“I like warm milk,” he confided. “With honey.”
“That’s—a really good one.”
“You sound surprised.”
I shook my head, wanting to smile but not sure I had the right. We were drifting toward a semblance of our old rapport. The desire to have him look at me in that teasing way again, to call me Merrily, was a physical ache.
“I’m sorry, Alex.” In the letter, I’d devoted three paragraphs to the subject, naming everything I’d done wrong. Standing here in front of him, the simplest words felt truest.
His jaw tightened. “What about your friends? Do they still think I’m the devil?”
“Not at all. I made a clean breast of it.” An uncomfortable silence ensued, during which we both studiously avoided glancing at my chest. “I told them everything, I mean.”
“They got a letter, too?”
The heat rushed back to my face. “Only you.” I took a deep breath. “You don’t owe me anything, obviously, and you’re probably still mad, but if you do read it, instead of ripping it up or setting it on fire, that would—I would be grateful.”
When I risked a glance at him, his expression revealed nothing.
“I better get back to my group,” he said at last. As he turned to go, he folded the letter and tucked it in his pocket.
Dear Diary,
Sometimes people are surprised that so many classic books have sad endings. Other people are shocked when they don’t. I guess it’s a glass-half-empty versus glass-half-full kind of thing.
And also a good way to keep people guessing.
M.P.M.
Chapter 33
“What were the exact words again?”Arden asked, leaning across the armrest. It was Thursday evening, and we had arrived early enough to claim most of the theater’s fourth row.
“I wrote, ‘I’ll save you a seat,’” I told her. “But it’s the very last line of the letter, so he might not even read that far.” And not because it was as long asJane Eyre.
“He knows it’s tonight?” Terry confirmed.
I nodded.
Lydia tapped the program against her knee. “I thought you’d go more heart-eyes-emoji for your closing argument. Oh my darling, blah blah blah.”
“It was a rough draft,” I reminded them. “I was planning to polish it later.”
“I’m sure it was a very good letter,” Terry said. “You worked really hard on it.”
“Hours and hours.”
Arden squeezed my wrist. “Then there’s no way he’ll be able to resist.”
I was glad to see she’d recovered her natural optimism, however difficult I found it to share the sunny outlook. From where I was sitting, it seemed Alex was having no trouble resisting the invitation to join me here. No doubt I’d done it all wrong, never having asked anyone out before.
“Did I mention how great you look?” Arden nudged me with her elbow.
“Seriously,” Lydia chimed in. “Your makeup game is on point.”
“That was all Anton. But thanks.” He’d offered to do my hair, too, but I’d been too anxious to sit still long enough for hot rollers. Baardvaark’s final dress rehearsals always fizzed with nervous energy, but tonight I felt the tension at a cellular level.
As the minutes crawled past, and more and more people found their seats, all color and brightness seemed to bleed from the world, circling the drain along with the last dregs of hope. Then I realized the darkness wasn’t metaphysical; the house lights were dimming. I surveyed the auditorium one last time, on the off chance he’d slipped past me unseen.
