Chapter 42 Skylar
Skylar
I call Pike as soon as the interview ends, but it goes to voicemail.
“Hi,” I say, my voice wavering. “I loved the interview. It meant so much. Can we get together as soon as you’re back? I’ll keep my phone on.” I start to hang up, then add, “I miss you, Pike. Every second.”
The next morning, I wake to a text.
Just got off the plane. Forgive me for not calling sooner—I wanted to surprise you but should’ve reassured you. I want to see you too, but I meant what I said about the journal. It’s yours.
I grin, still amused by Pike’s em dash use. I’m excited. Let me know when you stop by.
You mean you haven’t found your package yet?
I’ve never run so fast. Outside my door, I find a brown bag with a single red rose sticking out. Inside, there’s a T-shirt with Johnny Clapton’s cartoon face and a little black notebook.
The one that says he loves me.
Found it! I text. I’m sad I missed you. I really need to talk to you.
We’ll have plenty of time to talk afterward. It’s important you read it first.
I send him sweating emojis.
It’s nothing bad, he says, but honest. And maybe a little intense. I want you to know me, Skylar. For real.
I hold the Moleskine to my chest. This is really personal, and it’s not what I meant by being open. I don’t want you to feel like I’m sitting in on your therapy sessions.
Those journals are staying private. He sends a wink. This one I wrote for you.
I want him to come over and read his words to me after we’ve properly made up all day. But it’s important to him, so I’ll do it.
Give me a call tomorrow if you’re done, he says.
I make myself a cup of tea. Hours pass before I eventually get up to stretch my neck, which feels like a rusted hinge. I’m too enraptured by Pike’s writing to stay away from the journal for long.
It’s not just love poems. There are scribbled thoughts and letters addressed to me.
Some nostalgic about things we did together, like when we first confessed our feelings or our trip to Whistler.
Others surprising, like his impressions during the fake-dating phase of our relationship.
And some are so erotic I blush at the way they’re detailed on the page.
My heart hurts when he admits he wasn’t overwhelmed by me, but by trying to balance everything at once.
He needs to figure out how to manage his energy so he can enjoy our time together without pushing himself too much.
I understand the battle against burnout and wish he had confided in me sooner.
I always want him to feel comfortable telling me when he needs rest.
I’m initially hesitant to tarnish the journal with my clumsy scrawl, but he asks a lot of questions.
Makes great points. I scribble notes in blue ink over his black.
Sometimes, I simply draw hearts or highlight beautiful phrases.
When he gets down on himself, I leave supportive thoughts.
I’m no writer, but I hope it’s encouraging.
He says he’s kept his old snowboard in a dusty bag in his garage, unsure of what to do with it since his accident. He might want to keep it, after all. Hang it up somewhere he can see it instead. A way to honor everything he accomplished in that phase of his life.
Among the pages are lists outlining hopes, fears, and ideas for things to do if we got back together.
He can see us buying a house. Sharing a life together.
I don’t know if we’re ready to live together yet.
We have a lot to figure out, especially when it comes to letting go of our old hurts and voicing our needs.
But Pike’s main point is what matters. He sees a future with me. I want one with him as well.
When I reach the last page, it’s early afternoon, and my eyes are wet.
You told me you always mess things up, he writes. I think you’re wrong. I think the people you relied on left you. I could see that the first day we met.
I wipe my face on my sleeve.
I don’t care about any of those things in the screenshots. My life has only gotten better since I met you. Don’t push me away because you’re scared. I’m scared too, but I’m not going anywhere. If you want me, I’m here. I love you, Skylar.
I know Pike said to call him tomorrow, but I can’t sit here by myself after reading all that.
Safe to say Pike doesn’t think I’m too much, I write the girls.
sweets, that boy wrote u a fucking book. if anyone’s too much, it’s him.
I grab my keys. I’m not waiting anymore.
It’s hot when I arrive at Pike’s house, another humid, ninety-degree day. I park at the end of the driveway near a late-blooming lilac tree. As soon as I step out, my curls start to frizz and swell, a few strands already sticking to my neck. A car door slams behind me.
“Skylar! Hey, Skylar!”
I shield my eyes as camera flashes go off, making my heart somersault.
“Are you and Pike getting back together?”
Two reporters stand in the cul-de-sac, one with a camera, the other with video equipment. A third man steps out of a white truck.
“Did you read his journal?”
“What did he write?”
I back away slowly, careful not to show my unease. At least I look cute. My favorite color-blocked dress from last season still fits, its braided halter straps flattering my chest and arms. I manage a shaky smile.
They want the conclusion to Pike’s story. To our story. I shouldn’t engage with them; they almost destroyed us.
But I won’t let them.
I head up the ramp. They call after me, and I can’t resist. Just as I reach the door, I pull out Pike’s notebook. I hold it up for them to see, let them have their photo, and ring the doorbell.