Punk 57

ear.”

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.