She looks like she might cry, but she doesn’t. “I still have our love letters.”
“What for?”
“Maybe to read them, when I’m older? I don’t know.”
“Are you still hanging on to something?”
“I-I don’t think so,” she stumbles. “Maybe I just feel like there’s a part of me that goes away once I get rid of them.”
A beat passes. She’s silent, so I interject.
“Well, thatissomething. No one ever wrote me a love letter.”
“Never?”
I shake my head. “I’ve thought about writing them. But I don’t think I’m much of a writer.”
“Really? That note you left me was actually funny. Made me smile.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…you. I feel relaxed around you.”
“Oh.”
She stares out the window for a few more beats, until finally, she speaks. “What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have a girl you wish you didn’t screw up?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Not yet.”
The words hang there for a second. She doesn’t respond.
She just looks out the window, like she’s thinking about it. Or maybe trying not to.
“Hey.” I put my hand on her thigh. “The windshield is bigger than the rearview mirror for a reason.”
“I know. I know.” A small smile lifts onto her face, and one little tear streams down. “You’re right.”
I pull back onto the road.
The rest of the drive is quieter than before—but not awkward.
Just…different, and heavier, like something shifted.
By the time we pull into her driveway, the sun’s starting to dip just a little. Still hot, but softer now. The kind of summer evening that makes everything feel slower.
I cut the engine, and neither of us moves.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, but she doesn’t open the door.
I glance over at her, and she’s already looking at me.
