Chapter 2
Liz, February 24
Ben was an exchange student at my high school during Senior year, almost a decade ago. He had blonde hair, green eyes, a chiseled torso, and abs that practically screamed “British heartthrob.” He had the kind of magnetic energy that made him impossible to ignore. The kind of guy I’d probably chase now—if I were bold enough—but back then, I was just too much of a wallflower.
In high school I was toothpick-thin, all elbows and knees, just another brunette in a sea of blonde bombshells. I was quiet, bookish, always more focused on my grades than on boys. I doubt Ben even knew I existed during the ten months he spent in the Arizona desert. Sometimes, I wasn’t sure if anyone noticed me at all. So when I heard from him years later, I was completely blindsided.
I was in my dorm room in Flagstaff, sitting at a creaky desk in front of a brand-new computer. Music blasted from my speakers as I stared at two windows open on my screen: one was a blank essay for my literature class, the other, a half-written email to my professor begging for an extension. I'd been sitting there for what felt like forever, trying to come up with something—anything—to get me out of writing that essay. My fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard, tapping random keys just to hear the clicks.
I never heard the notification ding telling me I had an unread email, probably because the music was too loud, but I noticed the strange email address pop up on my screen. The subject line read: Remember me? My stomach did a weird flip, like I’d just been called on in class.
I clicked without thinking.
Dearest Liz,
I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but I was an exchange student at West High in 2002. My name is Ben Smith, and I’m back in England now, attending University. I’m working on a project for my statistics course, and I thought it would be interesting to get an American perspective. Would you be willing to help? Nothing invasive, I promise.
Ben
And that’s when I found out Ben Smith had, in fact, noticed me during our senior year. I spent a good five minutes mentally replaying the image of him—the golden boy, shirtless, muscles flexing as he ran laps around the outdoor track. I caught myself smiling at my screen like an idiot. That image lingered long enough for me to hit reply.
Ben,
Of course I remember you! How’s everything? I’m in college too, and I’d be happy to help out with your project. Would email work for the survey, or do you need a phone number? Let me know!
Liz
Breezy. Nonchalant. Perfect. At least, that’s what I told myself. In reality, my palms were sweaty, and I reread the message ten times before daring to send it. Of course, I didn’t let on that it took me a solid ten minutes to craft that laid-back response. Six years have passed since that exchange, and honestly, I don’t remember much about the survey anymore. But I do remember the surprise, the rush of hearing from him.
I only tell you this story because it’s the beginning of how I reconnected with that British hunk.