Page 120 of And They Were Roommates

“Have fun,” Mom says. “Oh, and Charlie, last thing: Despite my rockier memories of Valentine, I made many more beautiful ones. Make a whole bunch this year for me.”

I check my watch as I reach the Dixon Writing Gazebo. Five minutes past twelve. He should be in there, but vine trellises block me from seeing inside.

Nerves throw a rave in my chest as I stand there, unable to move. Jasper and I are really about to spend the whole afternoon alone.

I’m really about to try to write him a love letter.

That’s what I’ve decided. It only seems fair, especially after he’s written so many about me. But I’ll need to be honest about everything I’ve shoved down for years. Even with Jasper by my side, I’m still not sure if I know how.

My heart pounds as I finally walk up. The archway comes into view. Then the benches. Then Jasper, scribbling in his journal. The heat lamps are set so high that his peacoat is balled up on the wood planks. He wears a loose dress shirt—no number-one pin on the collar—with only my scarf to keep him warm despite being surrounded by snow.

Heshowed up.

Relief floods me as I knock against a wood pillar. “Can I come in?”

Jasper’s head lifts, blond hair whisping across his cheeks. His gaze zaps around the bushes and lakefront like a lost first year. “What time is it?”

“Can’t you always tell from where the sun is?” I point toward the sky.

He flicks his pen in the same direction, his bracelet jingling against his wrist. “The finicky heavens decided to be overcast today. So, no, I cannot see the sun.”

“About noon.”

“Already?”

I step into the gazebo, only to then embarrassingly hover around his bench. Sitting too close is too pushy. Too far away is too awkward. I opt for about a foot’s length, set my backpack on the floor, and take out my notebook.

Jasper’s pen was moving when I got here, but now the notebook on his lap is blank. He must’ve flipped the page. He looks at me. “You said you wanted to write?”

Thatiswhat we came here for. “I suppose.”

“Okay.” He picks up his pen and dates the top left of his paper in silence. He still doesn’t pry about why I’ve requested this time together, but from the way he’s gripping his pen like a lifeline, I can only imagine the number of questions in his mind.

I stare down at my notebook. To write this love letter, I’ll need to create the words myself. There won’t be an answer I can carve out like blackout poetry.

But this may be the last opportunity Jasper will ever give me.

Placing my pencil to the paper, I inhale, exhale, and write. For the first time, I try to release every ounce of honesty Jasper taught me, every emotion Mr. Stern claimed would bring my work to the next level. I don’t second-guess a word despite mybrain warning me that I’m too vulnerable, too weak, too illogical. I write everything about romance that I hate. Or, maybe, used to hate.

The church bell towers chime in unison.

I look up. Already?

“Was that the last lunchtime bell?” I ask him.

“Guess we should go,” Jasper says, casually filing his red ribbon bookmark into his journal as if what he said is no big deal. But a heavy disappointment weighs down his words. He expected me to do something. And he didn’t get it.

I’ve broken his heart again.

I reread the words on my paper. How can I possibly recite this love letter to a famous poet like Jasper Grimes?

Jasper is standing now, his cross-body bag slung over a shoulder.

I grip his blazer cuff. “Wait a sec.”

“What’s wrong? You look ill.”

I rip the letter out and smooth the frayed edges. My hands are shaking so much that I can barely make out my own writing.

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