Dirty Letters(3)

The small dining room table had a pile of mail. I’d had Dad’s mail forwarded to my house, so mostly it was just catalogs and junk. Once a month, Mrs. Cascio sent me everything that arrived, even though I’d told her it wasn’t necessary. I mindlessly fingered through the pile, not expecting to see anything worth keeping. But I stopped at an envelope addressed to me—well, not me, but Luca Ryan. That was a name I hadn’t heard in a long time. In second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Ryan, started a pen pal writing program with a small town in England. We weren’t allowed to use our real last names for safety reasons, so the entire class used her last name—hence I was Luca Ryan.

I checked out the return address for the sender’s name.

G. Quinn



Wow, really? It couldn’t be.

I squinted at the postmark. It was from a PO box in California, not England, but I didn’t know any other Quinn other than Griffin. And the handwriting did look pretty familiar. But it had been close to eight years since we’d exchanged letters. Why would he write now?

Curious, I ripped it open and scanned right to the bottom of the letter for the name. Sure enough, it was from Griffin. I started at the beginning.

Dear Luca,

Do you like scotch? I remember you said you didn’t like the taste of beer. But we never did get around to comparing our taste in hard liquor. Why is that, you might ask? Let me remind you—because you stopped answering my letters eight damn years ago.

I wanted to let you know, I’m still pissed off about that. My mum used to say I hold grudges. But I prefer to think of it as I remember the facts. And the fact of the matter is, you suck. There, I’ve said it. I’ve been holding that shit in for a long time.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not obsessive or anything. I don’t sit in my house thinking about you all day long. In fact, there have been months that go by when thoughts of you don’t even enter my brain. But then some random thing will pop into my head out of the blue. Like I’ll see some kid in a pram eating black licorice, and I’ll think of you. Side note—I’ve tried it again as an adult, and I still think it tastes like the bottom of my shoe, so perhaps it’s that you just have no taste. You probably don’t even like scotch.

Anyway, I’m sure this letter won’t find its way to you. Or if by some miracle it does, you won’t answer. But if you’re reading this, you should know two things.



The Macallan 1926 is worth the extra cash. Goes down smooth.

You SUCK.



Later, traitor,

Griffin



What in the hell?





CHAPTER 2

LUCA


You suck.

You suck.

You suck.

I couldn’t concentrate on anything else ever since opening that letter.

As I packed more of my father’s stuff, thoughts of a boy—well, now a man—who had once been near and dear to my heart flooded my mind.

A text from Doc interrupted my mental trip down memory lane.

Doc: I could have sworn I just saw a tit in Central Park.

A tit?

Luca: What?

Doc: A Eurasian blue tit. One of the most exquisite birds in the tit family.

Luca: Ah. Bird peeping. I should have known.

Doc: It’s a nonmigratory bird found overseas, so it couldn’t possibly be one. But if not a tit, then what is it? Last time I saw one, I was in England!

The fact that he’d mentioned England was strange—almost like a sign from the universe, given the letter from Griffin. Although technically the letter came from California. I really needed to take a breather and talk to Doc about this. I’d never mentioned Griffin to him before.

Luca: I need to talk to you about something. Can you come to me?

Doc: I think it would be good for you to try to venture out.

Sighing, I knew he was right. I needed to make sure he wasn’t in a congested spot, though.

Luca: Is the park crowded right now?

Doc: No. Not where I’m sitting anyway.

Luca: Okay. Can you let me know exactly where to find you?



Doc was sitting on a bench surrounded by pigeons when I arrived at The Falconer statue in Central Park. His binoculars were facing up toward the sky, and when he lowered them down to eye level, he jumped like I’d startled him.

“Well, looks like they found their spirit animal,” I teased. “I guess word got out that the biggest bird lover to ever visit New York City was in town.”

“I wish. It was the bread. Doesn’t take much to get their attention. The problem is, they don’t understand once you run out. The next thing you know, you’re in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.” He turned to me and examined my expression. “What’s going on, Luca? You seem a little anxious. Is being out and about bothering you?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Is the packing stressing you out? Do you need my help?”

“No. I’ve actually been pretty productive in that regard.” I carefully opened the coffee I’d just bought from the food truck around the corner and blew on it. “Something else has come up, though.”

“Oh?”

Taking a sip, I nodded. “I received an unexpected letter from an old pen pal. His name is Griffin. The letter was in the pile of mail that’s normally forwarded to me in Vermont.”