Boot(s)

43 - Boots

Private First Class Peter Jackson

"Boots," something was tossed at my chest before I had the chance to pick my eyes up from the paper. "Mail."

Mail? I had been enlisted for about a year and a half, and the only mail I had ever gotten was from my old science teacher. And those were mostly packages filled with books, candy, and his wife's handmade toffee at Christmastime.

But this, this was a letter I was clutching to my chest. It was a thick one, too. My heart skipped a thousand beats in a second. I imagined I looked like an absolute moron as I slammed my eyes shut, pressing the piece of paper tighter to my chest, willing every inch of the writing on that envelope and on that paper to be Bobby's. His name repeated over and over in my head like a mantra as I turned it over to take a peek.

My heart sank at the sight of loopy, feminine cursive spelling out my name. I almost didn't bother tearing it open—until I saw the familiar Atlanta return address. Jessie.

Thick pieces of paper tumbled out alongside a lengthy college-ruled piece of notebook paper. I eagerly unfolded the letter, allowing the rest of the envelope's contents to pile on my lap.

Dear Peter,

Frankly, I don't know why I'm writing this. Actually, I do. I'm sad, and confused, and just had a pregnancy scare with a boy I hardly know. And you're supposed to be my best friend, remember? The one I come to when the going gets rough, when I can't burden our Bo with too much because his heart is the size of his whole chest? 

Well, you were that friend, anyway.

I'm writing because I need to tell someone, and Bo would drive the two hours to come console me if I told him. He has a game tomorrow, and I know this would mess him up. But I know what you would say. I'll tell him later. Anyway, it's not urgent. I'm not knocked up, and the boy has made himself scarce.

I miss you, Peter. I wish you'd write, or call. Has Bo done either? I don't suppose he has. He has you locked in a treasure chest in a corner of his too-big-heart and he knows not to open it. He's practically trained himself, actually.

I hope you're getting your degree. I hope you're meeting people who bring you joy. I hope you never have to go home to your mom's in Atlanta again. I hope you know I'll always love you, even when I'm stubborn and say I don't anymore. You always have a home with us, Pete. I hope you know that too.

P.S. I was home for Thanksgiving. Found these photos in an old yearbook. Can you guess which one's my favorite?

Love

Jessie

I swallow back the itch in my throat and take my time folding her letter back into itself. The photos are a mess in my lap. I'm practically shaking as I pick them up, turn them over, and memorize every inch of them.

There's one of me, Bo, and Jessie, smiling at her new digital camera, our eyes hiding behind the biggest of smiles. I remember Bo had held out the camera, because he had the longest arms and could capture us all in one frame. Jess had one of her crazy signature hair wraps in, and Bobby was mid-laugh, probably at the struggle to press the capture button. I was stuck between them, my hands pulling them tightly to my sides, looking happier than I ever remember being in my life.

The next was of Bobby and me. I was sitting on a basketball, he on the asphalt. An old Gatorade bottle sat between us. I was reaching out toward the camera— toward Jessie—probably teasing her about always bringing it around, but smiling nonetheless. Next to me, Bobby stared at my reaction—at me—with a curl in his lips and the steady focus of Atlanta's best high school baller. His eyes were settling on my hips. I was leaning forward, toward Jess. I had a habit, back then, of wearing my shorts far too low, my boxers visible with the slightest stretch of a hand. Was that what he was looking at? I flipped the photo to the back of the pile, suddenly ragingly upset that I didn't have an answer to that question.

Something caught in my throat at the sight of the last photograph. Not in a sad way. In an I-just-got-the-wind-knocked-out-of-me way.

It was just Bobby. He was smiling, softly, no teeth. He was lying on the court, clearly, and Jessie had actually stood over him to take the picture. It was so close you could see all his freckles. Every one of his eyelashes, too. His eyes were closed, but I knew those caramel honey irises better than I knew anything. I could almost imagine him, here, in this photo, opening them.

I could see something was written on the back of the photograph in black sharpie. I flipped it over. It's this one.