Page 62

Chapter Sixty-Two

Maggie

T hat evening, mom, Silas and I devour takeout while he and I watch a J-Drama and mom reads—a neurology book this time. Which is always disappointing for Silas and I.

After a couple of episodes I get up and stretch.

"You heading to your room to work on your diorama?" My mom asks. Only she says it in this voice that sounds like she's a bad actor in a straight-to-TV movie.

"Uh, yeah… Why?"

She and Silas exchange alook.

"What?" My eyes bounce between them. "What's up?"

"Nothing," They say in unison, Silas biting down on a grin and mom avoiding eye contact altogether.

"Okaaaaay then." I nod, looking between them another time before turning slowly to head to my room.

I sit down at my crafting table to work on my diorama.

Only my diorama isn't there.

There's another one in its place.

A sloppy, glue-gunned, crooked diorama of…

Oh my God. I think it's a miniature model of the Observatory. But the only way I can tell is because there's what I assume is supposed to be a telescope in the middle of the round room constructed from a rolled-up gum wrapper glued to a drinking straw… wobbling atop a crooked stack of Lego bricks painted in coppery orange. The entire thing leans at a precarious angle .

The “floor” is a chunk of cardboard, one side sporting a shipping label, and the whole thing is drowning in hot glue—most of it missing its target. The “walls” are made of unevenly snapped popsicle sticks, some still faintly stained from past lives. But it doesn't matter because almost the entire surface of each wall (and a lot of the floor) is plastered in tiny miniature-sized sticky notes.

My heart clenches.

“It’s… so bad,” I murmur, running a finger over a lopsided wall.

It's perfect.

When I lean in to read some of the notes, I notice a small magnifying glass beside the diorama. I pick it up and peer through the lens, a smile splitting my face the entire time.

Wrote a song about you today.

I miss you.

Is it weird I think Smurfette is kinda hot?

I'm sorry.

My voice cracked recording a solo tonite. You would've died.

Curious if you have any new freckles.

I miss you.

God, I love your laugh.

I'm sorry.

Does pepper come from a flower or a shrub or what?

You looked stunning tonight with your hair down.

I'm sorry.

I miss you.

Tucked underneath the model's base is a larger note. Two pages double-sided. I pull it out and read it.

Maggs, Incase there was ever any doubt that I read the notes you left for me - I read every single one. And kept them. And re-read them whenever I missed you, which, also incase you can't tell by now - is a whole hell of a lot. The first note you left, I read that one the most. Sorry it took me this long for the words to sink in. And for me to believe they might be true. Because you're right—I am capable of loving. I know this because I love you Maggs. And it may take me a while to be able to say the words out loud, but I'll write you notes telling you, until the day comes when I can. Think I fell for you the first day you walked into the Club House wearing that t-shirt inside out (It looked ridiculous btw. And you looked fan-fucking-gorgeous). Now, for the full disclosure part: I'm still working on the being loved thing. But—I felt loved those months when we were together. I still do now. And I realized after seeing you Friday night that if I feel loved, then by default, I am loveable. So maybe you are right. And also. Who the hell wouldn' t love me? JK : ) I've been doing a lot of thinking about it these past few weeks - what love means. Romantic love, I mean. And I think maybe love isn’t just about what you give. Maybe it’s about what someone’s willing to let you see. And the clearest thing I let you see those last weeks we were together was the line I wasn't willing to cross. This letter - these words, they come from the other side of that line, and I'm hoping that means something to you. Even if I'm giving them to you way later than I should have. Just know that on the other side of that line is me - willing to take a shot at proving to you that I will not disappoint you. Your world is real and solid and yet you've never flinched once when it touches mine. You don't just notice the chaos of my world; you notice me standing in the middle of it. And you made me see myself through Finn; made me admit that if I can realize his world is one he needs protecting from – that it's ruthless enough to cause invisible scars – then maybe mine is too. That contrary to what the rest of the world believes, not all rich boys live fairy tales – some survive them. And that's going to be Finn. Partly because he has me. But mainly because he has you. And it'll be me, too. Partly because I have Finny. But mainly, because I have you. I'm sorry I've been so slow getting to this point. Think I knew, when you kept sending those notes, that I wouldn't be able to resist you for long. But it's unsettling, realizing someone can see you at your worst and still think you’re worth their time. And it took me a while to wrap my brain around it – the fact that someone so sure of herself could love someone still figuring it out. I'm ashamed I trusted my father's words for so long over yours. He's never said anything that's lead me anywhere good. You have. So, I'm going to try trusting you over him from now on. Take a step over to the other side of that line, even if I'm shaking like a leaf while I do it, because I can't deny there's still a part of me that's scared out of my scull that he's right. That maybe all I'll ever be is a disappointment. But also, maybe, fuck him – maybe I'm gonna knock this one out of the park. Maybe I'm going to spend every single day making you wonder how the hell you ever survived without me. Because who wouldn't love a guy like me? Wait - did I already say that? If so, it bears repeating : ) Anyway, I hope you like my first attempt at a miniature diorama (you never told me this arts and crafts shit is hard ). It's the Observatory, in case you can't tell. And I pasted on miniature versions of as many of the notes I could fit that I've written to you since the night of that party. Because yeah, I wrote you notes too. But unlike you, I never had the balls to give them to you. Didn't have the balls until now to admit the only reason I've locked you out this whole time is because I'm scared shitless. But I'm gonna try trusting you more with these little pieces of me. Miniature pieces. Little by little. And if anyone could find the beauty in those small things, it's you. The girl who makes beautiful art out of tiny ruins. I'm in NYC until Thursday, but when I get back, I'd really like a shot at a do-over of that third date I screwed up so badly (the puking my guts out in the hedges part of the date - not the romantic Observatory part of the date). Meet me on Friday night when I get back? The usual spot. Beneath the stars.

Love, X