They leave with a prescription for extra-strength hydrocortisone cream and clear instructions to lay off sex until the rash subsides. I don’t think they will. I smile and shake my head as I finish jotting down notes in Mrs. Rogers’ chart. Lucas is beside me, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Aren’t you going to finish Mr. Rogers’ chart?” I ask, staring up at him from beneath my lashes.
“I did.”
I look back down and start to write faster.
“So that’s it, isn’t it?” he asks.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I do, but I want him to drop it.
“You’ve had a crush on me this whole time, just like Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.”
I bark out a laugh. It’s forced and fake. “Don’t you have something else to be doing? Like planning your next tee time with Dr. McCormick?”
“It’s already on the schedule, and you’re avoiding the question.”
“That’s because I’m trying to work,” I say, writing the same word in Mrs. Rogers’ chart for the fifth time. Thank god for white-out.
“That’s fine. Your secret’s safe with me.”
It feels like he’s coming on to me and it’s hard to believe that, in this old war, there are any unused weapons remaining in his arsenal, but this one is fresh off the line and my mind reels in its wake.
I narrow my eyes and try to decipher his motives, but his neutral expression betrays precious little. I don’t know if he’s a surgeon with a knife or a child with a rock—either way, he wants my jaw to drop and my heart to quicken, and I don’t disappoint. My face is on fire. Whatever his intentions, he’s found a new, hidden chink in my armor. Lucas and I have been at this for so long that he very rarely gets a rise out of me, an unexpected reaction. I turn on my heel and slam my office door closed, nervous for what his next move will be.
Chapter Nine
Lucas
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Unsent Email #349
This feels a little strange. I haven’t written one of these messages in a while, not since before I moved back to Hamilton. Can I even call them messages if I never hit send? I’m not even sure you’re using this email address anymore. Dr. McCormick keeps saying he’ll give us new ones for the practice, but coming from a guy who still uses Windows 98, I wouldn’t count on it happening any time soon.
I looked the other day, just out of curiosity, and the first time I wrote one of these…journal entries? Shouts into the void? Whatever I decide to call them, the first was during my freshman year at Stanford. It was a week into fall semester and I guess you could say I was homesick. At least that’s what I told you in the email. I went on and on about missing Hamilton and I never once mentioned that I missed you.
I guess I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. I never told you I applied to Duke. I got in with a full-ride, same as you, but then I overheard your conversation with Madeleine before prom. You went on and on about how excited you were to move away. You couldn’t wait to get out of Hamilton and get away from me.
I got the message. Loud and clear. It might’ve been the first time in our lives that one of us actually took a hint, ha.
I went to Stanford, ready for a fresh start, but instead I spent my entire freshman year thinking about transferring to Duke. I didn’t join any clubs or make those lifelong friends that end up being your groomsmen. I hung out in my dorm room and listened to those CDs you used to make for Madeleine. (I stole most of her collection before I moved.) There was something comforting about listening to the songs you’d handpicked, even if they weren’t for me.
God, that was a long time ago, a decade, and yet I can still remember being that eighteen-year-old kid away at college and so homesick it hurt.
I got over it—I got over a lot of things—but to this day I’ve been bothered by the one question it’s too late to ask.
Would it have hurt more or less if I’d just sent that first email?
Chapter Ten
This fight with Lucas is different than it used to be. 11 years ago, our weapons were conventional and agreed upon: report cards, race times, SAT scores, death glares. There were no innuendos or subtle hints of foreplay. I would have guessed that high school Lucas couldn’t have differentiated between foreplay and his forearm. Adult Lucas can. It seems Stanford taught him more than biology. I should write a letter congratulating and admonishing the dean.
I don’t have a problem with the war evolving.
It’s that I have no clue what’s lurking around the corner, what little tricks Lucas has stuffed up his sleeves today, and it’s putting me on edge. It’s making me second-guess every decision I make.
Monday morning, I slip into a black dress that hits my knees, stand in front of the mirror, and try to see myself from every angle. Yes, it looks appropriate from the front, but what if I have to dip down and retrieve a pencil. Will the seam ride up tastefully, or will it scream out yee-haw?!