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“Hi,” she said, awkwardly fiddling with the strap of her bag.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” I think Trent threw his hand out, but I couldn’t be sure; I was too busy locking eyes with Chloe. “I’m Trent,” he said.
“Hi, Trent,” she replied, but she didn’t break our stare.
“O . . . kay . . .” He backed away slowly, leaving us alone. Alone—in our own little world—where it was just she and I and nothing else mattered.
“Hi,” I said again.
Her smile widened.
“You’re talking to me at school?”
She nodded. “Do you have plans for lunch?”
I slammed my locker shut and answered, “Yes.”
“Oh.” She finally broke our stare and dropped her gaze.
I threw my arm around her shoulders, leading her away from the lockers and down the hallway. “With you, you silly fire-truck head.”
She stopped in her tracks. “Did you just call me a silly fuckhead?”
I laughed. “I guess I did.”
“Fire truck you,” she said as I opened the door that led to the school parking lot.
“Where to?”
“I’ll drive.”
If she saw the kids at school gawking at us, she didn’t mention it. She drove with the top down, sunglasses on, and a smile on her face. She pulled into the abandoned basketball court that we’d gone to the night she’d ended up at the police station.
Her hand brake squealed when she pulled at it. Grimacing, she noted, “I need to get that checked before I leave.”
My heart clenched. Sometimes, I forgot that she was leaving. So I told her that.
“I actually wanted to talk to you about The Road,” she said.
“About the fact that you’re not going to leave?” I knew I was grasping at straws.
“No. About what we—you and I—do in the meantime. While I’m here.”
“Okay?”
“I have a proposition.”
My eyes lit up, and a smirk took over. “I like the sound of that.”
Her brows drew in. “Are you being a pig?”
“Yes.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes dramatically. This was the best version of her. The version that acted her age and wasn’t carrying the weight of her future around. Then she looked at me and turned serious. “We only have nine weeks, Blake.”
“I know this,” I said, my tone matching hers.
“So will you be my friend? For nine weeks? And after that, I’m gone. I’m leaving, and I don’t want you to think you might change that, because you won’t.”
Friends.
Nine weeks.
Her words replayed in my head. Nine weeks wasn’t long enough. Surely, even if she was gone, we could still talk. Phone, emails, letters. “But—”
“Nine weeks, Blake.” Her gaze dropped. “That’s all I can offer you.”
“I’ll take it. I’ll take anything you give me.”
Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to mine. She kissed me once. Softly. But it was enough to cause my heart to beat faster. She started to pull back. I panicked and lifted my hand to her head to keep her there. She smiled against my lips, but I refused to open my eyes. I refused to let go of this moment. “Are we friends that kiss?”
She giggled, her mouth still on mine.
I took her bottom lip and sucked lightly. “So what is this, then?”
“A thank-you for your letter.”
I opened my mouth wider, trying to deepen the kiss. “I’ll write you a thousand fucking letters.”
She chuckled into my mouth, but my tongue sweeping against her lip made her instantly stop. “You don’t need to write more,” she whispered, and then pulled away.
I allowed it this time.
She sat back in her seat and looked through the windshield. “That one letter said enough.”
I sat back, too . . . and tried to hide my hard-on.
Seconds of silence passed.
“I’ve never made a shot from the three-score line.”
“The what?” I laughed.
She turned to me with a confused look on her face. “The three-score line. You know . . .” She motioned to the faded lines on the half-court. “That semicircle line. I brought a ball from home so you could teach me.” She reached in the backseat and produced a basketball. “Teach me?” She pouted.
Christ, she was beautiful.
Beyond beautiful.
I stared at her for a moment, taking in every single detail of her face. Then I let my body relax and my mind wrap around the idea that I had her for nine weeks. Nine amazing weeks of Chloe.
“Shit,” I joked as I took the ball from her hands and got out of the car. “I can’t believe I have to put up with you for another nine weeks. This is gonna be hell.”
“Fire truck off.”
Chloe
Even though I’d told Blake that he didn’t need to write any more letters, every morning I’d open my locker, and there’d be a note. White paper. Red ink. Always red ink. Some were funny. Some were sweet. Some were a little dirty. I kept them all, locked away in a box that I’d be sure to take with me when I left. They were mine. Forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Chloe
Ever since the day I’d taken him to the half-court and told him that we could be friends until graduation, we’d spent basically every second together. He picked me up for school, and we went to work together or just hung out afterwards.
