But she shakes her head.
“Okay, wait,” he urges, and I keep watching her, unable to tear my eyes away as I try to process that this is fucking Ryen.
Her thin fingers that have written me five hundred eighty-two letters. The chin where I know she uses make-up to cover up a small scar she got from a fall during ice-skating when she was eight. The hair she told me she ties back every night, because she says there’s no hell worse than waking up with hair in your mouth.
I’ve had half a dozen girlfriends, and all of them I knew ten times less than I know this girl.
And she really has no idea…
Dane comes back with a wooden skewer, the tip holding a roasted marshmallow from one of the fire pits.
He walks up and shoves it at me. “Cooperate, please.”
And then he turns to her and grabs her phone. “Go for it. I’ll take the picture.”
Ryen’s amused eyes flash to me, immediately turning dark, because she clearly doesn’t want to eat anything Lady and the Tramp-style with me.
But she doesn’t back down or feign shyness. Walking up, she grabs a bar stool and steps up on the prongs to raise herself higher. She’s not short, but she’s definitely shorter than my six feet. Leaning in with her lips parted, she stares into my eyes, and my fucking heart is going wild. It takes everything I have not to unwind my arms and touch her.
But she stops. “I’m coming at you with my mouth open,” she points out. “You gotta show me you want it.”
And I can’t help it. The corner of my mouth lifts in a small smile.
Fuck, she’s sexy.
I didn’t expect that.
And I fold. I hold up the marshmallow and open my mouth, holding her eyes as we both lean in and take a bite, pausing a moment for Dane to take the picture. Her eyes lock on mine, and I can feel her breath on my lips as her chest rises and falls.
My body is on fire, and when she leans in farther to bite off a bit extra, her lip grazes mine, and I groan.
I pull away, swallowing the goddamn chunk whole. Damn.
She chews the bit of marshmallow, licking her lips and stepping down off the stool. “Thank you.”
I nod. I can feel Dane’s eyes on me, and I’m sure he knows something is wrong. I toss the skewer down on the bar and meet his eyes. He’s wearing a coy smile.
Fucktard.
Yeah, okay. I liked the marshmallow, Dane. I’d like to eat a dozen of them with her. Maybe I won’t rush home quite yet, okay?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out, seeing Annie’s name. I hit Ignore. She’s probably wondering where I am with her snacks. I’ll call her back in a minute.
“So…” Dane says. “All these pictures you’re posting on the page…you don’t have a boyfriend who’s going to come hunting us down, right?”
I tense. Ryen doesn’t have a boyfriend. She would’ve told me.
“Nah,” she replies. “He knows I can’t be tied down.”
Dane laughs, and I stand there, listening.
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” she finally answers seriously.
“I find that hard to believe—”
“And I’m not looking for one, either,” she cuts Dane off. “I had one once, and you have to bathe them and feed them and walk them…”
“So what happened?” Dane asks.
She shrugs. “I’d lowered my standards. Too low, apparently. After that, I got picky.”
“Does any man measure up?”
“One.” Her eyes dart to me and then back to Dane. “But I’ve never met him.”
One. Only one guy who measures up. Does she mean me?
My phone vibrates again, and I reach in my pocket, silencing it.
I glance up and see cameras flashing all over and spot people taking a pic in front of the graffiti wall to the right.
I step up and take her phone, surprising her. Walking around behind her, I turn on the camera, changing it to selfie mode, and lean down, capturing our faces on the screen. But I adjust it to also include the guy behind us taking a picture of two girls in front of the graffiti pictures. “A picture…”—I speak low in her ear, indicating our selfie— “of a picture” —I point to the guy behind us on the screen taking a pic— “of a picture.” And I gesture to the graffiti wall they’re standing in front of.
A smile finally breaks out on her face. “That’s clever. Thanks.”
And I click the pic, saving the moment forever.
Before pulling away and saying goodbye, I inhale her scent, frozen for a moment as I smile to myself.
You’re really going to hate me, Angel, when we finally do meet someday and you put all this together.
Ryen takes the phone and slowly walks away, looking back over her shoulder at me before disappearing in a throng of people.
And already I want her back.
I dig in my pocket and pull out my phone, dialing my sister. How much will she hate me if I ask her to go get her own snacks? I’m not sure I’m ready to leave yet, actually.
But when I call back, there’s no answer.
Three months later…
Dear Misha,
What. The. Hell?
Yeah, you heard me. I said it. I might also say this will be my last letter, but I know that’s not true. I’m not going to give up on you. You made me promise I wouldn’t, so here I am. Still Miss Fucking Reliable after three months of no word from you. Hope you’re having fun, wherever you are, douchebag.
(But seriously, don’t be dead, okay?)
You have the notes on the lyrics I sent with my previous letters. Kind of wishing I made copies now, since I feel like you’re gone for good, but what’s the point? Those words are meant for you and only you, and even if you’re not reading the letters or even getting them anymore, I need to send them. I like knowing they’re in search of you.
On the current news front, I got into college. Well, a few, actually. It’s funny. I’ve wanted everything in my life to change for so long, and when it’s finally about to, my urge to escape slows down. I think that’s why people stay unhappy for so long, you know? Miserable or not, it’s easier to stick with what’s familiar.
Do you notice that, too? How all of us just want to get through life as quickly and as easily as possible? And even though we know that without risk there’s no reward, we’re still so scared to chance it?
I’m afraid, to be honest. I keep thinking things won’t be any different at college. I still don’t know what I want to do. I won’t be any more confident or sure about my decisions. I’ll still pick the wrong friends and date the wrong guys.
So, yeah. I’d love to hear from you. Tell me you’re too busy to keep this up or that we’re getting too old to be pen pals, but just tell me one last time that you believe in me and that everything’s going to be fine. Shit always sounds better coming from you.
I Don’t Miss You, Not Even a Little,
Ryen
P.S. If I find out you’re ditching me for a car, a girl, or the latest Grand Theft Auto video game, I’m going to troll the Walking Dead message boards under your name.
Capping my silver-inked pen, I take the two pieces of black paper and tap them on my lap desk before folding them in half. Stuffing them in the matching black envelope, I pick up the black sealing wax stick and hold it over the candle sitting on my bedside table, lighting the wick.
Three months.
I frown. He’s never been quiet this long before. Misha often needs his space, so I’m used to spells of not hearing from him, but something is going on.
The wax starts to melt, and I hold it over the envelope, letting it drip. After I blow out the flame, I pick up the stamp and press it into the wax, sealing the letter and finding the fancy, black skull of the imprint staring back at me.
A gift from Misha. He got tired of me using the one I got when I was eleven with a Harry Potter Gryffindor seal on it. His sister, Annie, kept making fun of him, screaming that his Hogwarts letter had arrived.
So he sent me a more “manly” seal, telling me to use that or nothing at all.