Page 8 of A Baby For Her Billionaire BFF

“Right.” Does that mean he wants to be friends again?

My heart soars at the possibility.

“Let’s not become strangers,” he says. “Let’s hold onto this friendship.”

“Friends,” I say, though the word feels too small, too simple for the complexity of emotions tangled up inside me.

“Friends,” he echoes, and there’s a promise in that single word — a lifeline thrown across the expanse of our uncertain future.

“Hey.” I shift my weight from side to side. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“About Seattle?” he asks, his brow arching slightly.

“Sort of. More about how… how quickly everything changes.” I watch a leaf break free from an overhead branch, spiraling down to settle among the blades of grass — a vibrant green that seems to shout with life against the solemn, dark robes around us. “I want to capture this moment, you know? Before it’s just a memory.”

His eyes lock onto mine, curious, patient. I’ve always loved that about him, his ability to give someone his complete attention. It’s like being seen, truly seen, and not just looked at.

“I was thinking,” I continue, “about making a time capsule. Something I could bury here on campus. A piece of me to leave behind. You could… make it with me. If you want.”

“A time capsule?” Ollie repeats, his lips curving into that familiar half-smile that never fails to cause a flutter in my chest. “That’s actually pretty brilliant.”

“Really?” Relief washes over me. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted him to be a part of this — needed him to be a part of this.

“Absolutely. Count me in.” He shifts, hands sliding into his pockets as he surveys the landscape around us. “What do we put in it?”

“Anything that feels right. Photos, notes, artifacts from our college lives. Letters to our future selves.” I smile now, excitement bubbling up inside me.

“Let’s do it,” he says, decisive, and there’s a spark in his eyes that I’ve missed so much.

“Great. Um, I need to get lunch with Lynn and my parents, but let’s meet back here. At two? Bring whatever you want to bury.”

He nods in acknowledgment and I run off to join my parents, my excitement a timer counting down the minutes till I’m with Ollie again.

The capsule itself is an old coffee tin I’d been saving, its once-bright label faded and peeling. It feels fitting, somehow — like us, a little worn around the edges but still full of potential.

“Okay,” I say once we’re back together and have found a spot behind some trees next to the library.

“I brought these.” From my bag, I pull out a stack of photographs: snapshots of us studying in the quad, celebrating after finals, goofy selfies taken in moments of unguarded laughter. Each one is a thread in the tapestry of our shared history.

Ollie watches me, then nods and reaches into his own backpack, extracting a few worn textbooks, their margins filled with our scribbled notes and inside jokes. “Can’t forget these,” he says, and though his tone is light, there’s a reverence in the way he handles them, a recognition of all the hours poured over those pages together.

“I’ll tear out a few pages,” he says. “Not like we’ll need them anymore.”

“Perfect.” I place the pages in the tin, layer upon layer of memories stacking up. Then, with a deep breath, I retrieve a pen and a couple of pieces of paper. “For our letters.”

“Right.” He takes one and moves a little away, giving us both privacy as we write.

“Dear Future Me,” I begin, and the words that follow are more honest than I expected, a mix of hopes and fears, of gratitude for the past and uncertainty about what’s to come. When I’m done, I fold the letter carefully and place it beside the photos.

Ollie does the same, sealing his own missive within the capsule without showing me. Some things, I understand, are meant just for him, and that’s okay.

“Ready?” I ask, and together, we seal the tin with layers of duct tape, making it as weatherproof as we can.

With a shovel borrowed from the groundskeeper’s shed, we take turns digging into the earth beneath the oak, carving out a space for our capsule. It’s harder work than I anticipated, the ground resistant, packed tight over the years — but eventually, the hole is deep enough.

“Here goes.” Ollie places the tin inside, then looks up at me. “There’s nothing else you want to add?”

“Nope,” I reply, and together we push the dirt back over the capsule, covering it with some leaves and sticks so no one suspects a thing.

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