“I know a lot of guys that are into gaming but is there enough to have a professional league?”
He sits down at the desk, taps on his keyboard. “You’d be surprised. You know I’ve earned a ton of money over the last ten years.”
I lean against the wall. “Strategy?”
“Reaction time… team communications… pressure tolerance.” He glances at me. “Sound familiar?”
“Unfortunately, it does.”
For the first time in years, Witt and I are speaking the same language. He cracks his knuckles, clicks a few keys and mutters, “I’m in.”
I notice there are white envelopes stacked in a drawer so I walk over, plucking one from his nightstand. “You got a pen pal?”
Witt spins in his chair and snaps, “Put that down.”
I grin. Witt has never shown interest in anything but gaming. Not in girls or guys.
“That’s private,” he says as he stands.
“And a female pen pal at that.”
He stretches out his long arms. “Give it back.”
I flip it over. International postage. “Are you writing letters to a girlfriend? Who is she?”
He snatches it from me. “Not relevant to your emotional crisis.”
“Who handwrites letters anymore? You of all people.” I say, shocked.
“People who don’t want everything they say floating around the internet.”
I laugh, even though he’s right. Nothing is ever truly deleted.
“Are you dating a spy?”
Witt glares. “Can we focus?”
I raise my hands. “Fine. Not my business.”
His shoulders relax and he sits back at his computer. His screen fills with data and he leans back. “Well, here ya go.” He turns the monitor toward me and says, “Her cell.”
He scribbles her number on a sticky note and hands it to me.
My pulse jumps, now armed with knowledge of her number. I pull out my phone.
“Do you want me to research her past?”
I shake my head no. “I’ll email you everything I remember tomorrow. I’m good for now.” Witt thinks I’m crazy because a half hour ago I was wrecking my old room wanting to know her last name. “Maybe it’s better if I ask her myself—on the sly.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I don’t know.” I stare at the sticky note.
My younger brother, void of expression, says, “Avoid sounding like a stalker.”
Says the man with a stack of handwritten letters.
I type. Delete and type again. My thumbs hover over the screen.