Dear Haven,

It’s me. Wesley. Wesley Stone.

Well, I guess that it is probably pretty obvious that it’s me, since my name is on the outside of the envelope, and I’m also probably the only person who writes you letters.

Crap. That probably sounded ruder than I meant it to. I just meant that most people don’t really write letters nowadays, so if you were to receive a letter from someone, it would make sense for it to be a letter from someone who had already written you a letter before. Not that no one would want to write you a letter. That’s not what I meant.

Great, now I’m rambling. You probably won’t even read this, and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I was kind of rude to you before. No, scratch that, I was REALLY rude to you before.

I could try to push the blame off of myself and say something like “Well, I didn’t know that my pen pal would be an orphan,” but that would be immature of me, because, no matter who the letter was for, I should have never written the letter the way I did. And for that, I am truly, deeply, sorry.

I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and I honestly wouldn’t blame you if you never want to write to me again, but I had to at least let you know that I realize I was an ass to you. (I know you’re only nine, so I’m sorry for the language, but it’s truthfully the best word to describe me right now.)

If you’re even reading this letter, and you don’t want to forgive me, then… that’s fine. I understand. And if you don’t want to forgive me, and you’re still reading this letter then… you can stop reading it now and throw it away or burn it or rip it up or put it in a shredder… whatever makes you happy, however you want to get rid of it… that’s what you should do now.

However… If you do want to forgive me, then… I’d really like to have a second chance. A fresh start. I’m not saying to forget what happened before. Just that I would like a chance for us to try this whole pen pal thing again, and just see what happens?

The truth is, even with my two best friends, Reid and Nolan, and my brother, Sebastian, I still sometimes feel like there is something missing. Maybe it’s you? Maybe I need a friend with a different perspective on life, someone who didn’t grow up beside me, someone who hasn’t always been my friend.

So, what do you say? Do you think you can give me a chance?

Again, I totally understand if you don’t want to. I don’t deserve it. I really don’t. To be honest, I don’t think I deserve to have you open this letter or even touch the envelope. So, if you’ve made it this far, I guess that means you don’t hate me as much as I think you probably should.

I’m rambling again.

Just… think about it, Haven.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Your friend (hopefully),

Wesley Stone

**********

HAVEN POV

My day started the same as most days. I got up, brushed my teeth, got dressed, ate breakfast, and rode to school in Shirley’s car. She played my favorite songs on the stereo during the drive and told me to have a good day as I got out of the car once we’d arrived at the school.

I dropped my backpack off outside of my classroom once I entered the campus, and I went to the playground, where I sat on the swings by myself, while all the other students found their friends as they arrived.

Then the bell rang, and that’s when the predictable flow of my day went completely off course.

I was not expecting to walk into my classroom and find a letter from Wesley Stone sitting on my desk. I was not expecting to ever hear from him again. It had been about a week since we had sent our reply letters, and no one else had received a second letter from their so-called pen pal.

I glanced around the room, checking to see if anyone else had an envelope on their desk, but it was painfully clear I was the only one.

I shoved it into my desk before anyone else could see it, and I had left it there all day, hardly able to focus on what Mrs. Rodrigo was saying or teaching or assigning us. I only took it out right at the end of the day, when we were packing up our things before it was time for dismissal.

And that’s how I ended up sitting in the backseat of Jack’s car, holding the envelope and staring at it, trying to decide if I should open it or not.

“What do you have there, Haven?”

I glanced up to see Jack’s eyes staring at me in the rearview, watching me and waiting for my response. “It’s a letter,” I told him quietly.

He didn’t respond at first, and I wondered if he even heard me as I turned my attention out the back window.

“A letter? Who from?” he asked as he made a left turn onto the road that led away from the school.

I sighed, turning my head back to look in his direction. “Wesley. My pen pal.”

“Pen pal? That sounds like fun. I didn’t even know people still did that kind of thing.”

I nodded at him, not really sure how to respond to that statement. It hadn’t really been fun so far, but he didn’t know that.

“What does the letter say?”

“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Why not?”

I pressed my lips together, deciding how much to tell him about what had happened with Wesley and this pen pal assignment.

“What’s wrong, Haven?” Jack asked, his head looking directly at me now, while we waited at a stoplight.

I released my lips, blowing out air from my mouth to keep myself calm and to prevent my voice from shaking when I spoke. “He wasn’t very kind in his first letter,” I finally said.

“What do you mean? What did he say?” His brows pulled into a sharp frown at my words, and a tiny part of the walls I had built around my heart crumbled a little at his desire to help me and his need to know how someone had hurt me.

A horn honked behind us, making both of us jump slightly, and Jack muttered, “Shit!” as he quickly turned forward and continued driving. “Don’t tell your mom I said that,” he said to me, looking at me in the mirror again with a wink.

I rolled my eyes a little and giggled. Shirley was just as bad as Jack about cursing while driving, and both of them always asked me to keep it from the other. It was pretty hilarious.

“I don’t remember what it said,” I told him, continuing our conversation about Wesley. “I threw it away at school.”

That was not actually true. I saved it, and took it home, hiding it in the bag I always had ready and packed for when social services came to take me to a new home.

I wasn’t sure why I saved it. I was prepared to tear it up and throw it in the trash, but at the last second, I put it in my backpack instead, and took it home to put with the small amount of meaningful, personal items that I had collected in my short life.

We pulled into the driveway, and I got out of the car before Jack even put it in park, bounding up the steps to the front porch, and racing through the front door. I dropped off my purple backpack on the designated hook in the entryway, hoping to avoid him asking anymore questions about Wesley and his first letter.

For some reason, I felt it was important to protect him. If I told Jack what he said to me in the first letter, Jack would tell Mrs. Rodrigo, who would then tell her sister who is the teacher of the class we exchanged letters with in California, and then Wesley would probably get in trouble.

And, even though he probably deserved it, I just didn’t think it was right for him to get punished for something he honestly didn’t really mean. He was just a kid. Just like me.

As soon as I got up the stairs, I turned right and entered my bedroom, closing the door behind me immediately. I sank down to the floor with my back against the door, and carefully opened the letter.

My heart pounded in my chest as I read his words, my hands on either side of the letter shaking just enough that I had to set the paper on my legs in order to read it properly. I was so nervous about what I might find written there, afraid his words might hurt me again.

I don’t know why I was even reading it, especially after how he treated me the first time, but I couldn’t stop myself. My curiosity had gotten the best of me, and I had to know what he had to say this time.

I read through the letter way too fast the first time, my brain barely processing the words on the paper in front of me. I started it again, this time slowing down to actually understand what he said to me.

As I reread, another tiny part of the walls around my heart came down. He was sorry. Really, truly, honestly sorry. And he wanted to try again. He wanted to maybe even be my friend.

And honestly, he was kind of funny. The way he rattled on in his writing, his inner thoughts coming out directly onto the page — I could totally imagine him talking to himself like that in real life, a constant stream of thoughts and words about everything and anything that was happening around him during his day-to-day activities.

A small smile formed on my lips as I read it for a third time. I moved from the floor by my door to the full size bed sitting in the middle of the large bedroom I had been lucky enough to call my own for the last year. I flopped down onto my stomach and grabbed my blanket that they found me with, my eyes never leaving the paper in front of me.

When I’d finally finished reading it, I set it down on the comforter and crossed my arms under my chin on the bed.

My eyes scanned the room around me, taking in every minor detail. The pristine white computer desk next to the window, the walk-in closet filled with more clothes than I could ever possibly wear, and the much too large for me attached bathroom, complete with a shower and a separate tub.

Even with these luxuries that I had never truly had access to until moving there, the room still didn’t feel like it was completely mine. It still felt like there was something missing. It still didn’t have those personal touches that made it say, “this is Haven’s space.”

I thought about the small amount of movies and television shows I had watched, picturing the rooms of the kids in those stories, and I realized what they all had in common that my room was lacking.

Friends. Or at least, tokens of those friendships. There were no photos on the walls, or on top of the dresser, or pinned to the bulletin board by my desk. There were no knickknacks or trinkets from carnivals or arcade visits. No movie tickets from months ago. No handwritten notes passed during class or at recess or at lunchtime.

I’d never really made any friends in any of my former homes. Part of it was moving so much and joining classes in the middle of the year when friendships have already formed.

But part of it was also because of me. Because I didn’t want to let people in too much, because I was too afraid of having to say goodbye, because I was too focused on protecting my heart from the pain of rejection and the inevitable farewell that would take place. That was why I still couldn’t bring myself to refer to Jack and Shirley as “Mom” and “Dad.”

But maybe… maybe Wesley was my chance. My chance to actually have a friend, someone who would stick around no matter what, no matter where my life took me.

Maybe he was my chance to heal myself, to let people see behind the wall that I had always kept erected around myself. Maybe, by giving him a second chance, he could be my second chance. Maybe I could finally find some happiness.

I sprang into action, moving to my desk, my blanket laid across my lap in my rolling chair. I grabbed the first piece of paper and writing utensil I could find — a hot pink felt-tip pen — instead of searching for the perfect pencil and paper like I did the first time I wrote a letter to Wesley.

I didn’t have the time for perfection. I needed to get the words that were in my head onto a piece of paper as quickly as possible before I forgot them. This wasn’t the time for perfection. This was the time for honesty, for messy and chaotic and all the things that I truly was on the inside.

I don’t know how long I sat at my desk writing my reply, but before I even knew it, Shirley was knocking on my bedroom door to call me down for dinner.

I stretched my arms above my head, wiggling my fingers to release the tension from writing so furiously for so long. Then I climbed out of my chair, leaving my room and heading downstairs to the kitchen for dinner.

It was a Thursday, and on Thursdays, we ate in the kitchen at the counter, and we always had pizza. Most people always had pizza on Fridays, but Jack insisted Thursday was the better pizza day, because since everyone else did it on Fridays, it was less busy at the pizzeria on Thursdays.

So, we would we get our pizza faster and it would be a better quality. I did not know if there was any truth in his theory, but I enjoyed our Thursday night pizza nights and looked forward to them every week.

I grabbed two slices of pizza — one veggie, and one ham and pineapple — and took my spot on the middle bar stool, directly in between Jack and Shirley. I made sure to put my square plate so it sat directly within the perimeter of four of the square tiles on the countertop, just as I always did when I eat at the counter.

I barely paid attention to Jack and Shirley’s conversation, my mind still back in my room, thinking about the letter sitting on my desk, waiting to be put into an envelope and stamped and sent off into the world. But in order to do that, I needed to ask for some help.

I looked between Jack and Shirley, observing the people who had made me feel more at home than anyone else ever had. They had shown me more love and care in one year than I had ever felt in the rest of my years combined. If I could give Wesley, a boy who accidentally hurt me, a second chance, shouldn’t I be able to give two people who had only ever tried to help me a first chance?

I cleared my throat, sitting up a little straighter on my stool, readying myself as I said, “Um… Mom? Dad? I need to mail a letter.”

I’d never understood the saying “silence is louder than words” until I let those two words slip out of my mouth. Both of them froze mid action, their eyes wide and glistening. Jack — Dad — swallowed thickly. His gentle eyes with the small wrinkles at the corner met Shirley’s — Mom’s — over the top of my head.

He blinked a few times, his surprise clear on his face, before he finally spoke to me, his hand covering mine on the counter. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, sweetie. Whatever you need.”

He smiled at me, his face a mix of hope and joy, and when I looked at Mom, she was wearing a matching expression, although she had a few small tears escaping from her eyes.

She said nothing, though. She just tucked a stray hair behind my ear, then slipped around the island into the kitchen, opening the freezer and taking out a tub of my favorite chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

She didn’t need words to tell me how she felt. I could see it in her actions, and in the way she kept looking over at me, her warm gaze putting another crack in my slowly crumbling walls.

Dear Wesley,

I already told you in my first letter to you, I forgive you. I know you didn’t mean what you said, and I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, or whoever got your letter. I know you’re just a kid.

Shirley, my foster mom, always says it’s not about the mistakes that you make, but whether you learn from those mistakes. It’s about what you do next. That’s what is important. That’s what makes you a good person or not.

I am willing to give you a second chance. I need a friend. Like I told you before, I don’t really have many friends. I’ve moved homes too many times. My social worker says I shut people out too easily to make many friends. So, you’ll be my first one.

All right. Since we’re making this a fresh start, I’ll go first. Starting over. Pretend we’ve never met. Or written.

Hi. I’m Haven Kenway. No middle name. That was the name stitched on the blanket wrapped around me when they found me in front of a fire station when I was only a few days old.

I’ve never met my birth parents. I don’t even know if they are alive anymore, or what their names are or anything about them. The social workers were never able to find any information about either of them. I’m the most confusing case of an abandoned baby they’ve ever had.

I am a foster child. I’ve lived in nine different homes since I was a baby. The family I live with right now is the best family I’ve been with in my life, and I hope I stay here longer than my current record for staying in one home, which is one and a half years.

I remember in your letter you mentioned a brother, Sebastian. Is he older or younger? Do you have any other siblings? What’s it like to have a brother? Or a sister, if you have one?

I have no siblings. Well, that I know of anyway. I guess, my foster parents have two children, but they are both grown and moved out of the house. I’ve met them several times, though, and they’re both really nice people.

I guess, also, I’ve had siblings in my previous foster homes, but most of the time they were much younger or much older than me, and with how often I moved families, I never really had much time to form any sort of bond with them.

I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me. I know that my life is different and maybe even weird to someone who has grown up in one home with a complete family. But this is my normal. This is what I’m used to.

I’ll admit, though, that I really hope I don’t have to leave Jack and Shirley soon. Those are the names of my foster parents, if you couldn’t figure that out. It’s really nice being the only foster kid in their home. This is the first time that’s happened.

Jack and Shirley are really kind people. They take great care of me, and not just by doing the minimum. They definitely go above and beyond with what they do for me. They even told me I could call them “mom” and “dad”, but I haven’t done that yet.

I think I’m afraid of doing that and then being taken or sent away to another family. I know they say they don’t want or plan to stop being my foster parents, but nothing is ever set in stone. Anything can change that plan.

All right, that is enough about me and my life. I want to know about you.

When is your birthday? What is your favorite color? Favorite animal? Favorite food? Favorite sport or hobby? Tell me everything, please!

I hope to hear back from you soon.

Your friend,

Haven Kenway

P.S. After I asked my mom for an envelope and a stamp, and told her what it was for, she told me I should put a picture of myself in here. Please don’t laugh at my silly school photo. It’s the only one I had that was already printed. You can totally throw it away if you want. I won’t mind. Also, she said it’s fine for you to send your replies to our house from now on, so this address is fine for you to use.

Bye!

Haven

**********

WESLEY POV

I didn’t check the mail at all that week.

I didn’t obsessively open the mailbox every time I walked by. I didn’t look through the incoming mail basket in our suite, or in my dad’s office, or at the front of the packhouse at every opportunity I had. I didn’t ask my mom if the mail had come in yet as soon as I walked in the door after school or after training.

I didn’t even give one tiny little thought to whether or not Haven would respond to my letter, to whether or not she’d decide to give me a second chance. Not one thought. Not at all.

At least, that was what I’d have told anyone who confronted me about it. Especially my friends. Especially Reid. That jackass would never let me hear the end of it if he knew I was basically stalking the mailman, waiting for a letter from a nine-year-old human girl whom I had never even actually met.

I had already gotten enough shit-eating side glances from Sebastian every time he caught me in the act, and my parents just exchanged this knowing look with each other whenever they saw me searching the mail. That was enough nonverbal teasing, in my opinion. If Reid caught wind of it, the teasing would definitely be verbal. Very verbal. Which was why I wouldn’t admit to my mailbox obsession.

It was Saturday — over a week since I sent my apology and begged her to let me have a second chance — and I had yet to hear from her. I was thinking all of my waiting and checking and hoping had completely been for nothing.

Reid, Nolan, Sebastian, and I had training that morning with our dads, and the four of us were eating a small breakfast in the pack house dining room before going out to the training yard. I was sitting between Nolan and Reid, and Seb was directly across from me at the table.

I kept stabbing my fork harder than necessary into my scrambled eggs. I was more than ready to head out and start sparring. The frustration that had built up inside of me throughout the week was eating away at me, and I desperately needed to let it all out.

“What did those eggs ever do to you?” Reid asked from my right, just as I shoveled a forkful into my mouth.

I swallowed quickly, forcing more food down than I should have, making my eyes water slightly.

“What?” I choked out once the lump of food moved out of my throat.

“You’re attacking your eggs with your fork as though they were your mortal enemy,” Reid pointed out. “I’m just wondering what great crime the eggs committed for you to be trying to kill them.”

“You should have seen him yesterday when we were doing homework after training,” Nolan chimed in from my other side, my head whipping around to stare at him in surprise. “I thought he was going to end up tearing all the pages out of his book, he was turning them so roughly.”

“I was just trying to finish quickly,” I mumbled, but my words went unheard. They were on a roll, and nothing I said would deter them.

“Oh yeah, and in class the day before, he kept checking the clock every ten or so minutes. I thought he was going to break his neck with how much and how quickly he kept turning to look behind himself at the wall,” Reid continued, talking over me.

“You think that’s bad?” my idiot little brother Sebastian piped up from across the table. “All week he’s been stalking the mailbox, checking it every hour, waiting for—”

I didn’t even let him finish his sentence. I launched myself across the table, tackling him in his chair, sending it and us to the floor. The chair broke apart beneath us as Sebastian wiggled around. He tried to get out from under me, not wanting to let me pin him.

He kneed me in my nuts, and I let out a groan of pain. My body hunched in on itself slightly to protect my family jewels from a second assault.

Sebastian used this to his advantage, using my body weight against me and rolling me onto my back. He jumped up to his feet in a flash and ran through the large dining room towards the back door that led out to the pack grounds, weaving around the many tables that occupied the space.

I was on my feet and following him in an instant, closing the distance between the two of us easily with every step, my breakfast completely forgotten on the table. I could hear Nolan and Reid laughing and egging us on from their chairs.

One of them was rooting for me and the other for Seb. I couldn’t tell who was rooting for who. My attention was too focused on Sebastian for me to figure out which of my best friends had decided he was going to be a traitor.

Sebastian’s hand was just about to grab the doorknob when the door opened, and my dad’s very large and imposing form was revealed, filling up the entire doorway. Seb froze when he saw our dad, and I tried to stop myself, but my momentum was so great that I ran straight into his back, sending him forward into our dad’s massive chest.

Dad’s large hands gripped Sebastian by the shoulders. His critical gaze scanned first my brother, then me, and then the room behind us. His eyes landed on the broken chair, and he switched from Dad to Alpha Harrison Stone by the time his focus turned back to us.

“Wesley! Sebastian!” he grunted, clearly displeased with our early morning horseplay and pack house destruction. “What have I said about roughhousing inside the pack house?”

“To not do it near the furniture?” Sebastian supplied, trying to keep his face serious.

Dad’s lips twitched slightly, but his face remained stoic and his voice stayed cool when he spoke again.

“20 laps around the field!” His arm gestured behind him, his finger pointing us in the direction of the training grounds.

Sebastian and I both groaned exaggeratedly, my head tilting back to look at the ceiling.

“Daaaaad….” Sebastian whined, but before he could say anything more, Dad cut him off.

“I could make it 40?” Dad asked with a raised brow. “And until training is over, you will address me as Alpha or Alpha Stone or Alpha Harrison or Sir. Understood?” We both grumbled out a response. “I said, understood?!” Dad yelled again, and Seb and I straightened up quickly.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, and at the same time Sebastian said, “Yes, Alpha.”

We made our way past him and through the doorway, and Reid snickered behind us from where he still sat at the table in the dining room.

“Suckers!” he whispered, but of course, since we’re shifters, everyone heard him.

“Reid, you can join them,” Dad ordered him without missing a beat.

“Aww, come on Alpha, I didn’t even do anything!” Reid complained.

But he scooted his chair back, anyway. He knew he’d never get out of it. My dad never let him off the hook for anything.

“It’s only seven in the morning. I’m sure by the end of the day, you’ll have caused some sort of trouble. I’m just saving precious time by disciplining you beforehand instead of waiting for it to happen,” Dad shrugged, his arms crossing over his chest as he waited for the three of us to begin our laps.

“Go on! I don’t have all fu- all day!” He stopped himself from swearing as he felt my mom walk up behind him, clearly coming to check out what all the commotion was about.

As we took off at a steady pace, he melted in my mom’s presence, his muscular arms plucking Maddie out of our mom’s arms with ease. He snuggled her against his chest as he talked to my mother.

It surprised me Madeleine ever learned how to walk with how much my dad carried her around everywhere. Spoiled little pack princess, I thought with a roll of my eyes. Dad would never punish her with twenty laps for breaking a chair.

We continued our steady pace as we ran, and I slowed myself down slightly so Reid and Sebastian could keep up with me easily. My eyes constantly scanned our surroundings, as my dad had been training me to do.

I already had exceptional senses, and they would only improve when my Lycan developed in a year or so. Most shifters had their first shift at around 14, but since I was of Alpha blood, I would likely shift for the first time at 13.

I could see Nolan working on his drills with my dad and his dad, Felix Shepard, the pack’s Gamma, and I could smell the border patrol that was hidden among the trees and posted at various intervals along the edge of our territory. I also realized that someone was noticeably missing.

“Where’s your dad?” I asked Reid between breaths, my head turning to glance at him.

His mouth tightened into a thin line, his eyes darkening for a split second before his expression turned back to normal. Most people wouldn’t have caught the change, but I’d learned how to read him over the years, so I did.

He finally looked at me, and said, “He’s still asleep,” then he turned his face forward and sped up a bit, ending our conversation.

I frowned a bit to myself, but I didn’t let Reid see or push the issue with him. He didn’t like people to feel sorry for him or pity him because of what happened.

Even so, I think part of the reason he seemed to get away with his shenanigans so often was because people knew about his situation, so they overlooked his troublemaking.

His mom, Stephanie, died when we were nine, and his dad had been in a decline ever since. He had good days, and bad days. The bad days outnumbered the good days most of the time.

In other packs, Brad would have likely been replaced as Beta. But between Gamma Felix and my dad’s Delta, Sullivan, the work got covered when needed, and none of them complained or said a word to Brad about it. They just took care of it. Took care of him. Because that’s what best friends did.

It bothered Reid, though, that his dad missed out on so much of his successes, even though he said nothing to me about it. He was always scanning the crowd at various school events or at our football games, and there was always a glint of disappointment in his eyes. But he would just steel himself, and turn his attention back to the task at hand, pretending that everything was fine.

It was an unusually warm day for November, so our 20 laps took much longer than normal. By the end of the run, it felt more like we ran the 40 laps my dad threatened us with when Sebastian complained.

We sprinted the last bit to the middle of the field where my dad, Gamma Felix, Delta Sullivan, and Nolan were all waiting for us. Nolan sat on the ground with a smirk while he did his cool down stretches, since he already finished his training while the three of us were running.

We all stopped in front of my dad, and my hands immediately went to the top of my head as I took in deep lungfuls of air and focused on slowing my heart rate back down. It didn’t take too long, since I was a future alpha and I had Lycan healing. When I could finally shift, 20 laps would be absolutely nothing for me.

My dad just looked at us with an unimpressed stare, before he moved into our regular training session with the three of us and dismissed Nolan for the day. Lucky bastard.

The rest of our training passed without incident, and the three of us trudged up the stairs when we finished, heading to the alpha suite to get cleaned up and have some lunch.

I could tell before we even entered the suite that something important was about to happen. I opened the door and walked in, and right there, on the entryway table, was a light purple envelope addressed to Wesley Stone and sent from Colorado. My heart fluttered a little in my chest when I saw it.

She wrote back. She actually wrote back!

I reached my hand out for it, but before I could even touch it, Reid snatched it off the table and ran towards the kitchen with it held in his hand over his head.

“Give it back!” I shouted, but he was already ripping the envelope open, not even attempting to lift the flap like a normal person.

He tore the letter out and unfolded it, moving faster than I’d ever seen him move, his eyes already skimming over the contents of Haven’s letter. Luckily for me, he didn’t notice the other content of the envelope that fell to the floor in his haste to get the paper out.

I darted forward and grabbed it, tucking it into the pocket of my basketball shorts before he or Sebastian could see it.

I stood there while he read, an exasperated sigh escaping from my lips as I waited for him to finish the letter. I knew he wouldn’t give it back until he did.

His eyes finally met mine over the top of the paper, and instead of the teasing I expected from him, he just gave me this look before handing me the paper and leaving the room. I glanced after him, a bit concerned, but I could hear the door of the guest bathroom close and the shower turn on, so I left it alone, turning my attention to the item in my pocket I saved from the floor.

It was a photo. The tiny ones from school that mothers or grandmothers usually put inside their wallets to show off to their friends or the clerk at the grocery store or their hairdresser. I assumed the girl in the photo was Haven, since it fell out of the envelope addressed to me.

Her hair was a strawberry blonde or light red color and was a wild mess of curls and waves that fell past her shoulders and ended out of the frame of the photo. She had dark blue eyes, and although she was smiling in the photo, I could tell it was a forced smile, a fake smile.

It was a smile I had seen before on Reid’s face when we won a game and his dad wasn’t there. Her eyes, too, held a sadness that was much too heavy for a nine-year-old.

As soon as I saw her, I felt this instant need to always take care of her and protect her and keep her safe. It was a peculiar feeling, one I had never felt towards anyone outside of my family before. Well, besides Reid and Nolan, but I knew they could also take care of and protect themselves.

I was barely aware of Seb telling me he was heading to take a shower. I was too engrossed in the photo. I finally tore my gaze away from Haven’s face, and went to my room, my eyes not registering my surroundings as I walked through our home.

I turned the shower on in my en suite bathroom and then sat down on my bed to finally read her letter while I waited for the water to heat up.

Dear Haven,

I cannot tell you how happy I was to receive your second letter.

Well, no, I guess I probably could try to tell you how happy you made me, but in all honesty there are not enough words in the English language or any language to express how I felt when I saw your letter finally come in.

You can’t tell anyone this. But I was waiting and waiting and waiting, hoping that you would give me another chance, and I’m not going to lie — at one point I thought maybe you had decided I wasn’t worth it.

But seriously, please don’t tell anyone, because I have already endured enough teasing from my parents and my brother, and even a little bit from my best friend, Reid.

Not that I’m embarrassed to be your friend, that’s not it at all. It’s just that the constant taunting from my little brother and my best friends is annoying. So annoying. That’s what it’s like, by the way, to have siblings. ANNOYING.

Okay, okay, it’s not ALL bad. Sebastian, my little brother who is two years younger than me, and I are actually really close, and we get along fine, but I think it’s pretty natural for siblings to also intentionally drive each other crazy. Which Sebastian does. A lot.

Reid and Nolan, my two best friends, are also almost more like brothers to me. We’ve all known each other since we were born, and the four of us (Reid, Nolan, Sebastian, and me) spend pretty much all of our time together, outside of school at least, since Nolan and Sebastian are in different grades than Reid and I.

But other than that, we play together, do homework together, and even go on family trips together, since all of our parents are best friends as well. And we all constantly give each other crap — I mean tease each other — about anything and everything. I guess it’s in the sibling job description.

Other than them, I have a much younger sister, Madeleine. She’s three and is literally the princess of our family. The princess of our town, if I’m being frank. She has my dad wrapped around her little finger.

Honestly, I think she has me wrapped around it as well. I am afraid of what she’ll be like when she gets older, though. I have this feeling she’s going to end up being a force of nature that none of us will be prepared to deal with.

So, now, you asked me a bunch of questions in your letter, and I’m going to answer them, but I’m expecting you to answer the same questions when you write me back, plus any other questions I decide to ask you. You have been warned.

My birthday is September 4th, so I turned 12 a little over two months ago. I am in the 6th grade at my school, which goes to 8th grade. I know, usually schools stop at 5th or 6th grade, and then students go to middle school, but we’re a pretty small town, so ours goes to 8th and then we’re bussed out to the nearest high school.

My favorite color is white. Yes, I realize white isn’t really a color, but it is my favorite.

My favorite animal is a wolf. They are strong, protective, loyal, and beautiful creatures.

My favorite food is pizza. Any kind of pizza. Except pizza with mushrooms. I hate mushrooms.

And my favorite sport is football or basketball. I also enjoy running and uh… I guess you could call it boxing? I know it sounds violent and unsafe, but I promise, I’m trained by professionals and they make sure we’re safe the entire time we’re working out and sparring.

I also enjoy playing video games with my friends, listening to music, and believe it or not, but I enjoy reading. I actually really enjoy school, too. Don’t tell Reid, though.

I’m pretty sure that addresses all the questions you asked me. I know you said you want to know “everything” but I don’t think I’d ever be able to tell you everything about myself in one letter. But I’m guessing, over time, we’ll eventually learn everything about each other? Assuming we stay in touch, I mean.

By the way, I couldn’t help but notice… in your last letter, you first referred to your foster parents as “Jack” and “Shirley”, but then later, in your PS, you wrote “mom.”

Okay, wow, now that I’m writing this, I realize that it’s honestly none of my business what you call them. I just noticed and wanted to ask, but you can just ignore me. You don’t have to answer that question. Forget I asked.

Last thing: I’m sending you my school picture as well. It’s only fair, since you sent me yours, that I send you mine and show you what an actual silly school photo looks like. Because yours, my friend, is not silly. Mine, however, is.

When you get this letter, it will probably be almost Thanksgiving, so, Happy Thanksgiving.

Wait, do you celebrate Thanksgiving? I’m sorry if you don’t. If you do, well then, uh… Happy Thanksgiving!

Your Friend,

Wesley Stone

**********

HAVEN POV

I folded up the letter from Wesley, stuck it back into the envelope, and placed it into my dance bag. Then I carefully organized the purple floral stationery paper Mom helped me pick out, and put my reply letter into one of the coordinating envelopes.

I was so excited when she took me to the store and let me pick out special paper, envelopes, and pens to use for my letters to Wesley. She knew how much I loved using really nice pens, so having my own full set of colorful pens that was just mine was so exciting.

I had been so overwhelmed by the options in the store. She ended up letting me choose a few unique patterns of paper since I had trouble deciding between them. She also bought me a pocket dictionary, so I wouldn’t have to lug around the giant one from our house.

Then, she took me to the post office, and bought me an entire roll of stamps, so I could mail my letters to him without having to ask them for permission or help. I would still tell them if I sent one, of course, but the fact that they felt I was mature enough to do it on my own made me smile.

I leaned against the mirrored wall of the mostly empty dance studio room, stretching my legs out in front of me and pointing my feet in my pink ballet shoes. My mom was still talking with Miss Rebekah, my dance teacher. I was not sure what they were discussing — they were too quiet for me to hear them — but their faces were fairly serious. I just hoped I was not in trouble for anything.

I hated getting into trouble. I tried to always be on my best behavior. I hated disappointing people, and I felt guilty when I made even the smallest of mistakes.

I searched my brain while they talked, trying to remember if I had done something wrong during my ballet class, but I couldn’t think of anything.

I stood up, and they turned their eyes on me. But I ignored them and walked to the center of the room, turning to face the mirror, my eyes examining my reflection.

One thing I loved the most about ballet was how precise everything had to be. The uniformity of seeing everyone in a black leotard, pink tights, and pink ballet shoes, all moving together in unison — it fueled the perfectionist inside me.

I loved how perfectly Mom could pull my hair back into a bun, somehow able to tame my wild, wavy-curly hair into a sleek, clean hairstyle. I loved how focused I had to be during class, making sure my every movement was precise yet fluid, strong yet smooth.

I placed my feet into fifth position, my arms moving from low fifth to first position, before I began practicing my pirouettes. I stretched all the way through my leg to the tips of my toes in my tendu, used my plié to help me turn instead of using my arms to whip me around, and I made sure my foot connected to my supporting leg when I brought it up to passé as I turned.

However, each time I attempted a pirouette, I fell out of my turn before I even made it around one time. Even though I was growing more and more frustrated with each turn, I continued to try. I didn’t let my frustration show on my face, however. I just kept practicing.

I lost track of how many times I tried to complete a perfectly executed pirouette, when Miss Rebekah’s hands were on my arms from behind me as I was about to turn again.

“Hold your arms up from here,” she told me, tapping the underside of my upper arms. “Not from here,” she continued, touching the tops of my arms. “Relax your shoulders down and back, instead of tensing them up and hunching forward.”

She moved next to me, showing me with her own body what she meant by her words. I immediately imitated her movements, correcting my body to match hers.

“And don’t forget to spot,” she reminded me.

She nodded at me, and I turned my head back to the mirror, taking a deep breath to remember all of her notes before I attempted one last turn.

I turned, completing not one, but two perfect pirouettes, landing in a clean plié in fifth position.

A wide grin appeared on my face, and I looked at Miss Rebekah for approval. She gave me a tiny smile, which from her was a tremendous compliment since she was usually so very serious.

“I’ll see you next class,” she said softly before walking gracefully back over to my mom.

They finished their conversation, and my mom said, “Thank you,” to Miss Rebekah, so I walked back over to my dance bag. I changed out of my ballet shoes and pulled my sweats on over my leotard and tights before sliding my warm boots onto my feet.

Standing up, I grabbed my dance bag off the floor and walked to where my mom waited for me next to the door to the studio. I was nervous for a moment, since they had been talking for so very long. I was still not sure what it was about, but the soft smile and small gleam of pride in her eyes reassured me I most likely was not in trouble.

She was quiet as we loaded ourselves into the car, so I stayed quiet too as I buckled myself into the backseat. She sat there for a moment, the car running but not moving, before she turned to look at me straight in the eye with a smile.

“Miss Rebekah is very impressed with the growth you have made in such a short amount of time,” she told me. “She said she would never have known you had only been taking lessons for a year if I hadn’t told her. She would like you to enroll in at least one more ballet class, and she also mentioned the possibility of private lessons to help you reach your full potential. She thinks you have the natural ability to go very far in the ballet world.”

My jaw dropped open at what she said and I tried to form words to respond to her, but my tongue and my voice could not cooperate with my brain. Instead, I released a series of incoherent sputters.

“But — she — that’s—” My mind was moving faster than my mouth, and I could not get out whatever it was my brain was trying to say.

Mom’s hand reached to the backseat and gently rested on my knee, her eyes softening as she took in my reaction.

“If you’re worrying about the cost, don’t. Your father and I want to do this for you. We want to see you succeed, and we’re happy you’ve found something you are passionate about, something that you obviously work very hard for.”

My gaze lowered, and tears pricked at the back of my eyes. I blinked furiously, not wanting Mom to see. I may have been letting my walls down more and more, but I still had a tendency to revert to my old, closed-off ways when I was feeling especially vulnerable. Like I was at that moment.

Mom squeezed my leg reassuringly, then turned back to the wheel and put the car in gear so she could drive us home. She likely saw the glistening of tears in my eyes, and I appreciated her for ignoring them instead of acknowledging them and trying to get me to talk about it.

I quickly wiped at the tear that ran down my cheek, and I pulled out my letters again, so I could reread Wesley’s and add a post-script to the one I wrote to him. I also wanted to look at his picture again, if I was being honest.

There was just something about his eyes and his smile that drew me in instantly when I looked at the photo for the first time — a connection I could feel even through a photograph. Maybe it was just because of our letters, but something deep within me, a feeling or a presence that I couldn’t even begin to understand or explain, told me it was something bigger, something more.

“What did your friend say?” Mom asked me from the driver’s seat.

I looked up at her from where I had been jotting down my last words, and I smiled as I replied, “He told me about his family, mostly. And his friends. They all seem to be very close.” I gave a soft sigh, lowering my eyes for a moment so she wouldn’t see my sadness. “He sent me his picture as well.”

Mom perked up in her seat at that. “Ooh, let me see?”

I waited until she stopped at a red light and then reached forward to hand her the photo.

“Oh, he is a handsome young man, isn’t he?” I blushed at her words, turning my head to the side and pressing my hands to my cheeks to hide the pink I knew was there. “So strong and serious looking already at his age,” she added, examining his photo still.

Even with my embarrassment, I couldn’t deny the truth of what she was saying. I might have been only nine years old, but I could still tell that Wesley was more mature looking than most 12-year-olds I had seen, and that he would undoubtedly grow to be more handsome as he got older. He told me his photo was silly, but all I saw was a young man with serious but caring brown eyes and a sincere, honest smile.

“Are you ready to mail your reply? I can swing by the post office before we head home?” Mom asked me, and I nodded, then stuffed, sealed, and placed a stamp on the envelope I was sending to Wesley.

We pulled into the post office parking lot, and my mom drove up to the outdoor mailbox, opening my window for me so I could drop the letter into the mailbox. My heart fluttered a bit as I watched the purple envelope fall into the dark of the mailbox, my anticipation and excitement to hear from Wesley again racing through me.

We might have only known each other for a short while, and we didn’t know if we would ever get to meet each other in person, but I already considered him one of my best friends. I could only hope that he felt the same about me.