Chapter Fifty-One #2
Today we were riding home on the school bus, and the girls behind us were saying mean things about Avery Harper-Klyne.
You turned around and started telling them off, and it was awesome!
You don’t even like Avery all that much, but you really don’t like when people are cruel.
I was thinking about how you’re the coolest girl I’ve ever met, but then I was also thinking that you’re the prettiest one, too.
You have nice hair and eyes, and I think your face is beautiful.
I’m pretty sure you’d hate it if I told you that, so I’m not going to give this letter to you.
George
The first time I read it, I laugh. The second time, I cry. I’d give anything to hug twelve-year-old George and tell him that he’d have to be patient—that he knew his own heart much better than his best friend knew hers.
On the back of the envelope, George has written a question: Do you want more?
I keep the letter in my back pocket all day. I don’t know why I delay responding, because whether I want more is beside the point. I need more. After dinner, I write Yes on a corner of paper and leave it in the birdhouse.
In the morning, another envelope is waiting for me.
AGE 13
Dear Frankie,
Okay, I’m just going to come right out and say it: I like you. There. That feels…weird, but also good.
We were swimming today, and then we were reading by the pool. I just looked over at you, and the words came into my head as if someone else was saying them: You like Frankie.
It explains A LOT. Like why I think about you when we’re not together and have dreams about you. Mimi says I have a crush. I don’t know how she could tell, but crush seems like a silly word. And nothing about this feels silly.
George
There’s a letter waiting for me every morning.
AGE 15
I thought going out with other girls would help me not like you anymore.
But I don’t think it’s working. I just compare them to you, and they’re never as good, and I feel like a jerk.
I thought Nicole could be different. She’s pretty and smart, and when we fool around, I forget about you.
But then you’ll do something, like draw me a map of all the places you want to travel together, or yell at our French teacher, or—the worst—close your eyes when we dance with a big smile on your face. And I’m fucking done for. Again.
AGE 16
I can’t believe you asked me to have sex with you! Do you know how badly I wanted to say yes? I want to have sex with you because I like you!!! But not so you can “get it over with.” Do you know how offensive that is? What the hell, Frankie???
The thing is: I was doing so well before this! I was like, OK, George, she isn’t interested in having a boyfriend. It’s not you. She’s just not there yet. I moved on.
But now I can’t stop thinking about you and me in my bed together. And in the field at night. Or in the cupboard. And I want to punch myself in the face for saying no.
AGE 18
You’re on the other side of the wall, already in bed.
But I can’t sleep. Today we bought all the supplies you need for school.
I stood beside you in the kitchen, watching you wash every bowl and spoon and knife with such care, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
I knew in that moment that I was in love with you.
I thought it might be easier once we moved to the city. New people. A shared space and so much potential for getting on each other’s nerves. But it’s so much worse. There’s no escaping you, and there’s no escaping the way I feel about you.
I love you, Frankie. I love you. I love you. I love you.
· · ·
Five days pass, and we don’t speak. I wonder if George senses that I need this space, this time to sit with each letter and let it reshape our history.
Every one is a revelation, and I collect them like the treasures they are, bundling them against my chest as I deliver them to my bedroom, where I read them all again and again.
I think about a blue-eyed boy afraid of sharing his feelings with his best friend and how he grew into a man who kept his heart under lock and key.
I wonder if we were missing out all this time, or whether we were getting stronger.
If we were preparing ourselves, gathering supplies, battening down the hatches.
George and I have always struggled to share our softest emotions with each other. He didn’t want to risk the surety of what we had while I’ve looked into a pair of blue eyes and refused to see what lay within. But I won’t look away any longer.
I rip a sheet of paper out of my notebook and write a message for George. I take it to the mailbox after dinner.
The cicadas sing all day in the summer, but they fall silent when the sun dips.
The evening is quiet. The air is honeyed with freshly cut grass.
My dad keeps it trimmed by the house, but in the field, it brushes against my legs like a secret.
Something moves by the hedge, and I go still, peering around for a rabbit or fox, but I see nothing. The shadows are playing tricks.
As I near the gap, a woodland vole skitters by my toes.
I crouch down, watching it scamper beneath the cedars.
When I rise, George is on the other side of the hedge.
His hair is longer than the last time I saw him, a coastal storm atop his head, and his cheeks are rough with stubble.
His feet are bare, his jeans have a hole in the knee, and his shirt could use an iron.
He looks like a love song. Between his hands is a small wooden chest—mahogany, with flowers etched onto the lid.
I’ve spent hours, probably days of my life wondering what George kept inside it.
I hold up the folded piece of paper. “I was going to leave this for you.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘I’d like the rest of my letters.’ ”
Even in the dusk, I can see the mirth in George’s eyes. “Your letters?”
“They’re addressed to me. Technically, they’re mine.”
I watch his throat move as he swallows. I never thought a swallow could be lovely before I noticed the movement in George’s throat. He holds out the box.
I take it from him, running my hands over the lilies carved into the lid.
“It was my mom’s,” George says. “There are more letters inside. Postcards. Notes. You can have them all.”
I look up at him, surprised. “I always thought you kept illicit materials in here.”
“Not quite.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Although some letters were a little…imaginative. Consider yourself warned.”
We smile at each other, both nervous, and it feels like I’m meeting George for the first time all over again.
“I can’t believe it,” I murmur. “It’s going to take a while for it to sink in.”
“Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods. “Good night, Frankie.”
I watch him walk away, and it feels like he’s taking my heart with him.
“George. Wait.”
He halts, looking at me over his shoulder.
“I don’t want to read them alone.”
He pauses before tipping his head toward the Big House. “Want to come inside?”
A warm breeze waltzes through the treetops. “I don’t know. I heard a witch lives there.”
He strides back toward me, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “She’s not a witch,” he says. “She’s my grandmother. There’s no eye of newt. Or toe of frog. There’s no black cat anymore, either.”
“Hmm.” I peer at the Big House behind him. “I’m not sure. It looks like a witch could live there.”
George’s voice is as soft as the flutter of leaves in the branches above. “You’ll have to trust me.”
His gaze sweeps across my face, and then he lifts his hand, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone. A shiver rolls down my spine.
“Come inside, Frankie.”