Page 107 of Nineteen Letters
“I’m heading home,” Lucas says, popping his head into my office.
I look up, meeting his gaze. “I’m not far off leaving as well. I just want to finish this letter to Jemma.”
He gives me a thoughtful smile. “How are you two going?”
“We’re going okay.” I feel myself grinning as I say that.
“I’m glad,” he replies, pushing off the doorframe. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night, buddy.”
I pull up the calendar for the year 2006 on my laptop, so I can find the exact dates I’ll need for my next letter.
Letter thirteen…
Dearest Jemma,
The first of December 2006. We’d kept our relationship a secret for an entire week, but we were making out every chance we got. We couldn’t keep ourhands or mouths off each other, and it was only a matter of time before we got caught. Looking back on that day now, I’m thankful it was your mum who busted us, and not your father.
It was a Friday. I’d been waiting all day for you to get home. I was sitting on my front veranda when I noticed you coming down the street, and I ran to meet you halfway. I wanted to kiss you so badly, but I couldn’t risk any of the neighbours seeing us.
As we approached your place, you grabbed my hand and pulled me down the side of your house, behind the bins.
I pushed you up against the wall, crashing my lips into yours. My actions were that of a desperate man. We hadn’t taken our relationship any further than kissing, but my torch seemed to be a constant fixture in my pocket. We were both more than ready to take the next step, but we still lived with our parents, so it was impossible. And there was no way I was going to let our first time be in the back seat of your car.
I’d taken a part-time job mowing lawns, without your knowledge. I was trying to earn enough money to take you away somewhere nice, and I wanted it to be a surprise. I scheduled my clients during school hours, and I planned tospend the holidays working while you did your shifts at the ice-cream parlour.
My hand slid underneath your top as our kisses became hot and heavy.
“Oh, my god! What the hell are you two doing?” we heard your mother screech.
I instantly pulled away from you, but it was too late: we’d been sprung. I still remember the look on your mother’s face. She was as white as a ghost, her eyes wide with shock, and her mouth was gaping open.
“Let me explain, Mum,” you said, taking a few steps in her direction.
You stood before her but said nothing. I’m not sure if you were thinking of an excuse, but unless you were going to tell her you’d been choking and I was using my tongue to dislodge the food stuck in the back of your throat, then the truth was the best way to go.
“I’m waiting,” she replied, tapping her foot impatiently on the concrete.
You still couldn’t seem to find the words, so I stepped forward. “Jemma is my girlfriend,” I said. “She has been for a week now. We both realised that our feelings for each other ran far deeper than friendship. I’m sorry we kept this from you, but we had planned on telling you, MrsRobinson. We just wanted to get used to the idea of being a couple before sharing our news with the rest of the world.”
“I see.” She paused briefly as her eyes moved back and forth between us. “Well, I suppose I knew this would happen sooner or later. You’re just lucky it was me who caught you, and not my husband. I suggest you both tell him your news tonight when he gets home from work. If he walks in on what I just did, it will not end well.”
With that, she turned and walked back into the house.
“Shit,” you said as soon as she was out of sight. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag.”
“I guess it is. I’m not looking forward to telling your dad, though.”
“Why? He loves you.”
“I’m just not,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. You were his little girl, and he was very protective of you.
“He’ll be fine.” You slid your arms around my waist and gave me a devious smile. “Now, where were we?”
I was no longer in the mood. “No more kissing until we’ve spoken to your dad.”
You lifted my arm, looking down at the watch on my wrist. “That’s over two hours away,” you whined, pouting. “I’m not sure if I can survive that long.”
