Page 37 of You, with a View

There’s a sudden wall of heat behind me, the scent of Theo, his breath on my neck as we read together.

May 10, 1957

Good evening, my love,

Do you think I’m silly, writing this letter while you’re in the room with me? I have so many ideas and I want to write them down.

Now that we’ve decided to elope, here’s what we’ll do: get married as soon as the year is over and then go on our honeymoon road trip. Should we get a map today? I’ll show you all the places that sound most exciting, and you can tell me if I’m right or wrong (we both know I’ll be right).

I’m dreaming about the beautiful photographs you’ll take. Ones we can hang in our home when we get back to LA. Maybe I’ll take some pictures of you—I’ll steal your camera when we leave the courthouse. The whole trip will be crooked landscapes and close-ups of your face.

You always call my face precious, but it’s yours that makes me happy. I am happy, even if it’s not the wedding I thought I’d have. I believe you when you tell me it will be okay. Just keep saying it so I don’t forget.

Yours forever,

Kat

By the time I finish, the words are dancing on the page. It’s bittersweet to be doing this in her place. Her hope was so palpable here. What took it away?

“Well.” I sniff, keeping my eyes pinned to the paper so neither of them can see my emotion, which is silly. My voice is threaded with it. “Good news: I’ll be fulfilling the role of crooked landscape photographer.”

“I doubt that,” Paul says gently.

I hand him back the letter, averting my gaze from Theo. He hasn’t said a word. Does he think I’m ridiculous? Or is it poignant for him, too?

When I chance a look at him, his gaze is penetrating, but not judgmental. Maybe it’s in accordance with our truce; I don’t know.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m going to use the restroom real quick.”

I escape to do my business, patting at my face with forty-ply toilet paper in the mirror after I’ve washed my hands. With a stern, silent look at mirror-me to get ahold of ourselves, I let out a breath. It starts shaky, but ends steadier.

I can do this. Iwantthis. Most importantly, I need it.

The bathroom feeds into the kitchen, and as I step into it, there’s a rustling in the foyer. Fearing it’s Theo, I slow, running my hand along the counter.

The footsteps recede quickly, so I pick up my pace. My fingers brush against something, then snag on its weight. It takes me five full seconds to recognize what I’m looking at, but when it sinks in, my heart skips a beat.

Our senior yearbook. I look over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone, though this isn’t my secret to get caught with, then pull the book closer.

It flips to a page bookmarked with articles from our highschool paper, as well as one from Glenlake’s. They’re tennis articles about Theo.

But also about me.

My heart beats fast. I shuffle through the slightly smudged paper, my eyes scanning the profile our paper did on me, and the one they did on Theo weeks later. I counted the words in each of our articles and was pissed to discover his had one hundred more.

Why did he keep this? And why is it out now?

The pleasure that pours through my veins like a serotonin jet stream isn’t just uncomfortable, it’s concerning. It’s bad enough that I’m curious about him. I can’t think about the possibility that he might be curious right back. Mutual attraction? Fine. But mutual interest? That can only end in disaster.

This trip isn’t about Theo and me. It’s about Gram. It’s aboutme. I have to squash this feeling.

I slam the book shut and put it back. I never touched it. Never saw it.

I’m absolutely going to forget it.

I don’t forget it.

Not when Paul insists he prefers the backseat, leaving me in front with Theo. Not when I find out Theo’s programmed his phone to the van’s Bluetooth, like a dog peeing on a tree. Nor when he reminds me as I’m covertly pushing buttons in an attempt to disconnect his phone, that we agreed to a truce and sabotaging his music isn’t very truce-like. Not even when we have to listen to his old, moody ‘90s playlist full of songs I either loathe or don’t know for the three-hour drive.

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