Tabitha: So in the end, Mom and Dad were really supportive…

Calvin: I can’t believe for a second you thought they wouldn’t be.

Tabitha: I know, but you have to understand, I was really embarrassed.

Calvin: Why? It’s not like any of us are going to read it.

Tabitha: YOU JERK! Greyson’s gonna read it. COLLIN read it!

Calvin: But Collin only read it because he has a boner for you. That’s totally different. No dude reads a romance novel unless he really likes a girl. Or wants to bang her. Just saying.

Tabitha: You’re revolting.

Greyson: He’s right about one thing, Tab. Collin genuinely likes you. Would you please put my brother out of his misery and call him. Or text him? He feels terrible.

Tabitha: God, I love these Group Chats [heavy on the sarcasm]

Greyson: Do what you want, but keep this in mind—it was an honest mistake. He cares about you, so much. He’s a great guy, Tabby. Don’t let your PRIDE get in the way of a great relationship.

Calvin : You and your damn Keller pride.

Greyson: ^^^^ Hey, smart-ass. I seem to remember you flipping out over a certain tweet before we started dating. You refused to talk to me for days #sexybeast

Calvin: Oh yeah, I totally forgot about that. Thanks for reminding me. Not.

Greyson: Aww, baby, but that’s when I fell in love with you.

Calvin: I can’t wait until tomorrow when I get to kiss those sexy lips of yours.

Greyson: YOUR lips are sexy. Rawr

Calvin: I love you

Greyson: I love YOU

Tabitha: HELLO! GROUP CHAT! Stop. Do NOT start sexting. OMG. How the hell do I take myself out of here? SOMEONE HELP ME. bangs on glass

I’ve been waiting close to two hours at a table in the far corner, waiting to see if she’ll walk through that front door. Tuesday and Wednesday she was a no-show, and yesterday I arrived a second too late, only to catch the taillights of her car pulling away.

But still, I wait.

Like clockwork for the past four days, hoping luck will be on my side.

The lukewarm mug on my table stopped steaming over an hour ago, the soy congealing at the bottom. I stir it to keep my hands occupied, but don’t take a sip.

As fidgety and anxious as a crack whore, I tap the spoon on the saucer until a young woman at a nearby table brings a finger to her lips to shush me, shooting me a dirty look in the process.

Noted.

My legs bounces beneath the table restlessly.

Dammit, where is she?

Digging into the interior pocket of my jacket, I pull out the envelope tucked inside and smooth the wrinkles out with my palm, using the surface of the flat tabletop. I look up when the coffee shop door opens with a whoosh, a small cluster of leaves blowing in along with the brisk wind.

Holy shit, it’s her.

She’s here.

I fucking swear my heart skips a beat at the sight of her. It’s only been a few days, but man, she’s a sight for these hungry eyes.

I stand, moving towards her, and then double back because, shit, I forgot my envelope. It gets stuffed into the back pocket of my jeans before I call her name.

“Tabitha.”

She places her bag at a table near a bank of windows and stills at the sound of my voice, her movements halted. Turning, just like in the movies—or a romance novel—her eyes widen at the sight of me. And she looks how I feel: tired. Weary. Desperate to stop the instant replay of what happened between us over and over in my mind and just wanting… something. Anything.

A resolution. A conversation.

Closure.

That’s a damn lie; I don’t want closure—I want her.

“Collin.” Why doesn’t she look surprised to see me?

“Hey,” I say, approaching. My eyes drop to her laptop bag, and I cautiously let my lips curl into a tentative smile. “What are you working on?”

She bites down on her lower lip, amused by the déjà vu. “Work stuff.”

I can’t get enough of this beautiful girl and her laidback sense of humor. Thank God she hasn’t told me to fuck off.

Yet.

Relief sags my shoulders.

“What kind of work stuff?” I raise my hands and do air quotes, because I know she hates when people do that. I’m rewarded with a cheeky grin for my efforts.

Her hand goes to her hip. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Just curious, that’s all.”

“Remember what happened the last time you were curious?” she asks, leaning against the large, overstuffed chair next to her table.

“Yeah. But I’m willing to take my chances.” I pull the envelope out of my back pocket and extend it towards her. “This is for you. Could—would you read it? Please.”

“Now?” She glances down at it, then at my face, studying it a few moments before reaching out to take the envelope. Our fingers meet when she does, and I’d like to think it was intentional on her part. Or maybe I’m delusional.

She shivers.

Nope. Not delusional.

My pulse quickens when she pulls out her chair and sits.

Awkwardly, I stand there, not sure…

“Would you sit down?” she demands. “You’re making me nervous.”

I sit, watching intently as she breaks the seal on the envelope, removes the thick cream paper from inside, unfolds it, and begins to read.

No man has ever written me a love letter before—not unless you count the time in seventh grade when Tim Bachman passed me a note in class describing how he wanted to feel my boobs. Did I want him touching me under my sweater after the soccer game? Yes or No. (Firm no on that one, by the way).

Unfolding a piece of cream stationary paper that looks like it’s been read and refolded a few dozen times, my breath catches in my throat, because there in black ink and masculine script is a handwritten letter.

I bend my head and read.

Dear Tabitha,

I’ve never written a woman a letter before—not unless you count the time in eighth grade when I asked Melissa Spellman if she’d make out with me under the bleachers after the football game. She said no, by the way, so I guess we can’t count that. So please, bear with me…

I don’t know where to start, except to say that you’re all I can think about, from the minute my eyes open in the morning—until I climb into bed at night. I would say I think about you when I close my eyes to sleep, but the truth is, I lie awake most nights staring up at the ceiling, trying to picture your face and remember the sound of your voice. Is that weird?

The other day When we argued and you walked out that door, it went against every one of my instincts not to chase you down. I panicked. I thought you were walking out of my life before our relationship had a real chance, and it scared the shit out of me. I can’t say I’m sorry for what I said because you shouldn’t have to hide how incredible . You know how I feel about you; I haven’t played any head games and it kills me that people don’t fucking know you’ve created something incredible. On your own, standing on your talent. Maybe to you it doesn’t feel big. Maybe to you it doesn’t feel remarkable.