She turns and walks away, and this time, she doesn’t trip. Her sandals slap against the sidewalk in a rhythm that sounds almost like a song. The sunset turns her yellow dress to gold.
I watch her until she rounds the corner.
“You’re so doomed,” Grayson says, appearing beside me.
“I know.”
“You were staring at her like she invented the concept of beauty.”
“I was not.”
“You were. I have witnesses. Michelle took a photo.”
“You’re lying.”
“She did. She’s sending it to Amber as we speak. There’s going to be a group chat.”
I groan.
“Look,” Grayson says, almost gentle. “Whatever you’re hiding, whatever’s making this complicated—just tell her. Before you combust.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is. But you know what’s worse than complicated? Waiting so long that complicated becomes impossible.”
He claps me on the shoulder and heads for his car, leaving me standing on the library steps with the sunset and the salt air and the ghost of Jessica’s palms still warm against my chest.
I go homeand write her a letter.
Not as Scott. As Coastal Quill. Because that’s still the only version of me brave enough to say what I’m actually feeling.
Dear Between the Lines,
You mentioned someone who made you a wild card column. Someone infuriating and unexpected. Someone who showed you a strange kindness.
I have a confession: I’m jealous of him.
Not because he knows you and I don’t. I do know you, through these letters, in ways that feel more real than most of my face-to-face relationships.
I’m jealous because he gets to see your face when you laugh. He gets to watch you argue about things you care about. He gets to exist in the same room as you, breathing the same air, probably disagreeing about something small and unimportant while the actual important thing goes unsaid.
I only get your words on paper. Which are beautiful—don’t misunderstand me—but lately I find myself wanting more.
Is that greedy? To have this correspondence that means so much to me, and still want to know what your voice sounds like when you’re excited? What happens to your face when you’re trying not to smile?
I suspect you try not to smile a lot. You seem like someone who fights your own joy, like you’re not sure you’re allowed to have it.
You’re allowed. For the record. You’re allowed to have every good thing.
I’m counting down the weeks like something important is waiting at the end.
Yours in anticipation and mild jealousy,
Coastal Quill
I seal the letter and set it aside for tomorrow’s mail.
Wednesday, I’ll see her at Michelle’s.
