Love, Creekwood (Simonverse #3.5)(10)
God, I don’t even know how they do it. I can barely handle your bed being across the room.
Okay, class is ending in a second, so I’m rereading this really quickly before I send it, and hmmmmm I feel like it’s missing some critical love letter elements. Maybe more four-letter L words would help? Just a thought!!
xoxo,
Abby
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: NOV 5 AT 2:11 PM
SUBJECT: RE: HELLO, I’M A GENIUS
Okay, Suso, I’m trying out your methods in Intro to English Lit (but if you think I’m not still titling my doc “Anal GC,” you don’t even know me). Anyway, so far, so good! Question, though: Are we trying to learn any of the actual course material here, or nah?
Well, Abigail, I’ve reviewed your proposal, and I have no objections (other than the fact that I’m clearly setting an unfortunate precedent of being easily persuaded by multipoint lists). (God, you’re going to ask me to marry you one day with a numbered fucking email list, aren’t you?) But even I have to admit that points two and three are very persuasive. Pottery Barn, though. You know you’re emailing me, right? Leah Burke? Not, like, Simon’s mom?
Moving on to your most important question: Are you the only one who remembers Simon and Bram at Netherworld? You mean the time they both got so scared they had to be escorted, crying, out the emergency exit? I bet Simon’s going to be a real treat on that ghost tour!
So, I knew about Kellan being gay. I’m thrilled to hear he’s not “into clowns.” (God, I’d fucking love to know how that conversation went down.) I’m really happy for Simon. And jealous, of course, because I’m a territorial asshole. But I know he deserves a gay guy best friend, too, especially one who isn’t a train ride away. I do worry about him. He’s been kind of a mess since August, hasn’t he? Garrett says Bram’s okay—he’s just kind of distracted and glued to his phone a lot. I’m sure it’s fine if we text him. The whole thing’s just a bummer. I sort of wonder if one of them should just transfer or something. Though, Simon definitely seems more upbeat this week, so maybe I’m just being dramatic. But yeah—I don’t know how they do it either. I’d have a very hard time being that far away from you.
God, I keep going back to what you said about us and physical contact. Not going to lie, Suso, that hit me like a brick to the face. You’re not wrong. I just didn’t really think about it until you said it. I guess it’s automatic at this point. I see your hand, and I have to hold it. Your mouth exists, so I have to kiss it.
You know you terrify me, right?
Sincerely,
LCB
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
DATE: NOV 16 AT 10:02 AM
SUBJECT: THE EDGE OF NINETEEN
Dear Jacques,
Well, it’s the last day of your first year of adulthood (soon to be the first day of the last year of your teens—is your head spinning yet?). I can’t believe how long I’ve known you. I can’t believe how recently I met you. My brain keeps scrolling back through all our Novembers, and I don’t know how you do it, Simon, but you make memories feel like time travel. Everything uploads in high-definition when it comes to you.
Remember last year? Homecoming, when we didn’t dance. And Nick’s cabin afterward, when we didn’t sleep. Or November of junior year, when I told my secret email boyfriend I imagine him fantasizing about sex. (Do I remember? Simon. You know I basically stopped breathing until you replied, right?) Or sophomore year, when Ms. Warshauer announced a pop quiz about Chaucer. You told her she was the cause by which you die, and she laughed so hard she had to leave the room for ten minutes.
And then there was ninth grade. Simon, you want to know what I was doing four years ago today? I was stumbling headfirst into the biggest, most all-consuming crush of my fourteen-year-old life. We had biology first period, Ms. Hensel’s class, and we were partnered together for the hereditary lab. Do you remember that? It was that truly batshit assignment where we had to flip coins to determine the genotype of our fictional baby. It was the first time we’d ever talked, though I was mostly trying not to openly gape at you.
I remember just how it felt. My rabbit heartbeat, my whirlpool stomach, the way my brain fogged over every time your mouth moved. Of course, I’d noticed you before then. Scrawny freshman Simon Spier, with your moppy hair and thick glasses. You always looked really startled and pleased when anyone talked to you, which was so strange and endearing (Simon, everyone wanted to talk to you. I don’t think you’ve ever understood your own gravitational pull).
So there I was, making a baby with this unbearably cute boy (who had all these very strong opinions about coin toss terminology: “How is that a tail, Bram? How? It’s the freaking front of the eagle!”). I’ll never forget when we had to translate all those genotypes into phenotypes. Our giant-nostriled disaster baby. And, Simon, you loved him. You loved every recessive sprout of hair on his ears. You held my illustration up next to your face, beaming, and it was game over for me, Spier. You’ve had my heart ever since.
I really wish I could be there tomorrow. I know we’ll both be home in five days, but it just sucks. Every moment we miss is so dumbfoundingly hard. And these four stupid years feel like forever. But I plan to be in love with you for so long, Simon Spier. We’ll make those four years feel like nothing. Not a blip.