She glimpsed the flash drive on the coffee table, then picked up the drive, the t-shirt and the stack of letters and carried them all to her office. As she powered up her computer, she inhaled Neil's scent from the shirt and smiled. The masculine fragrance of man and a sporty deodorant – with just a little bit of a laundry soap smell underneath – evoked memories of burying her face in his neck. When she inserted the flash drive into the USB port, Meg clicked yes on the autoplay menu.
She couldn't have been prepared for what she saw and heard.
Sitting on his bed in a black knit shirt and boxers, Neil looked like he had in their Skype call, the shirt identical to the one from the box. In his hands rested an acoustic guitar, his fingers holding the cobalt blue guitar pick he had sent her. His deep voice said, “This is for you, Meghan,” and then he played and sang the entirety of All I Want Is You.
Neil's voice, beautiful, strong, clear and melodic, soothed her aching soul in a way nothing else could have. By the end of the song, her eyes had blurred with tears. He said, “I'll sing it for you in person when I get home. Give me the guitar pick then. I'll count the days until I can see you again. I love you, Meghan.” Fade to black.
She watched it at least a half-dozen more times. What a precious gift from the sweetest, most thoughtful man she'd ever met. That kind boy had grown into an even better man. He would be the ruin of her, would make her fall so deeply in love with him over these letters and messages that she could never live without him. A modern version of a traditional wartime affair over love letters, rendered in vivid hues as a multi-media maelstrom. How could she help but be swept away by it?
It hit every secretly romantic bone in her body just right.
She took out a pen and her favorite stationery, a heavy, cream paper with cobalt-blue flowering vines snaking around the outside border, and she began to write.