Page 54 of Loved By The Bad Boy

“Last year, Mom and Josef made me visit the school counselor.” This is one part of him I never knew. Why didn’t they try to talk to him if they suspected something was wrong? I don’t want to hate her since Ben doesn’t anymore, but I’m pissed. “I lasted only a semester with Ms. Ola, but she encouraged me to keep a journal or write letters to address the hurt. I chose to write letters.”

Dragging my knees to my chest, I ask, “Did you send them to her?”

“No. They were never supposed to be sent. They were just to express the hurt. Some of them were addressed to Mom. Some to Josef. I forgot one of them in the library, and someone replied.”

A ball of jealousy unfurls inside me. I’ll never say it out loud, but I wish I were the one who found his letter. “Who?”

“Maria.”

“My Maria?”

Ben chuckles. “Yes, your Maria. I didn’t know who it was at first, but we happened to be at the library at the same time, and she figured it out.” He bops my nose, and I force the frown off my lips. “It made sense. She talked about her best friend in her letters, and I figured it was you. I’ll admit I was a bit surprised when she said she had never been to a party. She’s so lively, Gracie.”

Parties are Maria’s thing. She’s the life of the party. She loves parties. I disengage from him, and he groans in protest. Sieving through his story, the pieces I ignored pop out to me. Noah’s story is similar. Three Musketeers. Pedophile stepsister from mom’s second marriage. Kid brother. Rich stepfather.

“What do you know about Noah’s family?” I ask.

“Babe, seriously? You’re asking about Noah right now?”

I draw a deformed circle on the floor. “Sorry. Do you still have the letters?”

“At home? Yes. I carry them everywhere I go. It’s my therapy. We had to stop the letters when someone shared it on BGC.” That… that wasn’t Maria. It was me. Noah is not Lett, or this is a huge coincidence. I march to my closet, and Ben tails behind me. “Gracie, what’s going on?”

Crossing my legs at the foot of my closet, I take out my shoebox filled with our letters. Mine and his. Ben hasn’t seen them yet. He’s too fixated on figuring me out. “Did Maria say anything about putting your letters in a shoebox?” Ben nods. “Did you call Asher AJ in your letters?” Another nod. My heart is beating too fast. “Um, did you ever wish for Tessa to choke on her smoothies?”

Ben crosses his arms, his brow arching so high it touches a loose strand of hair. “Babe, I love you, but how do you know that?” His tone is different, almost accusing. “Did Maria give you my letters?”

I tilt the shoebox, and the content pours out. I spread them on the floor. There are no dates for me to arrange them in order. We should have put dates. “No, I got letters too. I used to reply these.” I hold one of the crumpled letters to his face, and he frowns. “I thought they were from Noah.”

“Noah?” Ben laughs. “Why would you think that? That boy hates anything to do with writing.”

“He was at the library. I saw him there. Then I asked you later at your house, remember?” His brows knit. He is cute when confused. “You told me Noah has a stepsister and a kid brother.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Ben’s eyes widen. He finally pieces it together. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he recovers. “You have never been to a real party. I was your first kiss, and you liked it. Fuck, you liked me, Gracie. I told you to ask the guy out, but you didn’t. Chicken.”

“You’re the chicken for not asking me out earlier.” He taps my nose, and his body tilts forward as he claims my lips in a brief kiss. “You kissed a girl, and you regretted it later. Was it Olivia?”

“Yeah.”

Thoughts dance in my head. Ben runs his hand over his face, and I do the same. We exchanged many letters. My heart flutters again. I loved him before he officially became mine.

I push myself up on his lap. “I’m your letter girl, Benny.”

Ben smiles. “You’re my soulmate, Gracie.”

Twenty-Three

BEN

Sometimes,you don’t tell people when bad things happen to you, so no one offers you pitiful looks. Gracie keeps doing that. She’s so overprotective and watchful of me like she’s afraid I’ll break down any second.

I’m okay.

“Can you stop?” I grumble out. Gracie is on my bed pretending to read a novel, but the book is upside down, and she hasn’t realized that yet. The hand holding the book lowers. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like what?”

“How you’re staring at me,” I whisper.

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