Page 15 of When Hearts Remember

But then, her words keep echoing in my mind.

Sometimes, my next steps are obvious, other times, they’re a mess, tangled up in the pressures of real life and the need to know all the answers this instant.

Amid this chaos, I find it hard to be authentic.

My breathing quickens. Her scribbles, however whimsical they are, exactly describe the restlessness inside me, like she took a peek inside my mind and tugged out the dark, knotted mess hiding within, ashamed to face the world.

It’s a lonely place to be in.

My jaw works, and I make a decision. I spin around and walk back to the bookshelf to grab the journal.

Flexing my fingers, I sit on the ground, flip to the next blank page, and begin writing.

To Alex,

You’ve made quite the impression…

Chapter 5

Saturday. Today is Saturday.

Bubbles gather in my chest and I bite back a grin. I wonder what he wrote in the journal. After checking my reflection one last time, I slam shut my locker at Broadbent. The girls and I had a study session.

“You coming out with us, Lexy?” one girl asks.

Scrunching my nose, I shake my head. “I have plans, sorry. Have fun!”

There’s a party today—college acceptances celebrations, apparently. Lot of Ivy League letters being handed out like candy, which isn’t a surprise, given Broadbent is a feeder school and everyone here is a legacy and has their family names on school buildings.

I have little to celebrate. I ended up getting acceptances to state schools.

No Columbia. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

I hate that the milestone of the first Vaughn not getting into an Ivy League belongs to me. Charles and Liam have been good sports about it, telling me UNYC is a great option.

Grandma looked crestfallen last week when I broke the news to her. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You have a place in the Bank of Columbia, no matter where you graduate.”

I disappointed her.

Guilt pinches my gut, and I grab my cell and swipe to the photos I took of the journal to reread his last few entries to me.

To Alex,

You’ve made quite the impression.

I already know you’re a girl. If you want to hide your identity, don’t spray your journal with lavender. Your handwriting is too neat for a guy. And how do I know you’re not a sixty-year-old creep or an undercover cop trying to frame me as a predator?

Your Keeper

My pen pal is a guy. I’d bet the trust fund I don’t get until I’m twenty-two on it. I can almost imagine his wry voice as I read his short entry.

P.S. I shouldn’t be wasting my time playing pen pal because I have real world responsibilities, but I think you’re lonely and that’s why you’re leaving your journal in random places. So, it’s my good deed for the day. I think you need me.

P.P.S. And yes, I understand exactly what you mean. I love how the world—or in your case, perhaps yourself—expects us to “get it” once we graduate. Like a degree or two will magically infuse us with powers to navigate everything and how it’s a failure when you aren’t sure where you fit in. It’s tough. But you aren’t alone.

So he’s older. My keeper. Fresh out of college, maybe? I smile at his nickname for himself, a play on what I called him in my first entry. There’s something refreshing about not caring how you appear to someone else. Strip off the paint until you’re left with the nuts and bolts of who you are.

P.P.P.S. I can’t promise you how long I can keep this up. But how do we do this? Do we need a schedule? What if I run into you? Can I ask you anything aboutyourself?

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