. I've been getting about four a week.

I take the box from her and place it in my lap.Either way, I'll always have these to hold on to.