I do as I’m told and watch in awe as Luca effortlessly climbs the trunk of the tree, swings on a branch that bridges the gap between the tree trunk and the façade of the house, hurtles himself toward my window like a flying squirrel, and then pulls himself up and over the sill.
“Hi, Juliet,” he says brightly once he’s standing before me. “Your secret boy toy is hard and reporting for duty.”
“You’re so crazy.”
He winks. “Only for you.”
“You’d better hope and pray my father didn’t see you and think you’re a burglar.”
“If he saw me, I’d be dead by now, so I think I’m good.”
He’s probably right about that. “Did your parents get in okay?”
“Yep, they’re at the hotel. Daisy, too.”
“She texted me.”
He looks around the bedroom, taking in his surroundings. “This room is soyou. I love it.”
He always says stuff like that: comments that hint indirectly about his love for me. We haven’t talked about it, but I’m certain Luca’s figured out we can’t say those three little words to each other until the season is over, which it is now,andwe’ve figured out how to move on from there, which we haven’t done just yet. If I’m wrong about that and Luca isn’t waiting around for some kind of a green light from me to say it, then tomorrow’s big reveal and the “I love you” I’m planning to say won’t go according to plan.
“This room is exactly the way I left it when I went off to college,” I say. I motion to a far wall covered in math-related posters. “Believe it or not, I thought those were edgy and cool when I hung them up.”
He laughs. “They’re not?”
“Nope. You only appreciate them because you’re a diehard mathlete, like me.”
“That must be it.”
While most high school girls, at least the ones I knew, had walls decorated with boy bands, anime, and/or tributes to their favorite Broadway musicals, my walls were (and still are) covered with images I only now realize were probably created for elementary-school classrooms—posters bearing phrases like, “Never argue with a ninety-degree angle: IT’S ALWAYS RIGHT.”
“Ooh, a trophy shelf,” Luca murmurs, as he strides over to check it out with enthusiasm.
“From math competitions,” I murmur, following him over.
We talk about my various achievements, plaques, and trophies for a bit, but then Luca moves on to the adjacent shelf—one crammed with all manner of books.
“Are those diaries?” he asks, zeroing in on a row of neatly lined-up books marked with consecutive years on their spines.Crap.
“Yeah, I’ve kept a diary every year since age thirteen.”
He’s lit up. “Can I read them?” He slides his fingertip across several spines, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence his finger stops abruptly on the one marked with the year of our first meeting as teenagers.
“Sorry, no. Nobody’s allowed to read my diaries.”
“Seriously?”
When I nod, Luca frowns.
“I promise,” he coos, “whatever naughty teenage hijinks you wrote about, I won’t think less of you.”
I’d grin at his cute joke if I weren’t feeling so stressed. Luca knows I got into zero naughty teenage hijinks. But as it is, I’m too freaked out about him yanking that particular diary off the shelf to crack a smile or play along.
“You’re not missing out on much,” I say, trying to sound relaxed and casual. “I was always so paranoid about one of my brothers secretly reading my precious, innermost thoughts that nobody actually cared about, I wrote everything in code.”
“Incode? Like a cipher?”
“No, nothing that elaborate. More like I wrote everything in a way that only I’d be able to understand.”
