Page 24 of All Your Pucking Secrets

“I thought you might be hungry, and I wanted coffee, so I asked your mom to make us each one.” That’s all he’ll get from me.

I sit beside him and smooth my jeans self-consciously. Where his are artfully distressed by design, mine have tiny holes in the knees because I’ve worn them through. They’re slightly too baggy on my slim frame.

They make me look like exactly what I am: someone from a working-class family. I’m not ashamed of that, but it’s yet another way I’m different from my wealthy classmates.

I glance up and draw back, caught off guard by Tyler’s face so close to mine. He’s gazing at me, his pale blue eyes intent on my mouth. My breath hitches. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was about to kiss me. But then he shakes his head and blinks, and the intensity vanishes.

“Thanks.” He picks up his coffee and swallows a mouthful.

“No problem.” I reach into my open backpack and pull out the small case where my tablet lives. Mom can’t afford to buy me a laptop, so I make do with this and my phone. “Show me what you’re up to.”

Together, we go through his notes. He’s done more than I expected, and not once does he ask me to finish the essay for him, which I appreciate. While he revises a paragraph where he’d gone off on a tangent, I debate whether to bring up the elephant in the room again.

In the end, I wait until we’ve nearly wrapped up before raising the topic.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” I tell him.

His expression closes off. “There’s nothing to talk about. Thanks for your help, but it’s time for you to go.”

7

ECHO

“Are you sure you don’t want company?” Anita looks worried, and after what happened over the weekend, I get it.

“No, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I turn my key in the lock and let myself into my dorm room, a little surprised when she doesn’t try to follow me in.

Honestly, it’s a miracle she’s letting me out of her sight. She’s been like an overprotective mama bear. Even though I refuse to explain what’s behind my occasional panic attacks, I’m sure she’s noticed enough context clues to guess.

I step inside and a wave of vanilla-scented warm air greets me. Martina must have left her diffuser going and the heater on before she went to class. I shut the door, flip the lock, and cross the room to my bed, where I stop short.

There’s a wrapped bundle on my pillow. I never get any mail, so I have no idea what it is or whom it’s from. Come to think of it, mail isn’t delivered to dorm rooms. We have to collect it from a cubby hole downstairs. So what’s up with this?

I tiptoe closer, threads of anxiety spooling in my gut. The package looks to have something reasonably thick inside. There’s nothing written on the back. I turn it over, but the other side is also blank.

My gut tightens. The package is the size and shape of a book, but I didn’t order one recently, and no one has offered to loan me anything, so there’s no reason for it to be here. I briefly consider that it might be Martina’s, but the way it’s displayed on my pillow leaves no doubt that it’s intended for me.

My guess is that someone delivered it by hand and Martina placed it here for me to find.

Tentatively, I sit on my bed and place whatever it is on my lap. It’s sealed, so I gently tear the paper wrapping open. The rip is uncomfortably loud in the quiet room.

I reach inside and brush my fingertips along the spine of a book. I grip the edges and slowly draw it out. The book is bound in faded blue leather, with black lettering on the spine and front. The title reads: A Collection of Poems from the Romantics.

A slip of paper falls from inside the cover and lands on my lap. I pick it up and, as I scan the familiar handwriting, my chest begins to tighten.

I don’t have the words for how I feel about you, but these guys do. ~Tyler

There’s an XO printed beside his name and the letters are wobbly, as if he was nervous when he wrote them.

I bite my lip. It’s a gift. I should have expected him to send another after slipping the necklace into my backpack the other day.

If he’s trying to make it more difficult to hate him, he’s succeeding.

He knows how much I love poetry, and there’s something about old books that’s absolutely magical. Their slightly musty scent, the delicate pages, and the knowledge that dozens of others have pored through them over the years. I can never help wondering who they were, where they lived, and what their lives were like.

Against my better judgment, I open the book and read the small print on the inside cover. My eyebrows fly up. It’s a first edition. I close the book and scan the exterior. It’s in excellent condition.

This can’t have been cheap. My stomach hardens, my softness toward him vanishing. It would be just like Tyler to think he could buy my forgiveness. That said, he chose an excellent way to do it. I gaze at the cover longingly. I can’t keep it. That wouldn’t be right.

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