Page 28 of The Upside of Falling
Rolling my eyes, I stand up and push past her.
“You know, just because he hasn’t texted you, doesn’t mean you need to be bitter toward everyone around you.”
“I’m not bitter, just irritated.” I toss my purse on my table, hearing my keys jingle in the bag. I give it one more search, and my fingers connect with them in one of the side pockets. Ugh, built-in side pockets. They are only good for holding ChapStick and making you think you’ve lost your keys.
Ryan has already discarded a few of my dresses onto my unmade bed, and is currently standing in front of the mirror, trying to envision herself in my velvety green dress with long sleeves and an impossibly low back.
“Too fancy.” She chucks it to the side with the rest of the discarded dresses.
“You’ll be hanging those back up, you know.”
She makes a non-committal sound and says, “It’s been a little over a week since you sent that letter. Have you ever thought that maybe instead of texting or calling you, he wrote you back?”
“He wouldn’t—” I pause and think about it for a second. “Well, I guess maybe he could have written back. I just thought he’d go the easy route and text.”
“Oh my God, Rory. The guy has old-fashioned written all over him. Do you really not think he’d write you back? When was the last time you checked your mail?”
“Uh, maybe a few days ago.” My legs start to itch to run down to my mailbox, my heart constricting in my chest. What if he wrote back?
“I’d go check if I were you because he might have written you, and that letter might have been sitting in your mailbox, unread, for days.”
She paints a pretty annoying picture. Without another word, I snag my mail key and jog down the steps to the mailbox that hangs on the side of the wall. With a deep breath, I twist the key inside and open the red door. Peeking inside, I pull out a few days’ worth of advertisements, some envelopes, and a catalogue for workout clothes, which I usually spend far too much time looking through.
Trying not to get my hopes up, I start sifting through the mail, through the bills and coupon collections that only ever offer discounts for AC units and window cleanings. Not interested. When I get to the last envelope and see nothing from him, I let out a long, unhappy sigh. Yeah, getting a letter would have been too good to be true.
My cheeks start to flame red, heating up from embarrassment. He must think I’m such a dweeb for writing him, for putting myself out there.Again.I wonder if he’s laughing at me with all his buddies, passing my perfume-scented, lipstick-stained letter around for everyone to read.
Look at pathetic Rory, when is she going to get it? Not interested.
No. He’s not like that.When I consider what I know about Colby, that isn’t the behavior I’d really expect. After my scheme to find out more about him at the bowling alley backfired . . . publicly, he could have left me high and dry. But he didn’t. He approached me and quietly provided me a chance to talk to him. So if he didn’t want to write back, I needed to accept that he is being kind and not stringing me along.“You don’t want to go out on a date with me, Rory. I’m not dating material.”Still . . .
Dejected, I reach for my keys. And that’s when I notice a white envelope in the back of my mailbox, tucked away. Letting the rest of my mail fall to the ground in dramatic fashion, I reach for the envelope, taking in the square and precise handwriting.
C. Brooks.
The return address reads C. Brooks and everything in me takes flight, nerves and excitement washing over me, as I sit on the stairs and open the envelope, wondering how long it’s been in there.
Unfolding the letter, I can’t contain the smile plastered across my face.
Dear Rory,
To say your letter was unexpected is an understatement. I’m assuming you and Stryder were in cahoots, because unfortunately, I don’t check my mailbox often. There isn’t anyone in my life who would care enough to send me anything. However, the fool checks his mail every day, so it’s a good thing you sent it to him.
I don’t really know what to write, because I’m not good at stuff like this. I’d be lying if I said I never thought about not writing you back. Because I did. I thought about tucking the letter you sent me away and never responding. I would also be lying if I told you this was my first draft. As I write this, there are scrunched-up balls of unsatisfactory letters in my trashcan, words and sentences just not good enough to send to you.
As much as I would like to say that you haven’t affected me, I can’t.
I think about you all the time.
And I can’t stop.
Remember when I said I didn’t want a distraction in my life? Well, here you are, fifteen miles away like you said, and you’re always on my mind, distracting me anyway.
I want to tell you to run away, to leave me alone, to forget about me, but for the life of me, I can’t.
So instead of throwing your letter away, I tucked it into my security box, keeping it safe, hoping there is another one to follow. I can’t forget you.
Thank you for being persistent.
