Still that same bold, heavy handwriting that somehow looks exactly like him—too large, too certain, too masculine to be neat but too deliberate to be careless.
I read it again.
Texas,
Figured if you were gonna get taken out, you’d do it in a way dramatic enough to require roses.
The bears looked meaner in the store. The chocolates are probably overpriced. The flowers are to remind you not everything beautiful breaks.
Heal up. Rest mean. Don’t let anybody talk you into feeling small while you’re sidelined.
You’ve been on my mind since the beach. You’re still there.
—Drew
I just stare.
Becca climbs onto the edge of the other bed like she’s watching live theater.
“What does it say?”
I keep staring.
Because that note—that note is not what I expected.
Not from Drew.
Not from a man built like a truck stop fight with broad shoulders and tape around his fingers and a sleeveless hoodie he probably attacked with household scissors.
It should be cruder.
Louder.
Dumber.
Instead it is somehow deeply, infuriatingly him.
Cocky in the first line.
Unexpectedly sweet in the middle.
And that last one—‘You’ve been on my mind since the beach. You’re still there.’
That is not a football-boy line.
That is not a joke.
That is not casual.
That is a man stepping into the room with both boots on.
Becca makes a grabby hand.
“Hand it over.”
I clutch the card to my chest on instinct.
“No.”
