Page 19 of Walkoff Wedding

It seems like a lifetime ago, even though it’s been only nine months.

Not that I was keeping track or anything.

Bold serif numbers stare back at me from the bottom of the paper, and I find myself hesitating, even as I pull my phone out of the pocket of my cardigan.

There’s no way… that Jockboy found my sketchbook. No, there’s just no way.

How did he get it? Was he at that party?

That would be a serendipitous twist of fate, one that I’m not sure if even I believe is possible.

My fingers hover over the screen, talking myself out of messaging it because I know logically, there is just no way.

But…

Could it be?

I quickly type in his number with a simple, to-the-point message.

I want my sketchbook back.

Then, because it sounded just a tad bit rude, I add:

Please.

Standing from my chair, I shove the flyer into the side pocket of my backpack and lock my phone before putting it back into my pocket.

I’m sure that whoever this is, this must simply be a… coincidence… about the names. Well, besides that my sketchbook is, in fact, missing. But the paper doesn’t specify what it is he’s found anyway.

It could be anything. A sweater, a backpack, jewelry.

I make it halfway down the hallway before my phone vibrates in my pocket with a notification, and I hastily pull it out.

How do I know it’s really you?

My brow pulls tight as I quickly respond,

So, you do have my sketchbook?

I cannot confirm nor deny the object I have in my possession. If it’s really you, then you know where to find me.

He’s talking about the forum. He has to be—nothing else would make sense.

Holy crap. It really is him. Jockboy has my sketchbook.

I spend the rest of the day attempting to focus on my classes so I don’t fall behind and desperately trying not to think about the fact that he’s in possession of the most personal item that I own. My sketchbook is… a piece of me. Literally and figuratively. Like a diary of sorts. A place where I’ve bled my deepest, darkest secrets onto the pages through my art.

I can’t just not attempt to get it back.

Later that night, as I sit in front of the glowing computer screen at my desk, chewing my lip anxiously, I glance over at Auggie, who’s perched on his bed next to me, staring back with those judgy eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.

His ears perk up as if he understands what I’m saying, popping into sharp little points that are entirely too cute.

“Would it really be so bad if I didn’t get it back? I could just start fresh…” I mutter.

Of course, he doesn’t answer back, instead cocking his head as if to say, “Just do it, you big weenie.”

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