I can’t believe you asked me to have sex with you! Do you know how badly I wanted to say yes? I want to have sex with youbecause I like you!!! But not so you can “get it over with.” Do you know how offensive that is? What the hell, Frankie???
The thing is: I was doing so well before this! I was like, OK, George, she isn’t interested in having a boyfriend. It’s not you. She’s just not there yet. I moved on.
But now I can’t stop thinking about you and me in my bed together. And in the field at night. Or in the cupboard. And I want to punch myself in the face for saying no.
AGE 18
You’re on the other side of the wall, already in bed. But I can’t sleep. Today we bought all the supplies you need for school. I stood beside you in the kitchen, watching you wash every bowl and spoon and knife with such care, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I knew in that moment that I was in love with you.
I thought it might be easier once we moved to the city. New people. A shared space and so much potential for getting on each other’s nerves. But it’s so much worse. There’s no escaping you, and there’s no escaping the way I feel about you.
I love you, Frankie. I love you. I love you. I love you.
• • •
Five days pass,and we don’t speak. I wonder if George senses that I need this space, this time to sit with each letter and let it reshape our history. Every one is a revelation, and I collect them like the treasures they are, bundling them against my chest as I deliver them to my bedroom, where I read them all again and again. I think about a blue-eyed boy afraid of sharinghis feelings with his best friend and how he grew into a man who kept his heart under lock and key. I wonder if we were missing out all this time, or whether we were getting stronger. If we were preparing ourselves, gathering supplies, battening down the hatches.
George and I have always struggled to share our softest emotions with each other. He didn’t want to risk the surety of what we had while I’ve looked into a pair of blue eyes and refused to see what lay within. But I won’t look away any longer.
I rip a sheet of paper out of my notebook and write a message for George. I take it to the mailbox after dinner.
The cicadas sing all day in the summer, but they fall silent when the sun dips. The evening is quiet. The air is honeyed with freshly cut grass. My dad keeps it trimmed by the house, but in the field, it brushes against my legs like a secret. Something moves by the hedge, and I go still, peering around for a rabbit or fox, but I see nothing. The shadows are playing tricks.
As I near the gap, a woodland vole skitters by my toes. I crouch down, watching it scamper beneath the cedars. When I rise, George is on the other side of the hedge. His hair is longer than the last time I saw him, a coastal storm atop his head, and his cheeks are rough with stubble. His feet are bare, his jeans have a hole in the knee, and his shirt could use an iron. He looks like a love song. Between his hands is a small wooden chest—mahogany, with flowers etched onto the lid. I’ve spent hours, probably days of my life wondering what George kept inside it.
I hold up the folded piece of paper. “I was going to leave this for you.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘I’d like the rest of my letters.’ ”
Even in the dusk, I can see the mirth in George’s eyes. “Yourletters?”
“They’re addressed to me. Technically, they’re mine.”
I watch his throat move as he swallows. I never thought a swallow could be lovely before I noticed the movement in George’s throat. He holds out the box.
I take it from him, running my hands over the lilies carved into the lid.
“It was my mom’s,” George says. “There are more letters inside. Postcards. Notes. You can have them all.”
I look up at him, surprised. “I always thought you kept illicit materials in here.”
“Not quite.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Although some letters were a little…imaginative. Consider yourself warned.”
We smile at each other, both nervous, and it feels like I’m meeting George for the first time all over again.
“I can’t believe it,” I murmur. “It’s going to take a while for it to sink in.”
“Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods. “Good night, Frankie.”
I watch him walk away, and it feels like he’s taking my heart with him.
“George. Wait.”
