If you love someone, don’t waste a day by not telling them.I’d been wrong to think the Major’s words were like an echo. They were more like a ghost dead-set on haunting me. The day had passed, those words hovering around me in a never-ending assault. I’d offered up my weak argument, the one I’d been telling myself for far too long now—Tate and I were just friends.
But there was a problem. Not even I believed that lie anymore. What I’d been too (okay, yes, fine, I’ll say it)afraidto admit to myself, I couldn’t ignore anymore.
I loved Tator Tot Woodby.
And I thought maybe there might be a chance that he had feelings for me too.
Maybe.
Possibly.
Did he?
I groaned as I set down the bag of Peanut M&M’s. My second package of the night. Talk about stress eating.
What was I going to do? The way I saw it, I only had two options. I could go on pretending like nothing was different, but then I’d only be kidding myself, and I didn’t think there were enough M&M’s on the planet if I had to make believe we werejust friendsand watch from the sidelines as he fell in love with another woman. The other option…
My belly sank like a stone.
I could talk to him. Which may not sound like a big deal to normal people, but I think my behavior the night before—my shut-down, fetal position, zombie-like state—was proof enough that I was not normal. A simple conversation about feelings would never besimplefor me.
But if I sat around and did nothing, then the best thing that ever happened to me might slip though my fingers. With Tate’s talent, he was going places, and even if I felt like being with him would be a noose around his neck weighing him down, I was selfish enough to want to be that noose.
Oh, good gravy! I slapped my forehead. After all the books I’d read, a noose was really the best analogy I could come up with? I was hopeless. Hopeless, but desperately full of hope at the same time. Like I’d always been, I wanted to be by his side, cheering him on…I just didn’t want to do it as simply a friend anymore.
Which brought me back to the point—I had to talk to him. But how? Face to face and I was bound to clam up. Words as hard to get out as convicts from Alcatraz.
I leaned my head back and stared up at the ceiling. The door downstairs closed, and muffled voices permeated the walls. I sat up, an idea forming. There were drawbacks to living in an old Victorian home that had been sectioned off and converted to apartments after World War II, when housing options for returning veterans were an issue. Especially one that hadn’t seen a day of renovation since the 1940s, other than the addition of fire escapes. It made it so when the baby downstairs cried all night, she kept everyone in the building awake. There wasn’t much privacy, since if you talked even slightly above a regular register, your neighbors could hear you.
But could I take this old home and use it for my benefit? I retreated to the small pantry in the kitchen, excitement building and spreading through my limbs. Grabbing the small ladder leaning at an angle against the back wall, I pulled it out, then propped it open. Eyes up, I scooted the ladder until it was directly under the vent in the ceiling. The same vent that connected to the floor of Tate’s apartment.
I remembered when I was young, probably twelve or thirteen, reading this book about siblings in foster care. Their bedrooms were side by side, and when their foster parents would send them to their rooms as punishment for their mischievous behavior, they’d pass notes to each other through a dead register in their adjoining wall.
I couldn’t talk to Tate face to face, and an email seemed wrong—texting not much better. There was something romantic about handwritten letters though, right? Right?
It was what I was going to tell myself even if no one would agree with me.
I went to the side table by my bed, opened the drawer, and took out a pile of stationary. One of the few things I collected, I had a rather large stack to choose from. I wanted something simple, not too girly. The border of rosebuds was out. So was the teddy bear holding a heart.
I stopped flipping through the pages when my fingers hit a rougher, more natural paper. It was unadorned, but the texture made it seem old. Vintage. Something my grandparents might have used to write love letters to each other. Perfect. Shoving the discarded options back into the drawer, I used my hip to press it closed and walked back into the living room, paper and pencil in hand.
What to write? Where to start? How did one go about telling her best friend that she’d fallen in love with him? I sighed and stared at the paper. Adjusted my grip on the pen. Maybe Landon was on to something when he’d brought upEmma. Any chance Tate would be familiar with the classic? Only one way to find out.
Bending over, I pressed pen to paper and took my time making my natural sloppy handwriting look neat.
Are you familiar with Austen?
It was a start. Not a straight-out declaration of love, but wouldn’t sending a note through the floors with only those three life-changing words be a bit of a sucker punch out of nowhere? This was more of a gentle path to a cliff. One I’d either jump off alone or with Tate by my side.
I folded the note down the middle and mounted the steps of the ladder until I could reach the vent in the ceiling. Fortunately, his register slits were open and the paper slid right through. I waited for the sound of footsteps over my head, but all was silent. He was there. I’d heard him a minute ago. Closing one eye, I peered through the slits and into his apartment but couldn’t make out anything besides his ceiling, the wall, and the window that faced Puget Sound.
Climbing off the ladder, I picked up my phone from the coffee table and sent Tate a text.
Emory:Check your floor by the window.
Tate:?
Emory:Just do it.
