The Valentine Box (The Box Books #3)

February 14

Luke

7:15 p.m.

I’m early to the sweetheart dance. Well, earlier than normal anyway. I know how these things go down. Doors open at seven, but it’s dead until seven-thirty or eight. My usual crew rolls in fashionably late—eight or after. That’s why I wrote 7:15 on that extra slip of paper I dropped in Taylor’s heart-shaped box.

Am I a coward to have waited this long, until literally the night before I’m leaving Sweetwater, probably forever? Is that what it took for me to decide it doesn’t matter what my friends think? And what the hell is my grand plan here anyway? Since I am, in fact, moving tomorrow.

The fact that I’m starting at a new school in less than forty-eight hours is enough to make my stomach pinch up a little, but I need to focus on now, and the fact that I’m watching the wide row of doors leading into the gym lobby, waiting for her to walk through one of them. I’m holding a dozen red roses, trying to do this right.

I didn’t plan to ask her—but as I stood there talking to her outside the cafeteria, it hit me how much I like her, and how much more fun I’d have with her than any of my friends—male or female. So I followed the impulse to write out one of those wish slips to her, from me, asking her to be my date.

Which brings me back to that grand plan I don’t have. What if we have an amazing time? What if holding her while we dance feels as good as I think it will? What if I kiss her and that’s good, too? And then I have to leave.

Maybe we could keep in touch? I could always drive back to see her on weekends or during the summer.

But hold up there, Mario Andretti—you’re getting ahead of yourself. Let’s just see how the date goes.

I don’t usually get nervous before dates, but I’m a little on edge. I suggested meeting early to take the pressure off, so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable walking in with a crowd, so we could connect without anyone coming up to talk. I hope she gets here soon.

7:30 p.m.

I stand to one side of the lobby, by the trophy cases, watching the doors even closer now, anticipation mounting inside me each time one opens. I’m waiting for that moment: when the person who’s late finally arrives, and you feel so good, because you knew they were coming, but maybe there was one tiny part of you beginning to wonder.

Only Taylor doesn’t seem like someone who runs late. In fact, I’d have bet on her to be the type who shows up early.

Then again, maybe she struggled over what to wear—I know she’s not comfortable with this kind of event. I’m in dress khakis and a navy jacket over a button-down shirt—same thing I wore to my cousin’s wedding last fall. But I don’t care if she shows up in tattered blue jeans—I just want her to get here.

7:45 p.m.

Crowds are picking up now, more kids arriving. I hang in the shadows when I see TJ come in. I don’t want to have to explain who the flowers are for. Jasmine has been hinting all week for me to ask her to the dance—I don’t need him assuming I’m suddenly into her.

I figured when Taylor got here, we’d just walk in arm and arm, get some punch or whatever, and then I’d ask her to dance. And when my friends started coming up, I’d act like it was totally normal that I’m with her. I’d say something like, “Taylor’s my date tonight,” or “I asked Taylor to the dance.” They’re good guys—they’d be fine with it, just surprised.

But every time a door opens and someone else walks through, I have to begin facing something that never even crossed my mind: She’s not coming.

She didn’t say anything about it when I saw her the last few days, but she still gave me her usual shy smile. It made me think she just didn’t want to talk about it; that same as I asked her in a sort of quiet, secret way, she wanted to answer by just showing up. And she wasn’t even in homeroom yesterday—late because a school bus broke down. I didn’t think it mattered; I figured I’d see her tonight.

But damn. Maybe she’s really standing me up.

Is it standing me up if she never actually agreed to the date in the first place?

But if she wasn’t gonna come, she could have at least told me—tucked a note in my backpack, something .

My face starts getting hot. Did I really misread all our conversations? Was I the only one who thought we were flirting lately? Is she really turning me down by ignoring my invitation altogether?

God, I’m an idiot.

I guess my dad’s right—I’m pretty full of myself. Maybe I thought every girl liked me. That’s kind of been my experience so far. But now I feel like a loser. To have assumed.

I actually imagined the moment when she found my note in the wishes. I thought she’d be excited, that maybe she’d nibble her lower lip the way I’ve seen her do when something goes well for her—like she isn’t quite sure she believes it at first, but then she does, and her green eyes get bright and wide and kind of beautiful. I imagined her going through her closet, finding just the right thing to wear.

But I guess she only sees me as a friend. And maybe she was actually… horrified to find the note.

The paper with the heart wishes came out yesterday, so I know she went through them all, but I don’t know when. Maybe if I’d seen her in homeroom yesterday, she would have acted weird because of it. Or maybe she just decided to ignore the whole thing. After all, I’m leaving, so it’s not like she ever has to see me again. Maybe that seemed like the easiest answer: no answer. Just leave me standing here like a fool.

The thought makes me shrink back into the shadows a little deeper as I look around, wondering if anyone sees the dumb guy holding roses for a girl who isn’t gonna show.

No matter how I slice it, though, it’s hard to believe she’d do that to me—just leave me waiting, every minute like an eternity. I thought she was a nicer person than that.

Or…is this how to you pay someone back for not defending you enough, for letting the person who’s mean to you just skate by? Maybe she thinks it serves me right.

And maybe it does.

8:00 p.m.

Okay, I know she’s not coming, so why am I still holding this bouquet and staring at the stupid doors? It’s been—I check a clock on the wall—forty-five minutes. Maybe I just keep hoping I’m wrong.

All right, one more time. I’m gonna watch one more door open and one more person walk through. And if it’s not her, I’m outta here.

When I see a door begin to move, I wish with everything in me. Please, please, please. Talk about a heart wish—this gives the term a whole new meaning.

Then a slender blonde in a barely-there dress that looks more like lingerie walks in: Jasmine. And even though no one else has seemed to notice me standing here in the lobby this whole time, her eyes land on me instantly.

She sashays up in sky-high heels that make her as tall as me, her lipstick the same cotton-candy pink as the heart design on her slinky dress. “Are those for me?”

She’s talking about the flowers, obviously, but her gaze brims with invitation.

Hell. She’s gorgeous, she’s been chasing me around for years, and—unlike the girl I actually bought the roses for—she wants to go to this dance with me.

“Sure,” I murmur, handing her the armful of flowers.

She takes them, then leans in, pressing her barely-concealed breasts against my arm to say, “And here I almost thought you were gonna leave town without us ever getting together. I’m glad you came to your senses.”

Taylor

The Sweetheart Diner has been my home away from home ever since my dad died five years ago—mainly because that’s where my mom spends most of her time, waiting tables. Dad had enough life insurance to bury him, and we get social security, but it’s not enough.

It’s less than a quarter-mile from our house—which was convenient before I had my driver’s license, and still is sometimes in the summer if I just feel like walking.

The truth is, I don’t know how the place stays in business with less and less action on Main Street. But I appreciate getting paid to bake cakes and pies on the weekends. I love getting lost in the mixing and decorating—it takes me away from my troubles. And it’s kind of fun working in a bigger kitchen than the ones at home or school.

The only thing “sweetheartish” about the place is a couple of hearts on the laminated menu, and The Sweetheart Diner painted in script on the wall in red, matching the red vinyl booths and stools. I know the business name was drawn from the town name, but I’ve always thought Walt could do more with the theme.

Not that it’s any of my business. My business is baking desserts and spending the rest of my time here in the back booth reading or doing homework. Which is what I’m attempting when Mom’s waitress friend, Geneva, approaches me, wiping her hands on her apron.

Geneva is short, stout, sturdy, and hardworking, but what I love most about her is that she dyes her short hair red—an even redder shade than mine—by choice! I’m not sure it’s the best color for her, but she does what she wants and I admire that. I can only hope I’m as self-possessed as Geneva by the time I’m in my fifties. “What has you so deep in thought?” she asks.

“World War I,” I reply, gesturing to the open history book before me.

But it’s a lie.

Which she can apparently tell, because she says, “I thought maybe it was that boy.”

All she and Mom know is that there’s a boy at school I like, but that he’s way out of my league and nothing will ever come of it. No way could I say who because everyone knows Luke Montgomery by virtue of his father being the town doctor. In fact, the Montgomerys have been a big topic of discussion lately because, until someone buys Dr. M.’s practice, we’ll all have to drive a lot farther when we’re sick.

“No,” I lie again, trying to sound light and casual about it.

I’m not sure it works, but she lets it go and starts wiping down tables. Mom stands behind the counter consolidating ketchup bottles and refilling napkin dispensers.

A glance at the clock on the wall tells me it’s ten, with an hour until closing. No one comes in this late, ever, and I’ve also always thought Walt could save a little money by shutting down earlier.

I’ve spent way too much time the last few days thinking about Luke and the dance he’s at right now. After our conversation outside the lunchroom, I wondered if I should change my mind and go. I even found myself fantasizing about it.

By digging through my mother’s closet, I discover some fabulous-not-tacky vintage 1980s dress, red taffeta, strapless, that complements my coloring perfectly. My mom puts my hair in some kind of up-do, with little tendrils curling down around my face, and I look prettier than ever in my life.

Brave but humble, I walk through the gym doors. Every eye turns to look at the new arrival, stunned to see that it’s me and I’m suddenly a knockout. My gaze locks with Luke’s and he starts toward me. Appearing wowed by my stunning transformation, he tells me I look beautiful.

Then I hear the first notes of “Lady in Red.” (This part is even more far-fetched than the rest because it’s a song from the 80s that most people my age have never heard, but it’s my fantasy, and that’s how it happens.) And Luke holds out his hand to ask, “May I have this dance?”

I answer by placing my hand in his and we step onto the dance floor. He pulls me close, our bodies pressing together from chest to thigh. He looks into my eyes, and then there’s kissing. I’ve never been kissed, but that makes it even more perfect—and turns out I’m a natural at it.

When the song ends, he tells me his father changed his mind and they’re not leaving after all, and he asks me to be his girlfriend. I say yes and the credits roll.

Because this is basically just a teen movie, full of unlikelihoods that never really happen in real life. But it’s nice to think about anyway.

Or kind of nice. Since maybe it just makes the reality a little harder. The reality that he likes me enough to say I should come to the dance, but not enough to ditch his buddies for me or anything. The reality that he’s just a decent guy being nice to the girl without many friends. The reality that I’ll never see him again because my bus was late on Friday, so I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I went to the basketball game last night with Caroline as planned, watching from the bleachers as Luke scored twelve points off the bench—but it’s not like he knew or cared that I was there.

Of course, it’s occurred to me that maybe the bus breakdown was fated. It saved me from possibly doing or saying something embarrassing, or even just getting unduly emotional as I said goodbye. Maybe God or the universe was actually doing me a favor.

All of that is mostly what I’m thinking about as I sit trying to focus on my history assignment—my ill-fated crush on the most popular boy in school who’s leaving town tomorrow.

When the bell on the diner’s door jangles, Mom, Geneva, and I all look up, surprised. Like I said, no one ever comes in this late.

So it’s almost beyond my ability to comprehend when TJ, Courtney, Billy, and the whole jock crowd come in—including Luke and Jasmine. Jasmine is leaning on Luke, her arm looped through his, even as they walk through the door. My heart drops to my stomach.

As a group of seven, all dressed to the nines, squeeze into a booth a few away from mine, with one of the guys pulling over a chair from a four-top table, I wish I was anywhere else. For so, so many reasons, but mainly because it suddenly feels like it’s all been a lie. She’s just in my friend group. How many times has he said that to me? But right now she’s hanging all over him, whispering something to him with a giggle, and he clearly likes it. Lucky me that they sat on the side facing my table.

It’s as my mother takes their drink orders, and I’m wondering if I could somehow slink unseen out the back door, that Luke notices me. And as our eyes meet, I wait for it: that cute, playful shrug of “looks like I got stuck with her,” or the scrunch of his nose to imply he’d rather be sitting with me, or even just a little wave. Even when he’s with his friends, he always smiles or says hi when we pass in the hall.

So when he instead flashes me a dirty look, it’s like a punch in the gut. His eyes narrow and his features twist into a scowl of disgust—an expression I’ve never seen on his face before—and it’s aimed directly at me . The rest of them ignore me as though we haven’t all gone to school together for eight years, and right now, maybe I wish he were ignoring me, too—because this is much worse.

My jaw drops and I simply gape at him, astonished and confused. I blink a few times, then mouth the words: What’s wrong?

In response, he simply rolls his eyes like I’ve done something abominable.

Then he turns and kisses Jasmine Dupree! Not a little kiss, either. The kind…well, the kind I fantasized about sharing with him on the dance floor. Suddenly my fantasy seems more impossible than ever and Jasmine’s words from years ago echo in my head: Can’t you just see her, blushing and fantasizing, thinking they really like her? I wonder who she has the biggest crush on.

Their friends hoot and holler at the passionate kiss that’s making me sick to my stomach. When it ends, Jasmine appears victorious, and I want the black and white checkerboard floor of the Sweetheart Diner to open up and swallow me whole.

Someone jokes, “I guess we know who’s driving Jas home tonight,” and everyone laughs. Except me. Thank God they’re ignoring me because my face is surely fifty shades of red by now.

Quietly closing my book and gathering my things, I scoot swiftly from the booth and make a beeline for the kitchen. I pass my mom at the soda machine and can tell she knows something’s wrong. She stops running drinks and follows me. Before I know it, I’m standing there surrounded by Mom, Geneva, and Walt, probably looking like the end of the world has come.

“Honey, what is it? What’s wrong?” Mom asks. All three look worried.

I can only shake my head. If I try to speak, I’ll cry. I feel so stupid. To be like this over a boy who only ever showed me a little kindness, nothing more. But why is he suddenly being horrible to me? And to see him kissing my arch enemy—it’s a lot.

Tossing a surreptitious glance out the long, narrow pass-through window, Geneva then turns back to the rest of us and says quietly, “I think I know who the boy is now.”

My mother’s eyes go wide as she whispers, “Dr. Montgomery’s son?”

I’m mortified, even in front of the people who care about me. Because Luke is…Luke. And I’m me. It’s embarrassing for them to know I have feelings for a guy who would never look twice at me in that way.

That’s when Walt, bald and stocky and someone who’s always been kind but not overly personal with me, changes that by lifting my downcast chin with one bent finger. “Now you listen to me, young lady,” he says, voice low enough for only the four of us to hear. “Any boy who doesn’t see what a gem you are isn’t worth your time, and that’s the God’s honest truth. Don’t you give him, or any of those kids, another thought.”

It’s incredibly sweet—and so of course I burst into tears.

Walt says, “Aw, honey—come here,” and pulls me into a hug.

My mother is rubbing my shoulder as Geneva tells her, “I’ll get the drinks and take the orders.” But then she leans closer to say, “Walt’s right, hon. You hang in there, and everything’ll be okay.”

After that, Walt lets Mom off early, and we sneak out the back through the kitchen to where Mom parks. We go home and eat ice cream straight from the tub and I tell her my entire past with Luke Montgomery. She replies with things like she knows it hurts but I won’t feel that way forever and that after high school everything changes and people see you differently. Then she uses one hand to push back my hair, closing with, “I know none of that helps much right now, though.”

A little while later I cry myself to sleep, still shattered, and at the same time almost glad I’ll never see him again.

Word of the day: Heartbreak .