Victoria
All day,I imagine where the note will be.
Lorenzo has been leaving me notes every day since the roof.
When I finally head back to my room, after a day in the sun, I find it.
The note is folded and sitting on my desk. Each time I get a note from him, a tiny stone accompanies it. I don’t understand the rocks, but I keep each one regardless.
Now at dinner, I stare at my mother’s vacant smile, and I almost laugh.
But I don’t. I just smile into my wine water goblet, like I’m hiding something scandalous. Because I am.
Under the table, I unfold it, heart already racing.
Boathouse. Midnight.
No greeting. No name.
And it thrills me.
Sneaking out of the house has become a strange kind of art. I love it.
Love the feeling when I tiptoe through the house and out the door.
It feels illicit. Addictive. Romantic in a way none of my books ever prepared me for.
And tonight, after dinner, when I slip out the back door with socks on, and a hoodie pulled tight over my nightgown, I feel . . . alive.
The night air wraps around me like a robe, and my socks grow damp from the wet grass. I hurry toward the old boathouse. The house lights vanish behind me, swallowed by trees and distance.
With every step I take, I leave my world behind. The expectations. The suffocation. The girl I’m supposed to be.
Out here, I get to be someone else. Someone reckless. Someone his.
The boathouse is quiet. The black ocean glimmers in the distance.
He’s already there.Of course he is.
Leaning against a beam, he has his hands in his pockets and his hair a mess. He is already wearing that smug little smile that drives me insane.
“You’re late.” He pushes off the beam with one lazy step, his voice dripping with amused accusation.
“You’re early,” I counter, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft thud.
“You say that every time,” he drawls, trailing his gaze down my hoodie, my bare legs, the hem of my nightgown peeking out, and then at my wet socks.
At his stare, I lean down and peel them off, placing them down on the floor beside the door.
“Then maybe stop being so damn punctual,” I shoot back, standing before brushing a strand of hair out of my face.
“I like being here before you,” he admits with a shrug, pacing a slow arc toward me. “Gives me time to pace.”
“How charming,” I tease, lifting an eyebrow.
“I do my best.” He crosses the space between us until he’s standing in front of me. He reaches his hand out and pulls lightly at the drawstring of my hoodie. “It’s not easy being this neurotic.”
The corner of my mouth lifts because seeing him nervous feels wickedly intoxicating. It means I’m not the only one undone.
