I hold on tight, but the impact slams me forward like a rag doll, the seat belt hard across my neck and my ears shredded by a concrete metal scraping that feels like it will never end.

February 4

Mira,

I knew you were a wonder and I was right. When I moved to California, I believed our moment in the coffee line might be all we ever shared. Do you know how that tortured me? The idea of never seeing your face or hearing your voice again. We don’t need to worry about that now, do we?

I don’t care for art usually. So many artists get it wrong, and when I stepped inside the show that day, it wasn’t because I wanted to see what was being exhibited, it’s because I saw you. Through the window with your eyes gleaming and your smile so bright. You were talking to someone else, but I recognized that glow.

It’s the same glow you had when you thanked me for the coffee, the glow I’m drawn to like a compass to North. The moment I saw you, saw your face, I knew I had to come inside to talk to you. So, I did.

But why did you pretend not to remember me? Why bother with shyness? Two thousand miles and we still found each other, Mira. That means something. You can’t deny it.

I came back after you were whisked away from our brief conversation. I wanted to see you again, but you were only there for the show. It doesn’t matter, though, because the woman there gave me this address for you. Fate is still bringing us together.

So, take your time. If you’re afraid to speak the words, write them. I can wait. Because I know as well as you do—this is destiny.

I’ll be waiting,

Yours

Chapter Seven

The impact is not exactly a crash, more like a hardcore graze. The right front fender wedges against the wall and continues forward with a terrible metal-against-concrete scrape that seems to shred the air and my eardrums both. I squeeze my eyes shut as we shudder along the barrier, the vibration rippling through my spine. It’s the kind of noise and feeling that sets your teeth on edge—the car-crash equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard.

The car rolls to a stop, engine still running.

“Are you okay?” Brecken says, looking at Harper.

She’s breathing hard and fast. We all are. But she nods, and we check ourselves over. Looking for broken windows, or maybe injuries we didn’t notice. It doesn’t seem that bad. I think we got lucky. I open my mouth to say as much and—crash!