Page 60 of Discord
Mia
A rectangular packagewas waiting on my desk with a succinct message.
Happy Birthday!
My eighteenth birthday was a few days away. I had hoped to hear from Brandon by now but we hadn’t exchanged a single word in weeks, not since sending him that morbid email and pouring my heart out. I also sent a follow up text, which he had promptly ignored.
I forced myself to stay busy as I was gearing up to leave for California. Brandon hadn’t contacted me despite my looming departure date. Anxiety had been seeping through my soul with each passing day. The email revealed too much, and he was done with me for good.
Though I was unsure of his reaction, I hadn’t expected the radio silence. The hope in my chest refused to die. I was optimistic that he needed some time to process. Or perhaps he wanted to reassess my previous suggestion of taking a couple of years until I was older. However, I was beyond petrified of the possibility that Brandon might be done with me for good.
The last thing I expected was this impromptu birthday gift. It was bound by luxurious wrapping cloth. The edges were smooth and clean, fabric tied around it to make it into a bow. There wasn’t a return address or a shipping label. The note was left unsigned, too.
All the same, I recognized the handwriting. Brandon dropped it off in my room. Turning my head, I peeked outside the window in search of his car.
I hurried to shut my door to open the box in private and sat at the edge of my bed with eager anticipation. My trembling hands untied the fabric bow to reveal an antique-looking book board cover. An involuntary gasp left my lips when I recognized the material.
I slanted it to the side and inspected the book spine. Chords were sewn through the delicate pages to bind parchment papers with the book board cover. Someone had taken a lot of time to handmake this item. I would know. I had once done the same to make a book out of parchment papers.
With steady hands, I turned over the cover. What I saw inside almost left me breathless.
Brandon’s handwriting with pages and pages of stories from our past. Not stupid Maya or Bran-Bran’s story, butourstory.
My hands moved over the coarse vintage paper. They were an exact replica of the parchment papers we had used. How many stores did he visit before finding a match? He even remembered to write with a rollerball pen.
Pulling the makeshift book close to my face, I inhaled deeply. It smelled like him. Raw. Unhinged. Slightly visceral.
There was a note on the first page.
I read your goddamn email fifty fucking times.
I fucking love you too.
-Brandon
The note reflected Brandon perfectly. Curt, to the point, and filled with profanity. I never told him that I loved him, but he’d have to be thick not to realize how deep my love ran. This book was an expression of his regret for burning the previous one. Yet, in a purely Brandon fashion, he had attained the unthinkable.
His apology was unapologetic.
I smiled sardonically. This was what he had been doing for the last couple of weeks? Making me a grand gesture? Writing me an epic love story?
If you had told me that Brandon Cooper would so much as write me a poem, I would have laughed you out of the room. And now he had written me a whole book with all sorts of stories about us.
The first time I awed him.
The time I bequeathed myself to him.
The day of his first tattoo.
* * *
“Absolutely no hard liquor today,” Milo repeated for the hundredth time.
It was Labor Day, and per tradition, there was a barbecue at our home. It was family-friendly and the only event I was allowed to attend. Our neighbors were here along with school friends, family friends, a few of our relatives, and a bunch of Milo’s friends.
However, Milo’s friends were wild. He gave them a stern lecture to limit their intoxication. He had already done two sweeps of the house in search of drugs.
“And if I see anyone getting drunk near Mia, around her, or in—”
