Chapter Text
September 2019
Richmond, London, UK
Letter #1
“You look fit as fuck today, babe.”
With a flourish only achievable by her best friend and PR extraordinaire, Rebecca’s office door swings open, a coffee is deposited primly onto her desk, and Keeley Jones flops herself down into the opposite chair.
Rebecca picks up the to-go cup and smirks around the rim of her coffee. “Good morning to you, too.”
Her eyes trail over the desk, take in the mountain of paperwork and the open laptop. “We’re still on for lunch today, yeah?” Keeley asks, heels already kicked off and legs curled to her chest in the small chair.
“Of course,” Rebecca nods. She pulls her glasses down from their spot propped atop her head and reaches for the pile of mail she’s been avoiding since this morning. “I have to sort through a bunch of bureaucratic bullshit first, but then we can go.”
Keeley hums. “You could always just, like, tell the bureaucratic bullshit to piss off and let me whisk you away for a few much needed mimosas,” she says, grinning from where her chin sits on her knees.
“A few?”
“At least two.”
With a fond shake of her head, Rebecca smirks. “Perhaps for you.”
“Ugh. Live a little. You work too hard.” She puffs out her lower lip. “Leave the paperwork and let’s go get respectably tipsy.”
“As tempting as that is, I don’t think that’s how it works.”
She lifts one shoulder. “You’re the boss, Rebecca, of course that’s how it works.”
Rebecca’s eyes cut to the couch. “Go make yourself comfortable, I won’t be long.”
Keeley lets out a dramatic sigh but uncurls her legs, gathers her heels, and trots over to the couch. She sits horizontally across the cushion with her legs outstretched, her toes pointing down into the cushion.
Rebecca chuckles, then makes quick work of separating her mail into three piles: time-sensitive, probably nonsensical bullshit she needs to look through anyway but doesn’t warrant much concern, and “will require every ounce of willpower to get through.”
Stuck to the back of another piece of mail by an unsettling sticky substance, an unassuming letter catches her eye. Unlike the rest of the pile, there’s a glaring absence of any official organizational stamp in the top left corner.
The front of the envelope isn’t marred by typed ink at all, but by what appears instead to be child-like, handwritten scrawls.
Rebecca sighs, under the immediate assumption that it’s hitched a ride on her mail by pure accident. Although she plans to have a talk with the club’s mail sorter about being more thorough, she moves to set it aside into its own pile when a flash of something gives her pause.
Her name.
Sure enough, the destination address reads, unmistakably (though a bit unsteadily):
Rebecca Welton
C/O: Nelson Road
Richmond TW9 1HJ, UK
England
Brows drawn, Rebecca holds the envelope between her fingers and inspects it as if it’ll start speaking and explain itself if she stares at it long enough. Gaze trailing over, she takes note of the return address. In the same child-like penmanship reads:
Henry Lasso
C/O: Oak Grove Elementary School
5340 Oak Grove Road
Kansas City, KS, 66106
United States
“Who the hell is Henry Lasso,” she mutters to herself, confusion mounting.
“What was that, babe?”
Rebecca looks between the letter and Keeley, something settling. Her eyes narrow.
“Keeley?” Her friend hums. “Would you happen to know why I’m receiving mail from a primary school in… Kansas City?” She doesn’t even know where Kansas City is.
Keeley perks up immediately, legs swinging over the edge of the couch. With an unsettling degree of exuberance and a clap of her hands, she exclaims, “That’s your pen pal!”
Rebecca blinks. “My what?”
“Pen pal. You know, a stranger you write to and they—”
“I know what a pen pal is,” she interrupts with a raised hand. She lifts the envelope, flapping it around. “Why do I have one?”
“Oh. Well, one of the teachers at the primary school contacted the club a few months ago.” Keeley is far too nonchalant while she explains. “Her class is doing a pen pal project for the second semester, you know, matching each of the kids with a highly successful career professional. She asked if you would be interested in participating, and I—”
“Agreed on my behalf?”
Keeley has the grace to look a bit apologetic. “Yes. But, in my defense, I just got so caught up in how fucking adorable it sounded. I mean, come on, Rebecca, getting handwritten letters from a little kid? Hell, I almost volunteered myself.”
“Why didn’t you?” Rebecca grumbles, staring down at the envelope as if it’s offended her in some way.
It does sound adorable, in theory, a small pen pal. Except Rebecca does not know how to interact with children in person, let alone in writing, especially a child she doesn’t know. It’s bad enough that she’s still trying to re-navigate how to spend time with her goddaughter, Nora, and she’s a teenager. Very newly a teenager, but a teenager nonetheless.
The writing on this envelope tells her the child in question, this Henry Lasso boy, is not.
“She asked for you,” Keeley shrugs.
“You could’ve rallied Roy instead. I’m sure the kid would rather talk to a Premier League footballer.”
Keeley makes a noise, raising a brow. “Could you imagine Roy writing a letter to a fifth grader? I’d have to go through and personally censor half of the bloody thing.”
“What the hell is a fifth grader?”
“That’s our Year 6. I google’d it.”
“Ah.”
So this kid is what… ten years old? Maybe eleven?
She wrinkles her nose, takes a moment, and then nods her head in reluctant agreement. Okay, fine, perhaps Roy wouldn’t have been the most advisable choice. But surely there had to have been other options. Options that were not her.
Sighing, Rebecca flattens the letter against her desk. “Keeley, I don’t have time for this. I’m… I have far too many things piling up already.”
“Sure you do, and no you don’t,” she counters. Rebecca curses her best friend’s in-depth knowledge of her upcoming schedule and engagements. “It’s a letter, Rebecca. You sit at your desk and respond to a million of them a day.”
“Yes, business obligations.”
“Well,” Keeley says, drawing it out. “Just consider this another business obligation.”
Rebecca levels her with a look. “Keeley…”
“I’m serious. It kind of is, anyway. It’d look proper fucking shitty of you if you don’t respond after you agreed to participate.”
Her lips part, incredulous. “I didn’t agree to participate!”
She can feel a headache coming on.
Keeley waves a hand. “So I agreed for you, whatever, same thing.” She sips on her coffee. “Listen, babe, you don’t want that poor kid—”
“Henry,” Rebecca mumbles without thinking.
There’s a pointed silence during which she realizes her mistake. She is not a fan of the sparkle in Keeley’s eyes.
“You don’t want Henry,” she repeats, lips curled into a smirk, “to be the only student in his class not getting a response from his penpal, do you?”
Rebecca groans, leaning back in her chair. She closes her eyes and pinches at the bridge of her nose, because no, of course she doesn’t want to be responsible for this little boy being left out. She may not have a heart of fucking gold, but the image of a small boy sitting in a random fucking Kansas City primary school with a frown on his face while his classmates get handed letters from their penpals—
Pulling her lips into a thin line, she points one perfectly manicured finger at Keeley. “I could strangle you.”
“You can choke me any time,” Keeley drawls with a waggle of her eyebrows. “I mean it. An-y-time.”
Despite her best attempts, Rebecca can’t bite back the quiet laugh. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” Keeley counters happily as she moves to stand. She bounces over and rounds the desk, already sliding in beside Rebecca, one hand braced on the back of her chair and the other on the desk’s edge. “Go on then, open it.”
“I’m sorry, I thought this was my letter that I never agreed to receive?”
Bumping their shoulders together, Keeley huffs. “It’s at least half mine. Now go on, I want to see what little Henry Lasso’s all about.”
Rolling her eyes, Rebecca turns the envelope over, a small, involuntary smile curling at her lips when she notices the chipmunk sticker he’d placed in the middle to seal the flap.
Keeley aws beside her. “Shit that’s adorable.”
She continues to open the letter, careful not to rip the sticker in the process, and pretends she can’t feel Keeley’s grin as she does so. Rebecca pulls the piece of paper out, opening where it overlaps three times in an uneven fold.
Dear Ms. Welton,
The handwriting isn’t the most terrible she’s ever seen, but it’s distinctly ten-year-old-boy penmanship. Not that she knows any ten year old boys, but this is precisely what she’d assume their handwriting looks like. It matches the outside of the envelope, confirming that little Henry Lasso is the one who’d addressed it.
My name’s Henry Lasso and I’m a fifth grader at Oak Grove Elementary School. Thank you for agreeing to be a pen pal!
Keeley nudges at her side with her hip and Rebecca shushes her.
I’ve never had a pen pal before. My dad talks a lot about stranger danger, but this doesn’t count since you’re my pen pal and my teacher picked you, which means you’re not a stranger. A lot of the other students got paired with chefs and athletes and stuff—
Rebecca winces, mentally preparing herself for the disappointment that’s likely to follow in the back half of the sentence. Of course this pre-teen boy would prefer to be matched with someone who’s more aligned with his own interests.
—but I was excited when I saw that I got you.
Oh. That’s… unexpected.
Something warm settles in her chest and she coughs subtly against it.
Keeley’s “aw, Rebecca” is quiet beside her.
My teacher said you own a soccer team, but that y’all call it football. I guess that makes sense, ‘cause you kick the ball with your feet and all.
Rebecca allows another tiny smile to form. At least one small American out there gets it.
You probably have to be really cool to own your own team, so I bet you’re really cool. My dad’s a football coach—
Henry’s gone in and drawn a little arrow to add “American” before football.
—but he doesn’t own them or anything. It would be fun if he did I think. I’d probably get to go out on the field more, and I like that. They’ve got fancy grass that isn’t really grass but it feels nice.
“You’re really cool, Rebecca.”
She swats blindly at Keeley. “Hush.”
My teacher says we’re supposed to ask you five questions and tell you five things about ourselves.
A wonky, terribly uneven numbered list of questions follows:
1. Does owning the team mean you’re the team’s boss? Do you get to pick what kind of games they play and stuff?
2. Is it hard owning a football team?
He’s scribbled and written football above a blacked out “soccer,” which she admits is sweet.
3. What’s your favorite hobby?
4. Do you play football too?
5. What’s it like in England? Is it cool? The buses there have two floors so it must be pretty cool. Ours don’t have that :(
She chuckles at the last question and the squiggly little frowny face, then moves along to finish reading his facts about himself.
1. My favorite color is blue
2. I have a stuffed pig named Porky my dad got me for my birthday when I was 5 and I sleep with him at night but don’t tell anyone because it’s a secret
Rebecca smiles, soft. That’s fucking precious.
3. I don’t like olives because they look like eyeballs and it’s creepy
“I told you the little clitoris things are fucking freaky,” Keeley announces beside her.
Rebecca huffs a laugh.
4. I like to run track. I’m pretty good at it but I don’t like to brag
5. There are lots of sunflowers around our house. My dad likes to pick them sometimes. Do you like sunflowers? (that’s an extra question but my teacher isn’t proof-reading these or anything so she doesn’t have to know)My dad’s telling me I need to go to bed now. I’m not tired but I’ll pretend to go to sleep to make him happy.
Bye, Ms. Welton!
Henry signed his name at the bottom, a loopy scrawl of letters that mostly resemble his name but not entirely. They must be learning cursive in class.
By the end of the letter, Keeley’s palm is pressed to her chest and she’s practically leaning on Rebecca. She lifts off of her and spins in place, propping herself up against the edge of the desk to properly look at her.
“Oh my god. That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever read.”
And goddammit, Keeley’s right.
Later that same night, the digital clock on the microwave blinking 11:37 in big, blocky numbers, Rebecca sits at her kitchen island. The main overhead light is off, too bright for the time, and she bathes in a backlit glow from the dimmer dining room light.
Rebecca sits in her silk pajamas, hair wet from her shower and a blank notepad before her. She picks up her wine glass, holding it between her fingers by the stem; she swirls it around, takes a sip, and settles it back down beside the bottle itself.
How fucking difficult could it be to write back to a ten year old?
Sighing, she reaches over and grabs Henry’s letter, eyes traipsing over it for what’s probably the fifth time. The date at the top (written in the infuriating American way) is from seven days ago, which means it’s somehow taken less than a week for it to arrive.
“You correspond with insufferable twats for a living, you’re perfectly capable of managing a letter to a sweet child,” she mutters to herself, pen clicking incessantly at her ear.
Dear Henry,
Simple enough. Good start.
Downing another long sip of wine, Rebecca lifts the pen, tapping it lightly against her jaw. She could throttle Keeley’s pretty little neck right about now.
She writes something, wrinkles her nose, rips the paper off of the pad; she crunches it in her palms, balls it up, and throws the paper to the other side of the island. By the time the clock reads 12:07am, there’s an impressive pile of crumpled paper balls collecting before her.
This is ridiculous.
She’s a grown woman. A very capable, successful woman, which is apparently why this teacher over at Oak Grove Elementary School wanted her to become a pen pal for someone in her class to begin with.
She wonders briefly if these matches are done strategically, based on some similarity the child has to the profession or professional, or if they’re all just picked out of a ridiculous looking cowboy hat or something. Nothing sticks out too terribly about Henry’s interests that indicate there’s a link between the two.
His father coaches football, apparently, though it’s American football rather than the football she’s acquainted with. The proper football.
“Okay, you can do this. There’s absolutely nothing intimidating about being a pen pal to a young American boy.”
Even if her heart rate is suspiciously quick.
Rebecca switches to a new page and writes Dear Henry at the top for the sixth time. She signs the date, then slides Henry’s original letter over and holds it flat beside her notepad.
With a long, deep inhale, she pushes past the fear and insecurity she feels about her abilities to correspond with a child, and writes.
Kansas City, Kansas, USA
Letter #1
It’s Monday, three weeks from the day Mrs. Miller collected their sealed envelopes and mailed their letters to their pen pals, when she steps in front of the class with a small, clear bin in her hands.
They can see the stack of letters piled in the bin, a variety of colored envelopes piled on top of each other, and a small cacophony of voices spill over one another in eager whispers. Henry sits in his seat, third row second from the classroom’s windows, his knees bouncing beneath his desk.
He’s both excited and anxious about getting the response from Ms. Welton. He’s not sure his letter was as good as it could’ve been, but he took his time and wrote what came to mind at the time. His dad always says that’s what matters, that he does his best in the moment.
“Okay, everyone, settle down.” Mrs. Miller smiles at their enthusiasm. “As you might’ve guessed, I’ve finally received a response from each of your pen pals.”
“Can we open them now?”
“When do we get them?”
“Please, Mrs. Miller!”
Mrs. Miller shakes her head. “I’ll pass them out at the end of the day,” she says, earning herself a bunch of disappointed moans and ‘aw man!’s. “But this just means you all have something to look forward to, right?”
Henry joins in the grumbles of, “Yeah,” and props his chin into his palms.
“That’s the spirit,” she chuckles. “Now, everyone please open your English workbook to the section we were working on yesterday.”
“Dad, dad, dad!”
Ted turns at the sound of his son’s voice. “What, what, what?”
Henry comes running into the kitchen, his bookbag dropped unceremoniously at the edge of the hallway. In his hand he holds a long envelope, the material flapping with each movement.
“We got our pen pal letters back,” he exclaims, eyes bright with unbridled excitement. “She really wrote back. Isn’t that awesome?”
With a laugh, Ted dries his hands on the kitchen towel and turns to give Henry his full attention. “Well of course she did, bud. She signed up to be your pen pal, didn’t she?”
His son shrugs. “Yeah, but she’s important and everything. I was worried she might’ve been too busy to write back so soon.”
“Even important people make time for the things they agree to. Now who’s your pen pal again?”
Henry rolls his eyes as if they’ve been over this a hundred times before. Truthfully, Ted’s not sure he ever knew who his pen pal was; he knew only that he has one, that he’s written one letter so far, and that his teacher’s vetted everyone who’s been assigned to a student so he doesn’t have anything to worry about.
“Ms. Welton,” Henry says, climbing onto a stool. “She owns a football team.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Hoo-wee. Ain’t that somethin’, I can’t imagine owning the Shockers.”
“It’s soccer, dad. She’s from London and they call it football over there,” Henry explains, genuine excitement on his face. “Isn’t that so cool?”
Ted smiles. “The coolest.” He leans against the opposite side of the counter. “You said she owns a team?”
Henry nods. “Uh huh. Most of the owners here are guys, aren’t they, dad?”
“A few franchise owners are women, but you’re right, the majority are owned by men.”
“I bet the majority of owners over there are men too,” he says thoughtfully, chewing on his lip before he turns to his father. “That means it must be real special that Ms. Welton is an owner.”
Ted nods. “I think you make a great point. It’s mighty impressive of Ms. Welton to own her own football team.”
“Yeah. That means she must be really smart.”
“I’ll bet,” Ted agrees easily. Moving around the kitchen, he looks over his shoulder. “Now how ‘bout a snack to go with your letter readin’?”
Henry nods, leaning up on his knees. “Cheese stick, please.”
Ted grabs a string cheese and an apple juice from the refrigerator and passes them both along to Henry, who’s already pawing at the back of the envelope.
“Look! She added her own sticker, too.”
He rounds the island, taking in the bright yellow smiley face sticker Ms. Welton went and put on the seal of the envelope. He had to do a last minute store run for the sticker sheets, so he knows Henry added one to the back of his letter. Ted’s mouth curls at the edges when he considers the possibility that she decided to follow his lead and add her own.
Once Henry’s pulled the letter out, Ted picks up the envelope.
Rebecca Welton.
It’s a pretty name. It matches her elegant handwriting, the loops of her cursive lettering in the smooth pen ink.
Setting the envelope down, he leans over Henry’s shoulder to read with him.
Dear Henry,
It’s very nice to “meet” you. To start off, since we’re going to be pen pals, I think it’s all right if you just call me Rebecca. Ms. Welton’s my father.
Ted snorts. She’s funny.
Henry looks up at him with a crease in his forehead, but he simply shakes his head. “It’s a joke,” he says, patting his shoulder.
At least he thinks it is. If not, he’d love to unpack that with her.
I’ve never been a pen pal either, so this is new for the both of us. (Though I do think your dad is right to warn you about stranger danger.)
“You wrote about stranger danger?” he laughs.
“To explain why I never had a pen pal before.” Henry shrugs. “But she doesn’t count ‘cause Mrs. Miller set it up so that means she’s not really a stranger.”
Ted places a hand on Henry’s shoulder as he continues to read.
I’m honoured that you’re happy to be paired with me. I must admit I assumed a young boy would have preferred to be matched with someone much more exciting. Perhaps we were paired because your father is a football coach, though if that’s the case I’m afraid there might have been some miscommunication about what football is being played on either side of the pond. Either way, I think it’s very fun that your dad is a coach and I’m pleased to have gotten you as my pen pal as well.
As for your five questions:
1. As club owner, I suppose I am technically the team’s boss. I don’t decide the plays they run - that’s up to the team’s manager and coaching staff. I do most of the boring business stuff behind the scenes and leave the big football decisions up to them, which is certainly for the best.
2. I wouldn’t say it’s easy running a football club, especially as one of only two female club owners in the league, but I enjoy the work and I’m quite good at it.On that note – always remember there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging when you’re talented at something, Henry. You said you enjoy running track and you don’t like to brag, but it’s okay to say you’re good. You should be proud of your achievements.
Ted smiles at that. “She’s got a point there, kiddo,” he says, squeezing Henry’s shoulder. “You’re one heck of a runner, and ain’t nothin’ wrong with saying so.”
“I know. I just don’t want anyone to feel bad if they’re not as good.”
“It’s real sweet of you to consider other people’s feelings, Hen. But you don’t have to downplay your own strengths to do that, okay?”
Henry nods. “Yeah, okay.”
3. I don’t really think I have a favorite hobby. Or a hobby at all, if I’m honest. I like spending time with friends, but I don’t get much time outside of work to focus on a dedicated “hobby” these days.
“That’s sad,” Henry says. “Everyone should have a hobby.”
4. Every English child has played football at some point. I used to play when I was a little girl—nothing professional, mind you. I still like to kick the football around with my goddaughter, who’s probably only a few years older than you, whenever I can.
5. I might be biased, but I think England is very cool. The weather certainly isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (it can be quite grey and rainy), but the double-decker buses, as you well know, are a trusted crowd pleaser. I think we’ve got some quaint small towns mixed in with the magic of bigger cities, too.
Henry looks up at him. “We should go to England and ride on one of the double-decker buses.”
“Slow your roll there,” he chuckles. “Let’s get through the school year before we go talkin’ about vacations to England, okay?”
It’s very clearly not a no, though, and so his boy grins as he returns to his letter.
To answer your bonus question (I won’t tell your teacher if you won’t), I do like sunflowers. They’re beautiful. There’s a sunflower farm in Surrey, where I grew up, and though I haven’t been back since I was a girl, I have fond memories.
I wasn’t given any guidelines or instructions for being your pen pal, so I’m not sure if I’m meant to include any facts myself, but I suppose I will. Fair’s fair, right?
1. I have a private jet, but my goddaughter, Nora, has been very cross with me lately for not thinking of the environment. I’m taking a jet break in her honor.
“She’s got a private jet?” Henry squeaks, his voice high. He leans in closer to hover above the letter, as if he’ll be able to read it more clearly that way. “Dad, she has a private jet.”
Ted lets out another low whistle. “I see that,” he says. “Not somethin’ we see ‘round here, huh?”
He makes a note to look up just how much football club owners make, because hoo boy, this Rebecca must be rakin’ in some serious money to have her own plane.
Henry shakes his head. “That’s so cool.” He re-reads. “What’s cross mean?”
He’s not sure, but wagers a guess based on context clues. “I think it means her goddaughter’s upset with her.”
Henry accepts this with a thoughtful nod.
2. My favourite colour is aubergine. I know that must sound silly, but I have a pantsuit in that colour and it makes me feel powerful whenever I wear it. I believe we should all have a piece of clothing that makes us feel like that.
There’s an arrow pointing from the word aubergine that drags across the page and leads to a small space in the margins where she’s scribbled an addendum.
I forgot that aubergine is one of the words we Brits and Americans don’t share. In your terms, my favourite colour is “eggplant.”
“So, her favorite color’s… purple?”
He takes a moment, considers, and then nods. “A dark shade of purple, I’d say.”
“Aubergine’s a funny name,” he decides. Before Ted can comment, Henry asks: “What piece of clothing makes you feel powerful?”
Humming, he tilts his head. “Probably my coachin’ jacket.”
“‘Cause you get to boss people around in it?”
Ted laughs, shoving lightly at Henry’s shoulder. “First off, mister, I don’t boss people ‘round in it,” he says. The boy just shrugs and waits for an answer. “I get to help the boys on the team become the best versions of themselves while I’m wearin’ that jacket.”
Henry shrugs, like that’s less impressive. “I guess.”
“What about you, bud?”
Inhaling deep, his little face twists into one of serious concentration. “My Spiderman Halloween costume.”
“You only wear that once, though.”
“Rebecca didn’t write any rules here, dad. Any piece of clothing,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, who’s more powerful than Spiderman?”
Ted chuckles. “You’re right, that was silly of me to question.”
3. I love reading but rarely have the time to do so for pleasure. I am, however, working my way through Jane Austen’s Persuasion right now.
4. I enjoy singing and I’m quite good at it, but no one other than my mother and my best friend know this. You’re on the list now, Henry, and this is my secret I must ask you to keep.
Henry beams, twisting to look up at his dad. “She’s trustin’ me with a secret.”
“She must sense you’re trustworthy,” Ted says with a smile.
5. My favorite scent is petrichor, the smell the air takes on right before it rains.
A good choice, Ted thinks.
He loves the smell of the air before the rain, especially before a big storm; it’s earthy and unique, and sometimes he finds himself just standing outside for a few minutes and inhaling with his eyes closed when it’s at its strongest.
Okay, Henry, I think that about covers it. I apologize if those are terribly boring. I’ll be honest, I’ve not had to think about any facts about myself for many years now. Turns out it’s more difficult than it sounds! Nearly forgot everything I ever knew about myself.
Henry giggles at that.
Until our next letter, I wish you well.
Warmly,
RebeccaP.s. Your secret is safe with me.
She’s drawn a small outline of a pig beside the post-script. Its body is a little misshapen and uneven, but it’s colored in with a pink pen and, well, it’s got character. He doesn’t quite understand why it’s there, but it’s a sweet touch that has Henry grinning regardless.
“Now what’s this about a secret?”
“It’s a secret, dad.”
Ted reaches down and tickles at his sides until Henry’s doubled over the table, laughter spilling from his lips as he clutches at his letter.
“Dad, come on,” he manages between gasps.
Letting up, he pays on Henry’s arm. “At least tell me it’s nothin’ about your dear old dad?” he teases.
Henry lifts a hand in salute. “Promise.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, okay,” he says. Stepping around the table toward the counter, he tuts. “Already secret keepin’ with your pen pal, jeez. Could’ve at least waited until letter three before leavin’ your old man out.”
Before he knows it, Henry’s standing in front of him, round eyes lifted to his. “I told her about how I still sleep with Porky,” he tells him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel left out, I’m sorry.”
Ah. The pig makes sense now.
“Oh, bud,” he breathes, chest tightening even as a small smile curls at his lips. Tugging Henry into his chest, he cradles the back of his head with his palm. “I was only teasin’ you, okay? No feelings hurt.”
Henry pulls back, and Ted brushes his hair out of his face. He ruffles it a bit, which makes the boy smile.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” he promises. Staring at Henry, he can sense the buzzing energy radiating from his body. With one look he knows. “You want to start writin’ your next letter right now, don’t you?”
He nods immediately, a toothy smile looking up at him. One of his front teeth is still taking a while to come through fully and, even though Henry is embarrassed by it sometimes, it’s the most adorable thing Ted’s ever seen. He likes to poke his tongue through it and prod around, something he did as a kid, too.
Tapping him on the back, he ushers him out of the kitchen. “All right, all right, go on, start writin’ back to Rebecca and come up with more secrets to share with her.”
Henry laughs. “On it, thanks, dad!”
Ted watches him snatch the letter from the table before bounding upstairs, bookbag dragging against each step along the way, every thunk making him shake his head.
As he pours himself a glass of water, he listens to the muffled sounds of Henry upstairs—the roll of his desk chair across the hardwood, his footsteps padding down the hall, the click of the bathroom door. By the time he’s lowering himself into one of the stools at the counter, the noises have quieted; he must be back in his bedroom, settled in at his desk with a notepad open.
He raps his fingers against the countertop, once, twice, three times, before he pulls out his phone.
Pulling up the browser, he types in a Google search before he can think better of it.
How much does it cost to own your own jet?