I glanced at the page half crumpled in my fist, then back at him. “It’s a letter.”
“Okay.” He shrugged angrily. “I wasn’t trying to read your mail.”
My toes curled inside my shoes as though gripping the end of a diving board. “It’s yours, actually.”
“You stole my mail?”
I closed my eyes. This was going so well. “It’stoyou—from me.”
His gaze fell to the page in my hand. “Do I get to read it?”
“It’s not finished.” In fact, I suspected it might never be finished. I’d keep writing forever, never quite getting it right, until I was a withered crone, and he was a well-preserved movie star with a house on the Riviera and dozens of linen shirts in varying shades of blue.
“You said it was mine.” Uncrossing his arms, he held out a hand. “What does it say at the top?”
“‘Dear Alex,’” I admitted, unable to stop myself from glancing at the telltale words. “But that’s not—”
“Yes, it is.” He locked eyes with me, and even though he wasn’t doing the Smolder or any of his other signature looks, I melted. It felt like centuries since we’d been close enough for a staring contest. Before I could think better of it, I handed him the letter.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, as though I’d passed him the pepper grinder at a dinner party. “You can read your love poems while I look this over.”
I choked, and not just because he’d spied the subject of my book. “You can’t read it now!”
“Why not?” His thumb stroked the edge of the page, where a translucent spot marred the white paper. “Is this grease?”
“It certainly is not.” I scoffed at the very idea.
“Then what is it?”
“I’d rather not say.”
His nose wrinkled. “Something worse than grease?”
I pressed my lips together, looking away. “They’re tear stains, okay?” Instantly, my face went up in flames.
“Why were you crying?” Alex asked, after a lengthy pause.
My eyes cut to his face, checking for signs of mockery and finding none. “Because ... you were right, and I was wrong.”
His brows rose.
“About everything. You. Me. My sister ... s. My friends. The past. The present.”
“I get the idea,” he interrupted. “Is that all?”
I looked down. “I missed you. And I wanted to see you so much, but I knew it would never happen because I screwed up so badly. Ugh!” My foot stomped like a toddler’s. “That was supposed to be way more eloquent.” I gestured helplessly at the letter.
He looked at the page in his hands. “Maybe I better read it at home. If it’s a tearjerker.”
“You should definitely wait. I could make you a clean copy,” I offered, leaping at the chance of a reprieve. “This one’s really messy. I should fix it for you.”
“You’re just trying to steal my letter.”
“Look, that’s a blob of avocado,” I said desperately, pointing to another spot.
Alex blinked at me. “You were eating avocado while you wrote this?”
“Guacamole is my comfort food.”
