Pushes boundaries intentionally.
“Hold on,” I say. This can’t be about me. Can it?
I bend back over the notebook, scanning faster now.
Not afraid of conflict.
Uses humor as deflection.
Doesn’t know when to stop.
Yeah.
That’s definitely me.
A small, hysterical laugh escapes. “Well,” I whisper. “At least he’s thorough.” But my hands have begun to shake.
I turn another page. The handwriting changes. Gets darker. Heavier.
Less observational. More personal.
Stares at me when she thinks I don’t notice.
Another line beneath it.
What does she want from me?
My throat goes dry. I shouldn’t be reading this. I definitely shouldn’tkeep going.
I flip the page.
Only two lines are filled on this one. The rest of the page, and all the pages behind it, are empty. These words are centered. Written harder than the rest, the pen pressed deep enough to leave an imprint.
I think about her constantly.
The next line is carved into the page.
And then, below it, pressed so deep the paper dents, there’s one line left.
Written all in capital letters.
BECKY FUCKING DAWSON.
The room grows smaller. Warmer.
I might pass out.
My head jerks up, heart pumping, suddenly sure he’ll be there. Watching me. But the room is empty. The house eerily quiet.
How long ago did he write this?
Did he mean for me to see it? Or did he forget it was here?
Carrson doesn’t seem like someone who makes mistakes.
I flip back through the notebook, rereading everything and that’s when I realize he sees it. The real me. Not the version I show to the rest of the world. Not the one I smooth out, make polite, pleasing, non-intimidating.
This.
