Page 20 of Walkoff Wedding

Sighing, I drag my gaze back to the screen, which is open to OU’s student forum. Auggie’s right. I need to stop being a baby and just do it. I’ll meet up with him, and I’ll get my sketchbook back. Even if that means facing Jockboy.

The nagging voice in the back of my head quips, “Yeah, the guy that you fell for and then ghosted. Easy.”

Groaning, I drop my head onto my keyboard. It’s not my proudest moment, disappearing on him. But… It had to be done.

It was the right thing to do, even if it didn’t feel right at the time. A huge part of me regrets it, and another part of me has always wondered what would’ve happened if I’d actually met him at the gala that night.

I open the private message window and use my mouse to select the username I never imagined I would click again.

OrleansU11

ArtGirl: Can I have my sketchbook back now?

My stomach somersaults as I wait for a response. It’s late, so there’s a good chance that he won’t even see my message until tomorrow. I should just shut my computer down and try to get a good night’s sleep.

One where I don’t think about… Jockboy or about what a cluster my life is turning into.

Just as I’m about to minimize the screen, a message comes through.

OrleansU11: Tomorrow. 9 PM. Dyer Park.

chapter seven

Addie

My clammy hands are shaking by my sides as I walk along the sidewalk toward the park. Almost as badly as the nerves churning in the pit of my stomach or the wildly unpredictable rhythm of my heart, which is racing in my chest.

I can’t even believe I’m doing this right now.

Stopping abruptly with the thought of fleeing, I bring my paint-chipped nail to my mouth and chew anxiously on the tip.

Not only can I not believe I’m about to do this, but I can’t believe that the person who somehow ended up with my missing sketchbook and who put flyers up around the entire campus searching for me is… Jockboy.

I ask the same question I’ve asked no less than a hundred times since our last message.

How?

How did he end up with my sketchbook? And out of all people, him?

I have so many unanswered questions, and it’s not as if I can just get my sketchbook back and walk away and pretend it wasn’t him.

No, this is… complicated.

Beyond complicated.

He’s not a stranger, but yet, in many ways… he is.

What if he hates me for ghosting him? I wouldn’t blame him, regardless of my reasoning.

What if I don’t measure up to the girl he’s imagined all of this time in his head? Or worst of all, what if he’s indifferent to me? That he’s not interested in finding me to reconnect… he just felt an obligation to find the owner of the art.

I know it shouldn’t matter; it’s not like he’s meeting me because he’s interested in me. It’s just him returning something that belongs to me, but still, the nagging thought in my head won’t retreat.

It’s all I’ve thought of since last night.

I glance down at my rumpled linen skirt, smoothing my hands over the wrinkles in the fabric, second-guessing myself once more. I changed at least four times and finally settled on my favorite maxi skirt, pale pink with an array of red strawberries on it, and a white eyelet shirt paired with my favorite loafers and a deep brown cardigan. My stomach tightens with nerves, and I swallow roughly, trying to summon the courage to keep walking from somewhere inside of me, anywhere.

Except I come up empty, with only apprehension in the place of the courage I desperately need.

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