“Bus is at nine. We should probably be downstairs by eight forty-five to be safe.”
“Got it.” He’s already moving toward his suitcase, pulling out clothes. “That gives us forty minutes.”
I should start getting ready. Should do my makeup, fix my hair, make myself look like someone who has her life together.
Instead I’m sitting here holding my perfectly-made coffee and trying to figure out when exactly I stopped pretending to have feelings for Rodriguez and started actually having them.
My makeup bag is on the vanity by the window where I left it last night. I need to at least start foundation if I want to be ready on time. I open it and start pulling out what I need.
That’s when I notice it.
Another note, tucked between my foundation and concealer where I’d definitely see it first thing.
My hands aren’t quite steady when I unfold it.
You’re even more beautiful when you’re not trying. -R
He sees me. Not the perfect version I perform for everyone else, the one who smiles on cue and says the right things and never lets anyone see her struggling. Or even the skater who landed triple axels before her ankle gave out, or the straight-A student, or the responsible older sister.
He sees the version underneath all of that. The one who’s messy and uncertain and so tired of being perfect. The one who fake-smiles through family dinners and holds herself together by sheer force of will.
And he thinks that version, the real version, is more beautiful.
I fold the note carefully and tuck it into the side pocket of my makeup bag. Right next to yesterday’s note about my fake smiles. The one I told myself I’d throw away and then couldn’t. I’m definitely keeping these. All of them. However many he writes.
“You okay over there?”
I look up. Rodriguez is dressed now, watching me with that expression that means he knows something’s wrong but he’s not going to push.
“Yeah. Fine. Just caffeinating.”
“That’s not areal word.”
“It should be.”
He grins and goes back to his phone, and I start on my makeup with hands that are still slightly unsteady.
Two notes in two days. Both seeing straight through me. Both making me want things I’m not sure I’m ready to want.
The bus ride to Niagara Falls is as boring and slightly miserable as expected, two hours of Olivia’s voice carrying over everyone else’s, my dad dozing against the window, my mom asking Rodriguez a million questions about hockey and his family.
I end up pressed against Rodriguez’s side, his arm around my shoulders, half-listening to him charm my mother while I stare out the window at the highway rolling past. The bus hits a bump and I shift closer, and he adjusts his arm to pull me in tighter.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs against my hair when my mom finally turns to talk to someone else.
“Tired. Hungover.”
“Thinking too much?”
“Always.”
His thumb traces circles on my shoulder through my coat. “Stop thinking so much. Just be here.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one whose entire worldview is currently imploding because someone remembered how she takes her coffee.
The Behindthe Falls attraction is busy even in February. Tour groups crowd the entrance, everyone bundled in winter coats and scarves. The cold air bites at my face, my eyes immediately start to water.
Our tour guide explains the history as we descend 125 feet by elevator. The space is small, we’re all smooshed together, Rodriguez’s chest is against my back, his hands on my waist to steady me as the elevator lurches downward.
