SEVEN
history
sloane
February 24, 2010
Dear Sloane,
No matter how old you grow, how gray your hair, how wrinkled your face, when I close my eyes, I will always see you the way I did that very first day. Those bright eyes, that oversized UGA sweatshirt, your hair swept up off your neck. I couldn’t imagine anyone more beautiful. I know you worry sometimes when I’m away about the rumors and other women and what happens when soldiers are gone. I’d be lying if I said some of the rumors weren’t true. But since that day, Sloane, for me, there is only you. There is always only you.
All my love,
Adam
THE DAY I MET Adam was the best day of my life. I know you’re supposed to say that about your children’s births. Or maybe your wedding day. But, without that first day, the first time I laid eyes on him, I wouldn’t have had any of that.
After my dad died, I decided, firmly, that I would never love anyone that much again, because when you love that much, there is so very much to lose. I wouldn’t, couldn’t do it again.
I dated, of course. I had boyfriends, but I always kept them at arm’s length, cracked the door enough to interest them but never opened it all the way.
Adam says, for him, it was love at first sight. For me, it was just another day standing in line at the post office. It seems fitting, actually, that we would meet at the post office. I had no idea then that letters would become one of the most critical parts of our love story.
It was December 17, a freezing cold afternoon in Athens, and my last exam was the next day. I couldn’t wait to get home to Peachtree Bluff, back to my mom and my sisters. I had recently broken up with my boyfriend, partly because it was never going to go anywhere anyway and partly because I couldn’t think of a good Christmas gift for him. That was, at the time, my opinion about true and everlasting love.
The post office that day reminded me of a subway stop—minus the public urination and homeless people. It was crowded and loud. Some people were cheerful and joyous; some were crabby and ill. Many were talking on their cell phones; most were coughing. Everyone believed his or her package—and its destination—was most important.
I had noticed the man standing in front of me with a passing interest. I assumed he was in the military based on his haircut, but his jeans and button-down with rolled-up sleeves didn’t give anything away. He seemed well bred and supremely confident.
Adam turned to me and smiled, and my heart did this thing. This scary thing. This thing I hated. It raced, and my stomach flip-flopped. I could feel my cheeks tinting the slightest bit red—probably not full-on maroon like my poor mother’s would have been, but a little red. It made me want to run.
“Anything liquid, fragile, or perishable?” he asked.
I laughed in spite of myself. He had the cutest dimples, and I’d never understood what a “chiseled jawline” was until that moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was the best thing I could come up with. It was really lame.”
I laughed again. “It’s better than what I was thinking.”
He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Mailing yourself home for Christmas?”
He grimaced. “That really is bad.” We both laughed.
I peered around him toward the front of the line. “We don’t seem to be moving, do we?”
He shook his head. The lady at the counter must have had thirty packages. But, whereas a few minutes ago I was annoyed, now I was sort of excited. The longer she fretted over priority versus regular, the longer I got to stare at that face.
“I tell you what,” he said. “I’m not in the business of doing this, but I have a good buddy who works for the postal service. What if I take you to lunch, and I’ll get him to mail our packages?”
Our. It was our first our. My internal warning bells dinged. This was a total stranger. Whom I met in line at the post office. He could be a serial killer, a rapist, a litterer. I had a vision of myself locked in a trunk, trying to kick out the taillight like I saw on Oprah. But he had such an honest face. And such beautiful hazel eyes. And I could picture my lips on his lips more than I could picture myself being stuffed into his trunk.
“This is an extremely important and very special pair of bedroom shoes for my grandmother,” I said. “But if you’re sure you’re up to the task . . .”
My new friend put his hand on my back and led me out the door, which, of course, he held open. “I’m Adam,” he said.
“Sloane.”
Over lunch I learned that, as I had suspected, Adam was in the Army. “I’m spending Christmas with my family before I head back to Iraq in a couple weeks,” he had said.
I was confused and a little scared by how much I hated the idea of his being overseas. I needed to walk away from this one. Not only did I feel dangerously aware of the potential for love here, but I also knew if I did develop feelings for him, I would have to spend the rest of my life worried. That was the opposite of what I was going for. I didn’t want to spend months at a time alone. I didn’t want to worry. I didn’t want to feel. I was about to tell Adam I needed to go, that I had an exam.
But then I
