P.S. I Like You(65)

In front of the door to Chemistry, I bent over at the waist to gulp some air. Then I remembered Isabel talking to Mrs. Clark and I straightened up and began the process of elimination to find the key.

I had tried five on the ring of what felt like five hundred when the door at the end of the hall slammed shut. I shoved another key in and as luck would have it, the lock turned and I slipped into safety.

The room was dark, the blinds drawn, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I crept forward, my hands out in front of me. I had made it to the back row of desks when the door swung open and I turned around with a gasp, frantically thinking of a way to explain myself to Mr. Ortega.

But it wasn’t Mr. Ortega. It was Cade, his dazzling smile lighting up the room. The door shut behind him with a click.

“Have I started you down a pathway of crime?” he asked.

I tried to catch my breath again. “Are you trying to take credit for this?”

“I called your name outside but you were running like someone was chasing you.”

“I’m practicing for cross-country.”

“You are?”

“No, I’m not. Running is the worst. Why do people do that on purpose?”

He smiled. “Those aren’t exactly the right shoes for it.”

I looked down at my purple Docs. He was right; they were too heavy for running.

He glanced around the room. “So what are you doing?”

“Don’t you have baseball practice?” I wiped at a bead of sweat on my temple.

“I was heading there when I saw you.”

“Do you have to run at baseball practice?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cade smiled. “I know I’m not the most observant person in the world, but I get the feeling you don’t want to answer my question.”

I laughed. “What gives you that idea?”

“Oh I don’t know … ”

Isabel was going to kill me if I didn’t get rid of him soon and get on with the task.

“Did you change your mind?” he asked.

“Change my mind? About what?”

“You answered and now you’re trying to take back whatever you said?”

My eyes, which had been avoiding his very well up until this point, now latched on to them. He knew I was the letter writer. So he had gotten my letter after all. He was at the advantage now because he knew I liked him and I had no idea how he felt. It’s possible he wrote me an amazing letter about how he thought we would be great friends.

“No,” I said.

“No what?”

“No, I didn’t write back. I mean, I would’ve, probably, maybe, but I didn’t get yours. Mr. Ortega stole it.”

A slow smile spread across his lips. “Really?”

“Cade, please don’t take joy in my panic.”

He laughed. “But it’s so fun.”

I took a couple steps sideways, trying to get around the back row of desks and to Mr. Ortega’s. “I’m just going to rescue the letter from his desk and talk to you when I’m done reading it.”

I turned, passed my desk … our desk … and was almost to the aisle when he stopped me with, “Lily.”

“Just wait, okay?”

“Lily.” He was behind me now and placed his hands on my shoulders, turning me to face him. The heat from his hands seemed to seep into my skin, warming me. “You don’t need to break into his desk. I can tell you what the letter says. I reread it a million times, I should know.” That last sentence he said under his breath.

Letters were safe. They were words, easy to read if enjoyable and stop reading if hurtful. Letters didn’t stare at me like Cade was now staring at me, full of fire.

“I’m scared,” I said.

“Don’t be.” He cleared his throat. “Dear Lily,” he started, and his intense gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve known you were the letter writer since the night I picked up Wyatt for baseball practice several weeks ago. I heard the music you were playing. A song only we, and possibly up to one hundred other people, would know.”

My breath stopped short in my throat. “What?” I interrupted him. “You knew before Thanksgiving? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you hated me.”

“I had the same reason. Because you hated me. I thought if you knew it was me that you’d stop writing.”

My mind went back to our exchanges over the last few weeks. How he had raised his eyebrows when I mentioned us getting along because it was Thanksgiving—a reference to our letters I hadn’t thought he’d put together.

Thanksgiving. He knew it was me that whole day. And then I kicked him out of my house. No wonder he thought I hated him.

There was something I still didn’t understand, though. “What about Sasha?”

“What about her? I told you we’re not together.”

“Were you?”

“No. She asked me out. I felt I needed to give her a chance—she’s a friend. I did. We weren’t … What’s that word you used? Compatible?”

I nodded. “But, how, why? She had the letters I wrote to you.”