He cleared his throat obnoxiously. “Dear Beverly,” he began, affecting a terrible British accent. “Today I saw a pigeon and thought of you. Why, you ask? It pooped on someone’s head. And you once told me you wanted to do that to your geometry teacher. It made me miss you. Also, the pigeon had your eyes.”

Tiffany laughed so hard she nearly fell off the counter.

“That’s not even close to what I wrote,” I snapped, my frustration rising as I glared at him. “That’s not what it says⁠—”

“Shhhhh,” he said. “Let me have this. You gave up your right to dignity the moment you rhymed ‘miss’ with ‘kiss’ in paragraph three! Wait, wait, here’s another⁠—”

“Give me that,” I growled, stepping toward him.

“Chill,” he laughed, holding it out of reach. “Okay, okay, fine, that one was fake,” he admitted. “Geez. But let’s see what this one says.” Jamal unfolded another envelope. “September 22nd, 1999,” he read, his voice sobering slightly. “Today I made it until 10:42 a.m. before thinking about you. That’s a new record. It was during econ. I was trying to take notes, but then the girl next to me smelled like the lotion you used to wear when you were fifteen, and suddenly, I was back under the oak tree with you. You were reading Vogue magazine and telling me why Jonathan Taylor Thomas was hotter than Leonardo DiCaprio. You were wrong. But I didn’t say anything. Because I liked listening to you talk. God, I miss hearing you speak. I miss you.”

I cleared my throat, unsure what to do with my hands, or my heart, or the air that suddenly felt too heavy.

Jamal glanced up at me. “Well…” he started, his teasing gone.

“Shh,” Tiffany said, climbing onto the couch like she was settling in for a show. “We’re listening.”

“Don’t you dare encourage him⁠—”

Beverly looked like she couldn’t breathe.

“Stop him,” I said weakly.

“No,” she said quietly. “I think I need to hear it.”

I dropped onto the arm of the couch, dragging both hands down my face in a futile attempt to ground myself.

Beverly reached forward, her fingers shaking slightly as she grabbed the stack of envelopes from Jamal’s hands.

“Actually, I want to read them.”

58

BEVERLY, 2001

19 years old

I stared down at the stack of letters resting in my lap, my fingers trembling slightly as I brushed over the edges.

Some were thick with pages.

Some were thin.

Jamal was eyeing them like he wanted to keep reading.

Tiffany elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“We’ll be in the kitchen,” she said gently. “Yell if you need me. Or throw something,” she added with an awkward chuckle, as if that could cut through the silence that enveloped the room.