“How are you going to write if it’s not about yourmuse?” He reaches out and pokes my side.
“You’re not my muse.”
“I’m totally your muse.”
“Not even close.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if I found a song in there just titledFletcher.”
“I did not name a song after you. Unless you want to count this one.”
I shift a little closer to Fletcher, pointing down at the title across the top of the page.
He cackles, throwing his head back before his eyes find the page again.
“I ditched you at a partyonce.” He lifts up a singular finger for emphasis. “One time.”
“And that one time landed you the title ofAbandoner,” I argue.
“I came and apologized first thing the next day.”
“I finished the song that night.” I slam my journal shut. “I had a lot of feelings to get out. Honestly, if I didn’t write that song, our conversation that morning would’ve gone a lot differently.”
“Are any of the songs you’ve posted online ones about me?” His hand finds mine, and he interlaces our fingers before our eyes meet.
“Maybe. I was hoping that one day you might hear one of the songs, and it’d make you realize it’s always only ever been you, Fletch. From the moment I saw you from this very spot.”
“You know, I was listening to you play for hours. I was so mesmerized by your playing; I had never heard anything like it.”
“I remember.” I grin. “Because I marched over to your deck and told you it’s not polite to stare.”
“Even though I didn’t truly understand the concept of love, that moment is when I fell in love with you. You might not have felt the same way, but you just seemed so sure of yourself. You were strong, independent, and confident. It was hard not to be mesmerized by you.” His hand brushes across my cheek. “And I’ve been in love with you ever since.”
“You know I didn’t mind that you were watching me play,” I admit. “I just wanted an excuse to come over here and introduce myself. It felt nice to feel like someone cared about me for once, Fletch. It felt nice to know my hard work wasn’t going unnoticed.”
It's a silly way to feel at six years old, but when you have parents who are practically ghosts in your home, having someone pay attention to you, even when they don’t have to, means a lot.
“Can I show you something?” I bite my lip, wondering if it’s a silly thing to show him, if showing him is going to be as embarrassing as I think it will be.
“Always.”
I scoot back just enough to show him the side of the oak tree where I carvedFRwith a heart around it.
He runs his fingers over it and then glances at me.
“When did you do this?”
“A couple of days after we met.” I laugh. “My mom yelled at me for doing it, saying it was just some fleeting crush and it was stupid to carve it into a tree. But I don’t know, after that first day at your house, I just knew you were going to be one of the most important people in my life. I just didn’t know in what sense.”
“And now?”
“I can say that six-year-old Tate somehow knew the boy next door was going to be the love of her life and that this tree is just proof of that.” I press my lips to his in a soft and gentle kiss. “I love you, Fletcher. I always have, and I always will.”
He kisses me back.
“I love you, Tate. Then. Now. Always. And I can prove it.”
He pulls out his keys and finds the little pocketknife attachment, scooting closer to the tree and adding a plus sign and thenTLunder theFRin the heart.
