Chapter 1
Addy
January 23rd
Dear Sasha,
Hi. Hello. Greetings from the outside world. I’m currently sitting on my kitchen floor because I spilled coffee on the counter and then slipped in it like a cartoon character on a freaking banana peel.
I suppose I should introduce myself, but the instructions didn’t specify how honest I should be, and that’s usually where I end up getting into trouble.
Here goes nothing…
I’m Adelaide, but everyone calls me Addy. If you don’t, I’ll assume you’re pissed at me.
I don’t have a moral speech in me, but I do have a pretty strong suspicion that humans are more complicated than their worst day. I don’t have any grand statements about justice or redemption, either.
What I do know is I’ve never met anyone who could be summed up in one sentence — and I doubt you’re an exception.
I’m doing this pen pal thing as part of community service, which sounds worse than it is. (It’s a long story involving a dating profile, a fake love of hiking, and a man named Greg who absolutely deserved what happened to him emotionally.)
I don’t expect you to write back. I mean, you can if you want, but no pressure. Honestly, I talk enough for both of us. If you do write back, though, I promise not to ask anything invasive or weird.
Okay, that’s a lie. I will absolutely ask invasive and weird things, but I’ll try to balance it out with jokes and baked goods recipes I’m not legally allowed to sell anymore.
I hope today is … manageable. Feels like the safest word to use.
— Addy
P.S. If you hate this letter, please feel free to pretend it never existed. I’m very good at pretending embarrassing things never happened.
P.P.S. On the other hand, if you don’t write back, I’d have to write to someone else and I kind of really don’t want to do that. So, if you could … please write back.
Chapter 2
Addy
“Fuck,fuck,fuckityfuck!”
The smell of burnt toast, mingled with the cinnamon and vanilla scent of the candle I had lit, assaulted my nostrils in the worst possible way. I scrunched up my nose as I pulled the blackened slice of bread out of the toaster.
“SHIT!”
Letting go of said toast just as quickly as I had pulled it out of the kitchen appliance, I watched it, with wide eyes, soar through the room in an almost comical high arc. It landed next to a stack of dirty plates with a dull thud, and I shook my hand, trying to ease the sting of the burn.
“Great. Just great,” I muttered, inspecting my fingertips.
After recovering the bread, I scraped off the burnt bits with a butter knife and spread some peanut butter on it. Chewing furiously — because, once again, I’d forgottento eat for over twelve hours — I let my eyes wander over the disastrous state of my kitchen.
Ever since my dishwasher had broken two weeks ago with a pitiful glug, there’d been even more disarray in here than usual. I hated washing dishes. Everything about it made me shudder in disgust.
From the water being either scorching, melt-your-skin-off hot or lukewarm (seriously, why was there never an in-between?!), to the crippling anxiety of touching something soggy lurking at the bottom of this pit of hell, just waiting to attack you.
I wasn’t a fan of disposable plates and cutlery — was there a bigger waste of money? — but this appliance crisis had me on the verge of making an exception.
I avoided looking in the direction of the kitchen table, where my laptop was still open, the unfinished graphic design project glaring accusingly back at me.
My gaze shifted to the counter, where I’d carelessly thrown the mail yesterday after returning home from pet-sitting Gertrude, a golden doodle. On top of the scattered envelopes sat an overdue notice for my phone bill.