He smiles gently, opening his door and taking my shoes. “A story for a different day. But it didn’t have anything to do with you,” he assures.
“Your dad said you were fine.” I climb out of the truck and walk around, following him into the house.
“My dad doesn’t air dirty laundry. Did you tell him who you were?”
“Would he know me?”
“Of course,” he replies, entering what looks like a laundry room and tossing my shoes into the washer. “He’s seen your letters coming in for years.”
Yes, of course. If I’d told him, maybe I would’ve been invited into the house and seen a picture of Misha. And then I would’ve found out even sooner who he really was.
Misha comes over to me and pulls up the hem of my shirt, but I lock my arms down, looking at him.
“No one’s home,” he reassures me. “Let’s get your clothes in the wash. You can take a shower, and I’ll find you something to wear.”
It only takes me a moment to consider. I don’t feel like I need to leave anytime soon, and the stickiness is still all over me, despite Misha’s efforts to clean me up.
I nod and pull off clothes, handing him everything, one by one. He puts my shorts, shirt, and underthings in the washer, adding soap and starting it, and then hands me a T-shirt from the dryer.
Pulling it on, I let him take my hand and lead me into the rest of the house.
We walk through a large living room, and I look around, gaping. “Oh, geez,” I mumble.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
It’s hilarious, really. He hangs out with the worst of the worst at school, looks like a delinquent, and everyone—including Lyla, Trey, and even me once—assumed he was a poor foster kid or nothing but a thug.
If Lyla discovers he lives in a house bigger than hers and mine put together and has a Gauguin hanging on the wall, she’ll be the first one kissing his ass.
The house is dark, but even still I can tell it’s stunning. There’s wood shining everywhere, fancy art and knickknacks decorating the place, and I smell the rich scent of polish. What did Misha say his dad did in his letters? He’s an antiques dealer?
And if he’s the child of a senator, then he has to be well-set.
“Do you like peanut butter and jelly?” he asks, taking me up the stairs. “It’s the only thing I make that I don’t burn.”
“It’s fine.”
He leads me into a spacious bathroom, very dark and very male, and opens the glass door, turning on the shower for me.
“Take your time.” He plants a kiss on my forehead and takes a towel off the shelf, setting it on the counter for me. “I’ll go make us some sandwiches.”
I stare at him as he leaves, and despite the height and muscle of a man, I’m finally seeing him as the kid I envisioned so many years ago who I became so attached to and loved. The one I pictured as kind and gentle and caring.
After my shower, I dry off and pull the T-shirt back on, finding a brush on the counter and tugging it through my ratty hair. Thankfully, Lyla’s assault missed my head, so I didn’t have to wash my hair.
Walking into the hallway, I hear the soft hum of music coming from down the hall, and I step quietly, following it—but carefully, in case it’s his dad.
I find Misha in his room. He’s walking around, picking up a few clothes, and on the bed sits plates with PB&J sandwiches and sprigs of grapes, with juice boxes sitting next to them.
I hold in my laugh. I don’t think I’ve had that lunch since fifth grade.
P!nk plays at low volume, and I feel my chest warm at the gesture. He knows I like her, too.
But then I gaze around his room and see four office boxes, complete with lids, stacked on top of each other up against the wall.
I walk over. “What’s this?” I ask, lifting the lid.
“Oh, uh…”
But I widened my eyes, taken aback, and drop the lid on the floor.
The box is filled with black envelopes. With silver writing.
“Oh, my God.” I reach in and fan the envelopes, seeing my writing on every single one.
He kept them.
He kept them?
I don’t know why, but I guess I never thought he actually saved them. Why would he? Thinking back, I can’t even remember what they said. Couldn’t have been too interesting if I can’t recall.
The other three boxes are probably filled with letters, too.
“I can’t believe I wrote you this much,” I say, a little horrified. “You must’ve been so bored with me.”
“I adored you.”
I look up, seeing him stare at the floor. An ache weaves its way through my chest.
“I adore you,” he corrects himself. “I’ve read them all at least twice. My favorites, a lot more than that.”
His favorites. And then I recall. The letters I’d found at the Cove. When he stayed there—away from home—he took those with him. The rest stayed here.
I feel guilty now. “They’re in my desk,” I confess. “I lied. I didn’t burn them.”
He gives me a little nod. “Yeah, I hoped so. I have mine, too, that you threw all over the place at the Cove. In case you want them back.”
I give him a small smile, grateful. Yes, I do want them back.
I replace the lid, kind of curious to open a few letters and relive all the embarrassing things I shared with him over the years. Kissing with tongue the first time, the music I suggested that I thought was so epic but realize now it was kind of lame, and all the arguments we got into.