The thing about earthquakes, though—they tend to leave horrific rubble in their wake. And once they begin, there’s nothing you can do to stop them.
Ghost Track
“I’ll Write a Song for You”
-Earth, Wind & Fire, 1977
A WEEK LATER, I still hadn’t heard from Enzo—not that I was complaining—but Ihadheard from E.
E:What up, girl?
Me:Nothing, what’s up, boy? I thought you were busy at work today.
E:I am. It’s called multitasking. Checking in on you is an important job. Can’t forget my friends.
Me: Oh yeah? Check in on all your friends?
E:Only the pretty ones who can do killer keg-stands.
I blushed so hard, my cheeks burned.
Me:Sounds like a very private group.
E: It is. Only has one member. Actually, you might know her.
Butterflies sprang to life in my belly.
E:Anyway, write anything new lately?
Me: Why? Planning on stealing my notebook again?
E: It’s called borrowing. For research. I’m conducting a very serious scientific study.
Me:Lol. On…?
E: On what hot girls write in their notebooks.
Butterflies. Hyper-speed butterflies.
E:Speaking of notebooks, I never asked… Did you ever see my note?
My heart seized in my chest.The note I had memorized and pinned to the wall of my brain for safekeeping? No, never saw it. Couldn’t tell you exactly what it looked like or forge your handwriting perfectly from it.As embarrassing as that was to admit, I chose to be honest.
Me:Yes, I saw it.
As soon as I sent it, I second guessed myself, worried I wasn’t playing it cool enough. Admitting I had seen it felt like admitting the poem was about him. I knew he knew it was, but saying it was different.I should’ve said ‘what note’,I thought. But then I could see his crooked grin in my mind’s eye with his reply, and my anxious nerves settled back into butterflies.
E:Good. Let me know what you’re writing next.
The cage of my body was no longer strong enough to contain said butterflies. They had full-on escaped, and it was written all over my face that split with a flattered, love-drunk smile. He wanted to know how I felt over and over again, and he didn’t want to pretend he didn’t. He didn’t wantmeto pretend. And I didn’t want to, either.
It was risky, and maybe even a little dangerous. The lines of our friendship had been blurring since they’d been set, but this felt different. More… intimate. More direct. Like it didn’t matter if I had dated Enzo, or how E and I met, or what the “rules” were about befriending your best friend's girlfriend slash your boyfriend's best friend. We had become more than those limiting titles. We were somewhere in between, and now that Enzo and I weren’t anything at all, I had a little courage to test the water.
I bit my lip as I typed out my reply.
Me:Maybe I’ll Write a Song For You.
His response came in seconds.
