Page 142 of Even Beneath the Stars

Your world is real and solid and yet you've never flinched once when it touches mine. You don't just notice the chaos of my world; you notice me standing in the middle of it. And you made me see myself through Finn; made me admit that if I can realize his world is one he needs protecting from – that it's ruthless enough to cause invisible scars – then maybe mine is too. That contrary to what the rest of the world believes, not all rich boys live fairy tales – some survive them.

And that's going to be Finn. Partly because he has me. But mainly because he has you.

And it'll be me, too. Partly because I have Finny. But mainly, because I have you.

I'm sorry I've been so slow getting to this point. Think I knew, when you kept sending those notes, that I wouldn't be able to resist you for long. But it's unsettling, realizing someone can see you at your worst and still think you’re worth their time. And it took me a while to wrap my brain around it – the fact that someone so sure of herself could love someone still figuring it out.

I'm ashamed I trusted my father's words for so long over yours. He's never said anything that's lead me anywheregood.

You have.

So, I'm going to try trusting you over him from now on. Take a step over to the other side of that line, even if I'm shaking like a leaf while I do it, because I can't deny there's still a part of me that's scared out of my scull that he's right. That maybe all I'll ever be is a disappointment.

But also, maybe, fuck him – maybe I'm gonna knock this one out of the park. Maybe I'm going to spend every single day making you wonder how the hell you ever survived without me. Because who wouldn'tlove a guy like me?

Wait - did I already say that? If so, it bears repeating : )

Anyway, I hope you like my first attempt at a miniature diorama (you never told me this arts and crafts shit ishard). It's the Observatory, in case you can't tell. And I pasted on miniature versions of as many of the notes I could fit that I've written to you since the night of that party. Because yeah, I wrote you notes too. But unlike you, I never had the balls to give them to you. Didn't have the balls until now to admit the only reason I've locked you out this whole time is because I'm scared shitless. But I'm gonna try trusting you more with these little pieces of me. Miniature pieces. Little by little. And if anyone could find the beauty in those small things, it's you. The girl who makes beautiful art out of tiny ruins.

I'm in NYC until Thursday, but when I get back, I'd really like a shot at a do-over of that third date I screwed up so badly (the puking my guts out in the hedges part of the date - not the romantic Observatory part of the date).

Meet me on Friday night when I get back? The usual spot. Beneath the stars.

Love,

X

Chapter Sixty-Three

Xavier

Ifind Denise in the laundry room, the familiar hum of industrial dryers filling the space. She's talking to Mariela, who's folding sheets at the long center table, her movements quick and precise.

"Hey," I say, brushing rain from my hoodie. "Back from New York. Just checking in, like you asked."

Denise looks up, her eyes warming. "Hi Hon, welcome back."

Mariela glances up, then quickly ducks her head. She's one of the staff members who always acts nervous around me. But I remember her son's meltdown last week, when she stopped in after running kitchen errands.

"Hey Mariela, did your son end up finding his stuffed monkey?"

Her face lights up. "Oh, yes, Mister Xavier. Leo found his monkey at the flower shop." She lets out a relieved laugh. "Thank the Lord."

I nod. "That's great."

"Don't go anywhere," Denise points at me. "We're just finishing up and I want to hear how your trip went."

I lean against the doorframe while Denise and Mariela wrap up their conversation about new drapes for my parents' wing that need altering. Mariela grabs a worn cardigan from a hook by the door, gives us a small wave, and heads out for the day.

Denise turns her full attention on me. "So? How was New York?"

"Good... Really good." I sidle up, then rest one hip against the long white counter, careful not to disturb my father's shirts hanging just above it. "Busy."

The air smells like lavender dryer sheets and warm cotton.

"And sleep?" She leans in, studying my face. Checking my eyes for dark circles probably.

"Enough." At her raised eyebrow, I add, "Most nights."

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