Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

Love: So, you’re saying you’re not nervous about me finding out who you are? Like at all?

Zac: Not really, no.

Love: Even with all the personal things you’ve told me?

Zac: Nope. If it’s meant to happen, it will. Nothing I can do about it.

He says if I’m meant to find out, I will.

But the nagging voice in my head screams…

What if I already have?

The line begins to pick up, and I estimate that I should be at the front in less than five minutes.

Zac: I mean, I could always stop texting you. If that’s what you want.

Do you want him to stop texting you?

Be honest, Vee.

Do you?

No.

No, I don’t.

Love: I’m just saying we shouldn’t tell each other where we are from now on. I think last night was WAY too close.

Zac: Ditto.

Love: And no more sharing specific stuff like tattoos. It makes it too easy to find out who we’re talking to and we made a pact for a reason.

Zac: Yes, ma’am.

“Miss?” The cashier calls for my attention, and I jerk, realizing that I’m up next. I squeeze my phone inside my jeans pocket without answering and dump the water bottles on the checkout counter.

* * *

Dia’s lime-green car has never been what one would call “subtle.” I could always spot it from a distance, day or night, no matter the weather, but I still come to doubt my own eyes when I drive down the cul-de-sac leading to my house and make out her Beetle in my driveway.

I blink one time.

Two times.

She’s really here.

At my house.

At 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

I fill the last available parking space in the lot before stretching my arm out to grab the reusable grocery bags in the back seat. Try as I may, I can’t seem to come up with a feasible explanation to justify her presence here. Could it be that she forgot something at my house the last time we hung out?

Her loyalty, perhaps?

I proceed to the front door, my attempts at containing my nerves falling flat, and cross the threshold. At first sight, the kitchen is empty, but I flip my head to find Dia sitting on our velvet entryway bench.

A basket of mini muffins rests on her laps.