“I know it might sound crazy because we’ve barely ever spoken to each other,” he reads. “But I’ve been in love with you since the fourth grade, when Duncan Powell tried to exclude Harry Cooper from your game, and you told him that bullies are like sandpaper, scratching you and scratching you until you’re polished and smooth and they’re nothing but useless trash.”
I swallow, the memory fresh in my mind as if it was yesterday.
“Since that day, I’ve loved you, and I know I always will.”
“Will you stop reading that?” I snap. “It’s just drunk rambling from a seventeen-year-old.”
He ignores me, trudging through. “You might think I’m just a kid. That my hormones and peach schnapps are making me write this ill-advised letter, and that I can’t possibly love someone I never even kissed. But you’d be wrong.”
Good God, I remember the stupid letter.
“I see love every day. I see it in my parents, in my mother’s eyes when she looks at my brother, and in my best friend, who loves love. I know exactly what it feels and looks like.”
“Enough,” I insist, my voice shaking precariously.
“And what I feel for you is even stronger than that. It’s so strong that if I never saw you again, if after reading this letter you didn’t love me back, I’d still love you. I’d still carry you with me wherever I go, whatever I do. Because love stories always end with a happily ever after, and not a minute before that. And I know for a fact that we’ll get ours.”
I press my lips tight, willing myself to breathe.
“I love you, Rafael Gray,” he continues. “I love you until happily ever after and beyond.”
I stare at the piece of paper in front of his face until he lowers it.
“PS. Sorry if this letter smells like peach schnapps barf.”
A chuckle bursts through my lips, the need to laugh momentarily stronger than the anger, and Rafael laughs, too, folding the paper, then putting it back into his wallet.
With a sniffle, I ask, “You kept it all this time?”
“Yes.” Wallet back in his pocket, he looks down at me. “You want to know why?”
I nod, chin still wobbling.
“Because when I read that letter, I thought, I want to love this girl.” He tilts his head. “And peach schnapps? Gross. But mostly the love thing.” He moves closer. “I knew if I let myself fall in love with you, I wouldn’t have been able to help it. That it would have been easy, the easiest thing I would have ever done. And that I would have never stopped, because love stories don’t end. Not before the happily ever after.”
My heart’s nearly bursting.
“Scarlett, if I never saw you again after today, if you never gave me another chance, I’d still carry you with me wherever I went. Forever.”
Why does he have to be so good at this?
I hold my hand out, and he takes it, his head tilting forward as if half of his body just relaxed.
“Can I get a ride?” he asks, thumb rubbing the top of my hand. “I haven’t been able to sleep properly, and I’d just like to go to bed knowing you’ll text back in the morning.” He crouches down next to me, soft eyes looking longingly at me. “Can we do that?”
I watch him, expecting the same big warning to flash before my eyes, conflicting with the need to just let him in again. But there’s no warning. No resistance.
I miss him in my bed.
“I’m not texting back in the morning,” I say as I stand. At his worried expression, I toss him the keys. “You can just talk to me from the other side of the bed.”
He exhales in relief. “You got it, Freckles.”
the interruption[trope]
a perfectly timed plot device sent by the universe to ruin a pivotal romantic moment; defined by ringing phones, intrusive exes, crying babies, or a well-meaning friend bursting in with snacks
We enter the house, dark and silent, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound. Ethan is still out, which makes sense since it’s only ten thirty. That gives us about one and a half hours before he’s back. Ninety whole minutes of just us.
