Page 25

Chapter twenty-four

Mandy

M y key sticks in the door again, and I shove it harder than necessary. "Come on," I mutter, exhausted. The lock gives with a clunk, and I step into the apartment, dropping my bag and kicking off my shoes in one fluid, graceless motion.

The place is quiet. Kira’s probably still out, and thank God. I need silence like I need oxygen. The kind of silence where I don’t have to explain the ache lodged under my ribs or why I can’t stop thinking about everything with Nate…how right it felt, and how wrong it suddenly seems.

I toss my coat over the back of the chair and head to my desk. My plan was to review tort outlines and maybe rewrite a few essay responses. Nothing that exciting. Nothing that dangerous.

Until I see it.

A manila folder.

It’s centered perfectly on the desk, crisp edges, a red label across the front like evidence in a case file. My stomach flips.

Exhibit A: I’m All In

I blink at it. Literally blink. Like maybe it’ll disappear. But it stays put. Quiet. Waiting.

“What the hell,” I whisper, already reaching for it.

My fingers tremble as I slide it open. Inside is a stack of papers, carefully arranged. Typed printouts. Highlighted screenshots. Handwritten notes.

The first page is a screenshot of one of our early text threads.

I’d joked about how he always managed to have a stash of cereal options ready for our late-night study breaks.

He’d sent back a selfie with a smug grin and a post-it note stuck to his forehead that said, Be Right Back.

I’m headed to the pantry to win snack MVP.

My heart gives a painful little twist.

There are more.

Text messages from that night I panicked before a presentation at work. Typed out recordings of when he sent voice notes instead of texts because he said my brain didn’t need more reading.

One message is a picture, beneath it is a Post-it that has a pink highlighter slash across it:

"Exhibit 1: Your smile when you cleaned me out at poker night. Confirmed lethal."

I let out a broken laugh. "Idiot."

Another page has a photo I didn’t even know he took. Me asleep on his couch, a highlighter cap stuck in my hair and notes scattered all over my chest. A Post-it is stuck to the top of the image:

"Exhibit 7: You, asleep on my couch with highlighter ink on your cheek. Confirmed adorable."

I cover my mouth with my hand, but it doesn’t stop the soft gasp from escaping.

Tucked between the last pages are clippings from our weekend getaway: receipts from the little coffee shop where I spilled hot chocolate on his jeans, the map from our motorcycle ride to the scenic overlook, and the label from the bottle of wine we shared at the firepit, late into the night.

There’s even a sketch he made, just a doodle of the kitchen counter where we’d started fooling around, before we made love for the first time. I trace my fingers over them, stunned. The fact that he kept these hits like a punch to the heart. I don’t know whether to cry or smile, so I do both.

There are more notes, more tiny captions in his handwriting, that charming all-caps scrawl I’ve memorized from the sticky notes he left on water bottles and snack bags.

"Exhibit 12: You make my place feel like a home. That should be illegal."

"Exhibit 15: You call me on my shit. That’s love in a court of law."

The last page is a sticky note, centered like a verdict:

"Case Summary: Falling for you was never a debate. It was a ruling."

My hand is shaking now.

There’s a second envelope under the folder labeled:

"Bar Exam Survival Kit"

I almost laugh. Almost. But the tears threaten first.

Inside:

A stress ball shaped like a gavel.

A small tin of mints labeled “Exhibit Breathe."

A playlist code scribbled on a card: "Spotify – "Study Like a Badass" – scan to play.

A black and gold pen engraved with "You’ve Got This."

A keychain with a quote from Ruth Bader Ginsburg (RBG): "Fight for the things that you care about."

A mini pack of sour gummy worms with a sticky note that says, "For when you're sweet but savage."

A granola bar with "Study fuel, just like you like it, oats and no nonsense." written in his handwriting.

A tiny bottle of lavender hand lotion labeled, "So your hands don't cramp from writing briefs."

And finally, a folded certificate that reads:

"This Certifies That: MANDY FIELDS Has Officially Outworked, Outlasted, and Out-Badassed the Bar Prep Season Awarded by: NATE JONES, Head Cheerleader, Defenseman, and Certified Idiot In Love"

I clutch the pen in my fist like it might keep me upright. Nate wrote Idiot in love right there on the certificate, and it's the "love" part that undoes me.

I sit down at my desk, hard.

He did this.

After everything. After the awkward silence, the cold phone call, the photos, the whispering doubts in my head that said he’d move on the second things got hard.

He didn’t move on.

He stayed.

And not just with promises. But with pages. With exhibits. With receipts. With proof.

“This is insane,” I whisper, tears tracking down my cheeks.

I flip the last page over, and on the back is a single Post-it:

"If any of this made you smile… open the front door."

"What... the front door?" I whisper, blinking at the note like it might sprout legs and walk away if I stare too hard. My heart lurches, slamming somewhere between my ribs and my throat.

I stand.

My feet move before I think. The paper in my hand crinkles as I walk barefoot to the front door.

I pause.

Then I twist the handle and pull it open.

Nate is sitting outside in the hallway, hoodie up, arms resting on his knees, like he’s been there for hours.

He doesn’t look up right away.

But when he does, his eyes meet mine. Hopeful. Hesitant. Open.

Standing there with tears rolling down my cheeks, I don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

Instead, I step out into the hallway, sink down beside him on the carpet, and slip my hand into his.

His fingers close around mine like he was waiting.

Maybe he was.

Maybe I was too.

And maybe this is the beginning of everything.