Hago
I don't know why we didn't notice the fireworks going off beyond our heads, over the hills. Rachel and Nick had left camp on the Independence Day.
I finished out camp, feigning a lack of knowledge over Nick and Rachel and Guy's whereabouts. According to Miss Connor, I was the one knowable link between the three of them. I had to know. I didn't, I told them.
My parents picked me up. Jack called me repeatedly, but I could never really bring myself to answer. About six or seven months after I'd left camp, when I was in the throws of Christmas break senior year, I received a letter, post-marked Mexico.
My breath caught in my throat as I ran up the stairs and locked myself in my bedroom, tentatively tearing away the paper. The letter was written in abhorrent Chicken scratch, and a photo fell onto my floor.
Charlie, Nick's letter started.
Betsy originally wanted to write this letter to you, but I convinced her to let me. She's been really tired lately. We were married about a month after we got here in a ceremony the Catholic preist led entirely in Spanish. We had to learn "I do" - "Hago." About a week ago, she finally had the baby - it's a girl. She was born on December 30th, weighing nine pounds. She's big, and it sounds trite but even though I'm only eighteen, I couldn't be happier.
I have a job in tourism. My boss says I do well because I am "guapo" and speak English.
I wanted to apologize if anything I said that night upset you. I couldn't be more unrepentant of the time we had together. You were one of the best things that ever happened to me, not only in my romantic and sexual life, but you brought me and Bets back together. In a way, you saved our daughter's life. I feel you should know - we named her Charlotte, after you. We can't thank you enough. Let us know if you ever want to hit up Mexico. I'll get you a good deal on a donkey ride.
Forever grateful,
Nick
I smiled, posting the letter on my mirror, and turned downwards towards the floor where a Polaroid picture lay. In it was Rachel and Nick in a cheap-looking hospital. Rachel was wearing a pink paper dress, and in her arms was a rather large infant. She looked as if she'd been crying. Nick, too. The bottom of the picture read, in Rachel's perfect bubbly handwriting, "Nick, Betsy, and Charlotte Jr. December 30, 2006." I didn't put the picture on my wall. Instead, I tucked it under my bed. It felt wrong to let anyone else see it. Ever. It felt wrong to show a picture of something that existed between just the three of us. Well, the four of us now.
THE END