Then I remember. The time capsule letters. Oh shit, I didn’t realize it was time for those, but I guess it makes sense since this is my senior year of college.
Freshman year in that English class, we were supposed to write our thoughts about our lives at that point, anything we wanted to include in it. And then pen some things we wished for the future. I remember writing mine but have no recollection of what I put in there. Now I’m curious to see if this little experiment will bring me any guidance.
So this letter has no name on it, but he must have gotten my new address or something and sent this. I’m glad it made it to me. I could use some words to the wise from my old, naive self.
Tearing open the envelope, I’m actually kind of happy this fell in my lap today. Last night, Dad called me with more less-than-subtle hints that I need to join the family business come May. Of course, it was right before I was about to lounge in bed and fall asleep to some dumb show, and I was restless the whole night after. It’s like he knows when I’m trying to relax and has to fuck up the mood.
Pulling the letter out, the spiral notebook paper is a little less white than it would normally be from sitting in an envelope for almost eight years. The minute I start reading, I know this is not my letter.
The handwriting loops and swirls, a pretty cursive that could never be mine.
“Oh, damn …” I mutter to myself, realizing I was sent the wrong letter.
I hope someone doesn’t have mine. They’re probably reading my angry fucking thoughts about being a Van Hewitt. That, or my desire to lose my virginity or some other stupid crap I would have been stressing over freshman year of high school.
I shouldn’t keep reading, but I do. And then my eyes snag on one thing.
My name.
What?
I hold the paper closer, as if it might give me an answer as to how my name is in this other person’s letter.
Someday, I hope that Austin Van Hewitt notices me. I hope he loves me the way I love him. I want to walk around Webton holding his hand, and everyone will know that the perfect boy loves me. He’s the cutest, sweetest guy in school, and I just hope he’ll love me. Maybe when I’m reading this, we’ll be together.
What the actual hell? I’m flabbergasted, standing in the foyer of the house, unable to move my feet. Who’s letter is this? And how the hell did I end up with it?
Flipping through the notebook paper—four sheets in total—like a maniac, I look for the signature.
And feel a metaphorical bullet graze my heart when I see just who signed it.
Taya North.
My roommate. The girl I’ve been flirting with and taking out for coffee. The one I kissed.
My jaw is somewhere on the floor, and my brain races in a thousand different directions. I’m at a loss, and so many emotions swamp me.
Shock, utter shock, that she had written this about me that long ago. Extreme annoyance that she’d viewed me as some Van Hewitt prize to walk around town with. Guilt because I’d never noticed her, and she clearly had felt a certain way about me for a long time. Another heaping ounce of guilt because I’m reading this letter that was meant only for her eyes.
But most of all, I feel duped. Has she been pursuing me for years without my knowledge? Did she make some play with Callum to get me to live here? Has she been slowly pulling me into her web to live out this fantasy?
This is what I meant when I said she didn’t speak like someone who had casually been around me growing up. The way she spoke about that homecoming dance? It clicks now.
Fuck, I want to unsee this. Not only am I … honestly? Creeped out. But I’m invading her privacy. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that. Even though I thought the letter was for me, I never should have read this far.
But how could I have known this was in here?
At my back, the sound of the door opening has me jumping. I stuff the letter into the backpack at my feet and jerk to my full height.
“Hey,” Amelie says, her kind smile landing on me.
“Uh, hi.” I sound jumpy; I know it.
She gives me a strange look. “You okay? I was just going to make myself a peanut butter sandwich. Want to join me?”
She’s wearing gym clothes, and a bead of sweat drips from her hairline. I’m sure she just came from the gym.
There is no way I’m about to sit in the kitchen with her. I have no idea what to do with the information I just received and feel epically guilty that I even read through the thing. If I sit across from Taya’s best friend, I’m bound to blurt it out.
And the only person who deserves to hear this, and hear it first from me, is Taya. Though the thought sends queasy bile rushing up my throat.
Fuck, this is going to fuck everything we have going up. This is going to fuck my living arrangement up.
But I feel like I have a time bomb in my backpack, and I want to toss that dangerous item into the hands of who it rightly belongs to. Though I know when I do, it’s going to explode automatically.
14
Taya
Midterms are only two weeks away, and I have to write an entire paper in French for my diplomatic relations course.
Then there is the group presentation for my customs of African nation’s course, which I despise. Not the course, it’s incredibly fascinating. But the whole idea of group presentations is terrible to me. I’m always the one who does the bulk of the work, and I hate speaking up to argue with others. So instead, I fester in my anger while I earn everyone a stellar grade.
And last but not least, I submitted my application for the UN internship. I won’t know if I got it until the week of finals, and I’m so anxious already that I need to calm myself. If I get it, I get to move to New York City in July for a six-week all-intensive languages program that will show the ins and outs of what translators do for the organization.
While I’m trying to figure out how I should carve out each country we’ve been assigned for the group presentation and how much time to dedicate to their customs, a knock comes on my door. I call for whoever it is to come in.
Austin lets himself in, and my heart skips a beat. Everything comes rushing back from the night he kissed me.
“Hi.” I breathe, giving him a flirty smile that I can’t help.
Oh my God. The notion that he just walked into my bedroom, after kissing me, hits me square between the thighs. We’re alone, in a shut-door room, as he crosses it to sit boldly on my bed.
It’s been two days since our last coffee date, and I’m still as confused as I was when I downloaded my feelings to the girls. But here I am, thinking about what we could get up to alone in this room. Bevan’s words about being pathetic come echoing back to me,
“Uh … hey.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks mighty nervous. What is going on? “I have to tell you something.”
Austin looks around my room with shifty eyes and stares at my desk chair. At first, I think he’s going to sit, but then he looks as if he’s double-checking himself and thinks better of it. I sit awkwardly on my bed, a pit forming in my stomach.
“See, there was this letter …” He trails off, looking down at his hands now, where I see an open envelope.
I’m not sure what the hell is going on, but a lump is working its way up my throat. Austin won’t look at me, and a sense of dread blankets the room.