“You answered and now you’re trying to take back whatever you said?”
My eyes, which had been avoiding his very well up until this point, now latched on to them. He knew I was the letter writer. So he had gotten my letter after all. He was at the advantage now because he knew I liked him and I had no idea how he felt. It’s possible he wrote me an amazing letter about how he thought we would be great friends.
“No,” I said.
“No what?”
“No, I didn’t write back. I mean, I would’ve, probably, maybe, but I didn’t get yours. Mr. Ortega stole it.”
A slow smile spread across his lips. “Really?”
“Cade, please don’t take joy in my panic.”
He laughed. “But it’s so fun.”
I took a couple steps sideways, trying to get around the back row of desks and to Mr. Ortega’s. “I’m just going to rescue the letter from his desk and talk to you when I’m done reading it.”
I turned, passed my desk … our desk … and was almost to the aisle when he stopped me with, “Lily.”
“Just wait, okay?”
“Lily.” He was behind me now and placed his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him. The heat from his hands seemed to seep into my skin, warming me. “You don’t need to break into his desk. I can tell you what the letter says. I reread it a million times, I should know.” That last sentence he said under his breath.
Letters were safe. They were words, easy to read if enjoyable and stop reading if hurtful. Letters didn’t stare at me like Cade was now staring at me, full of fire.
“I’m scared,” I said.
“Don’t be.” He cleared his throat. “Dear Lily,” he started, and his intense gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve known you were the letter writer since the night I picked up Wyatt for baseball practice several weeks ago. I heard the music you were playing. A song only we, and possibly up to one hundred other people, would know.”
My breath stopped short in my throat. “What?” I interrupted him. “You knew before Thanksgiving? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you hated me.”
“I had the same reason. Because you hated me. I thought if you knew it was me that you’d stop writing.”
My mind went back to our exchanges over the last few weeks. How he had raised his eyebrows when I mentioned us getting along because it was Thanksgiving—a reference to our letters I hadn’t thought he’d put together.
Thanksgiving. He knew it was me that whole day. And then I kicked him out of my house. No wonder he thought I hated him.
There was something I still didn’t understand, though. “What about Sasha?”
“What about her? I told you we’re not together.”
“Were you?”
“No. She asked me out. I felt I needed to give her a chance—she’s a friend. I did. We weren’t … What’s that word you used? Compatible?”
I nodded. “But, how, why? She had the letters I wrote to you.”
“She did?” He sighed. “I kept them in the glove box of my car. She must’ve found them. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I thought you thought she was me.”
“You thought that I thought she was the letter writer?” His voice was as shocked as his expression. “Sasha?”
I laughed. “Yes.”
“No. I didn’t. Not for one second. Not even when I went into Chemistry and saw her sitting in our seat. I’ll get the letters back from her.”
“She gave them to me.”
“She did? That’s not like her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wasn’t exactly happy when I told her she and I weren’t compatible. I’m surprised she didn’t use the notes against us.”
I hadn’t thought about it before, but that surprised me, too. “Lucky us?”
“Seriously. Now, shhh, I’m trying to read you a letter.” He was still holding my shoulders. I was still warm from the inside out.
“Go on then.”
“I was surprised when I found out it was you that day, but the more I thought about it the less I was surprised. Then I was frustrated, because this amazing girl I’d come to know on paper was the only girl in the whole school who wanted nothing to do with me.”
“The only girl in the whole school? That might be a bit of an exaggeration.”
“No interrupting letters. If you were reading this, you wouldn’t be able to interrupt.”
“I would’ve definitely stopped at that part to scoff.”
He laughed and sent my heart racing. “So,” he went on, “I thought maybe if you could get to know me through the letters without knowing who I was in real life that you would eventually be willing to look past my mistakes. I was again surprised to learn you had been doing the same thing. So here we are at a crossroads.”
I waited for him to continue, to finish. He didn’t. I spoke up. “Here we are at a crossroads? That’s how you ended it? All cryptic like that?”
He took a step forward. Even though there wasn’t room to take that step. My legs hit a desk.