“Can I read it?”
“I…” I hesitate. There’s nothing embarrassing in it. Not really. I essentially vented my frustration, with a few things about my father butting into my business and how sweet Bodi was to me. I never dreamed he might read it someday. But there’s really no reason for him not to. Not now.
“I understand if it’s private. I’m just fascinated by it. I don’t think anyone’s ever written me a letter on paper.”
“It’s in a notebook, but I could copy it onto paper for you.”
He shakes his head. “You’ll change it. I want to read it as is or not at all. And I won’t be mad if you say no. The thing is, if you decide to share it with me, it needs to be honest. Exactly the way you wrote it, even if you scratched out words or whatever.”
I smile. I can’t help it. I really like this guy.
“Okay. Next time I see you, I’ll tear out the pages and give them to you.”
“Do you hide your journals?”
“The ones to my mom are in a random box on my shelf. If Lourdes or my dad want to read my grief-stricken, teenage girl angsty letters to my mom, they’re welcome to. My letters to the universe are in two journals hidden inside a secret compartment in one of my suitcases. Those are personal as fuck, and I’ll knock the snot out of Lourdes if she goes for those!”
He chuckles. “Easy, tiger. Hopefully, there won’t be any physical violence involved.”
“I’d love an excuse to knock the snot out of her,” I admit. “And I’ve never hit anyone in my life!”
“Well, some people bring that out in us. It’s human.” He reaches for a black leather journal with worn-looking pages and an embossed pair of wings on the cover. There’s also a brass key that slides into a slot made to keep it closed securely.
“That’s a nice one,” I say. “But it probably doesn’t have lines. Would that work for you?”
“You know, I feel like if I had a blank space where I can doodle, I’d be more willing to try it,” he says thoughtfully. “Maybe do little lists of things I either want to work on, improve, think about… instead of pouring out my soul in sentences. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely. There are even stencils to help you do that, although I’m not sure if they have them here.” I look around. “And I’ll tell you right now—a good pen is a must. It needs to feel comfortable in your hand. Trust me on that.”
“Okay.” He walks over to a display of them and we both start using them on the paper put out for people to write on.
“This one,” he says, holding one up. “It’s bulky but I have big hands—it feels good when I hold it.”
Big hands. That I already love holding. That I’m looking forward to having touch me in a situation where I’m not falling over.
“You should get it,” I say aloud.
“What about you? Do you want anything?”
“I think I’m going to buy one of the unlined journals over there. I’ve been wanting to try junk journaling and I need a separate one for that.”
“What’s junk journaling?”
“It’s a little hard to explain because it’s different for everyone. In general, it’s when you use a variety of found and/or recycled items to create a place to pour out creative…junk. Like some people use it purely to create pretty pictures with papers, stamps, ink, and stickers. Other people do a combination of that along with writing along or on top of the pictures in a traditional journal way. As a way of protecting thoughts and memories.”
“That’s incredibly vague,” he says.
“Yeah, and I don’t know which direction I want to go yet. I just want to play around and have some fun.”
“Let me buy you your first junk journal,” he says.
“I don’t want you to buy me things,” I protest.
“But I want to. In exchange, you help me get started with my journaling. Is that fair?”
I hesitate but then nod. Because it’s silly to say no to something like this. It’s not like he’s buying me a car or jewelry or something. A journal would be both thoughtful and meaningful since he wants to try his own version of it.
“Okay,” I say at last. “But if you buy me the journal, I’m going to need some stickers to go with it.”
