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Crossing the Line
Katie McGarry


Lila McCormick first met Lincoln Turner when tragedy struck both their lives.But she never expected their surprise encounter would lead to two years of exchanging letters—or that she’d fall for the boy she’s only seen once. Their relationship is a secret, but Lila feels closer to Lincoln than anyone else. Until she finds out that he lied to her about the one thing she depended on him for the most.Hurting Lila is the last thing Lincoln wanted. For two years, her letters have been the only thing getting him through the day. Admitting his feelings would cross a line he’s never dared breach before. But Lincoln will do whatever it takes to fix his mistakes, earn Lila’s forgiveness—and finally win a chance to be with the girl he loves.Look for more powerful contemporary romance from Katie McGarry with Pushing the Limits and Dare You To.Praise for Pushing the Limits: The love story of the year - Teen Now A real page-turner -MizzA romance with a difference - Bliss







Crossing the Line

Katie McGarry




www.miraink.co.uk (http://www.miraink.co.uk)


Katie McGarry captivated readers with her “riveting, emotional”* Young Adult debut, Pushing the Limits. In this gripping novella, she tells the story of Lila and Lincoln, who discover that sometimes it’s worth crossing the line for love....

Lila McCormick first met Lincoln Turner when tragedy struck both their lives. But she never expected their surprise encounter would lead to two years of exchanging letters—or that she’d fall for the boy she’s only seen once. Their relationship is a secret, but Lila feels closer to Lincoln than anyone else. Until she finds out that he lied to her about the one thing she depended on him for the most.

Hurting Lila is the last thing Lincoln wanted. For two years, her letters have been the only things getting him through the day. Admitting his feelings would cross a line he’s never dared breach before. But Lincoln will do whatever it takes to fix his mistakes, earn Lila’s forgiveness—and finally win a chance to be with the girl he loves.

Look for more contemporary YA by Katie McGarry with Pushing the Limits and Dare You To from Mira Ink.

*Simone Elkeles, New York Times bestselling author of the Perfect Chemistry series

“Brimming with dark memories, veiled secrets, and steamy moments.” —Publishers Weekly on Pushing the Limits


Contents

Letters (#u3cd64b8b-213e-54b6-ad61-b9eaa9e63874)

Lincoln (#ua71333ec-57e3-5904-ba53-ed27977e2c44)

Lila (#u8d90f3c9-e72e-5942-8043-089be1fac2ce)

Lincoln (#u3b03ab3a-89a0-5bdd-abe8-5f3785a1f46e)

Lila (#u79a26f3d-2d48-532e-a88e-035403eb7ad3)

Lincoln (#litres_trial_promo)

Lila (#litres_trial_promo)

Lincoln (#litres_trial_promo)

Lila (#litres_trial_promo)

Lincoln (#litres_trial_promo)

Lila (#litres_trial_promo)

Lincoln (#litres_trial_promo)

Lila (#litres_trial_promo)

Lincoln (#litres_trial_promo)

Pushing the Limits Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Dare You To Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Playlist (#litres_trial_promo)




Dear Lincoln,

I saw this card today and thought of you. I know that I wasn’t who you came to meet, but I’m glad we had a chance to talk. Even though I was just his little sister’s best friend, Aires still felt like a brother to me.

Between you and me, I keep smiling when I think of the look on your face when we decided to sneak out of the wake without being caught. That was a strange, messed-up night, and I’m grateful you were there to help me through it.

I know how I miss Aires so I can only imagine how you miss Josh. Just remember that I’m thinking of you.

Can I write you again? Will you write back? I hope you do. I sort of feel like we were meant to meet.

~ Lila

Dear Lila,

Thank you for the card. I’m going to admit, I’m not much of a kitten guy, but I appreciate the thought. Mostly, I appreciate your note.

Yeah, I agree, the night of Aires’s funeral was messed up, but messed up in a good way. Mom and Dad thought if we met Aires’s family that it would help us with losing Josh. I thought Mom and Dad had it all jacked up, and in a way, they did. It wasn’t meeting Aires’s family that helped, it was talking to you—so thanks.

And no, I don’t mind if you want to write me again. Even if you do it in one of those kitten-hanging-from-a-tree cards.

~ Lincoln


Lincoln

Is it weird that I feel close to you even though you’re hundreds of miles away and we’ve only met once? I hope not. I’m glad that you’re in my life.

~ Lila

On the computer screen, the question “Why?” glares at me like the correct accusation it is. This dialogue between Lila and me, it breaks every unsaid rule about our relationship. We never plug in like this. Never. Not that part of me hasn’t wanted a faster connection to her. A link beyond the letters, but there was something about the written word that made our relationship safe.

And now we’re crossing lines. The one relationship I need, the one relationship I depend on...I’ve jacked it up. Fitting since I have a natural inclination toward destroying anything good. It’s genetic, my sister tells me. Anyone sharing our bloodline is inherently doomed.

“You should have talked to me before buying it,” my father shouts at my mother in the kitchen. “I made a budget.”

My home is a volcano, a constant gurgle of hot lava on the verge of explosion. I try to ignore my parents, but it’s difficult. We have one computer in the house, and it sits wide open in the family room. From the corner of my eye, I have a clear shot of how Dad’s hands shake with anger and how Mom’s frustration paints her cheeks a frightening scarlet.

“Why should I have to ask your permission for anything?” A chair slams into the wooden kitchen table and Mom’s high heels stomp against the tile floor. “It’s my money too. And as for the budget—you never asked me what I wanted.”

I asked you why. Lila’s words appear on our direct message conversation.

I rub at the lines on my forehead, and a tense uneasiness paralyzes my fingers over the keyboard. I don’t know why I did it. That’s a lie, I do know, but I don’t know how to tell her. I don’t know how to salvage this.

I’m sorry, I reply.

I didn’t ask for an apology, she rapid-fires back, I asked WHY!

Because I love you. It’s as if someone places two hands around my heart and chokes it. I love her. I’ve fallen for a girl I met only once, a girl I’ve exchanged letters with for two years. There’s no way she can feel the same about me. Those words would push her over the edge.

I want to keep her, but what do I say? What can I do?

Like the warning tremors before an eruption, my parents’ argument becomes more heated. Mom turns on the blender to drown out Dad. In response, Dad yells louder and bangs his hand against the table, making the china clink against the water glasses. The baby who was sleeping moments before, my nephew, begins to cry. It’s not a cry, it’s a shriek—one that causes my skin to peel back from my bones.

The noises press against my skull, scattering my already screwed-up thought process into more of a mess. I can explain, I type. Though I’m not sure I can.

Then EXPLAIN! She’s a fast typer. Too fast. My heart thumps in my ears. I mentally will the chaos around me to stop and pray that Lila will...what? What is it that I expect her to do?

“Where the hell is Meg?” my father roars. “That baby is her responsibility! I never agreed to be her babysitter.” He never agreed to be a grandfather at forty-five either.

My eyes dart to my father, dressed in his polo shirt and slacks in preparation for my graduation, to the baby dressed in a blue onesie pulling himself up in the playpen placed in the middle of the spacious living room. His entire face flushes red. Drool pours from his small gaping mouth. He wails again, the sound like a tornado siren.

“Meg’s out,” Mom screams over the blender still grinding away. Meg just turned seventeen and is gone—at eight in the morning, meaning she never came home last night. She left Junior with us. With me. I also never agreed to be a babysitter.

As if on cue, the front door clicks open. Impressive—my sister has returned before noon. Maybe today, she’ll hold her son.

I don’t acknowledge Meg. I don’t even glance at her. Instead, I focus on the cursor blinking on the screen. I have seconds before I completely lose Lila. I made a mistake, I type. I—

The screen flashes to black. “What the hell!”

“I need this,” Meg says as she straightens from resetting the computer. She tucks her freshly dyed chin-length blue hair behind her ear. “Get out of here.”

The new guy, the one who isn’t the baby daddy, the one who hates kids, stands in the front doorway with his hands shoved in his sagging jeans.

“Meg!” Mom rushes in from the kitchen. Does she know she left the blender running? Does anyone notice the baby still howling? “Where have you been? Lincoln’s graduation ceremony is in an hour—”

“What did you do?” I mutter as I press my fingertips against my head. Lila. I lost Lila. The only sane person in my life.

“Why should I have to go?” Meg throws her hands out to her sides, barely missing her own child’s head. “It’s not my graduation.”

“What did you do?” I say louder. Anger gains traction in my bloodstream.

Dad knocks over a chair in his charge into the living room. “Pick up your baby! Pick him up! He’s your responsibility.”

Mom’s voice is smothered by Meg shouting over and over again that she’s not attending my graduation.

“What did you do?!” I yell above them all, and slam my hands onto the computer desk.

They fall silent: Mom, Dad, Meg. Everyone except the baby. “Someone pick him up!”

No one does. They all continue to watch me with wide eyes because they know I’ve cracked. I never yell. Not once in eighteen years have they witnessed me lose my temper. I’m the odd one, yeah, but I’m the steady one. The unemotional one. The one who didn’t cry at my brother’s funeral. The one who never demands more of anyone or anything—even from myself.

The cries reach a higher pitch. In a quick motion, I slide the kid out of his prison and he immediately places his head on my shoulder, his thumb stuck safely in his mouth. The sweet scent of formula and baby powder drifts from his tiny body. We must look ironic: fifteen pounds of premature warmth curled into six feet and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of rock-climbing muscle. Part of me hates that he’ll calm down for me, because it makes him my burden. The other part...at least I can help someone feel better.

I glance over at the shut-down computer. Lila. My hand covers the baby’s back as if I’m seeking his comfort. I lost Lila. There’s no way she’ll connect with me online now. No way I can wait long enough to see if she’d respond to my letter. To see if she will grant me another chance.

“Take your baby,” I say to my sister. Her eyes widen as her head convulses in tiny shakes meaning no.

“Take—your—baby.” I’m wrong. My house isn’t a volcano—I am, and the past two years have created a dormant giant who no longer will tolerate being ignored. I’m tired of this. Tired of how everyone’s become so obsessed with themselves, obsessed with the moment, that we’ve ceased caring what’s going to happen next.

I’m just as guilty, and that downfall has led to hurting Lila. Soon, the same damn poor decisions will devastate this family. God, I’m a moron.

I work hard at keeping my voice gentle, because it’s not this baby’s fault that I dropped out of reality or that his mother is so jacked up she’s never held him or that his grandparents are so concerned about winning a fight that they can’t comprehend what’s happening to their future.

“Mom.” I motion with my eyes for her to take the now-sleeping infant.

She bustles over like the busy bird she is and slips him out of my grasp. How the hell do I fix all of the mistakes I’ve made in the past two years?

My family still stares at me like deer waiting for the gunshot. I should start with telling them the truth, but the words escape me. No, not escape...I just can’t stop thinking about Lila.

If she can find a way to forgive me, then I can find a way to fix this.


Lila

No, it’s not weird that you feel close to me. Honestly? Sometimes knowing that I’ll be getting a letter from you is the only thing pushing me through my days.

~ Lincoln

The moment I open the door, I immediately regret not heeding the advice on the yellow Post-it note clinging near the small round hole: Lila, Always check the peephole before answering the door. You never know who’s on the other side.

Translation: serial killers knock before attacking. I watch CSI. It happens.

Standing before me isn’t a serial killer but a different type of nightmare. Stephen, the guy I’ve dated on and off since sophomore year, tilts his head with a way too smug I’m concerned look on his face.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I sniff and use a crumpled tissue to wipe my runny nose. Let’s see: swollen, puffy red eyes with dark circles? No, I’m not okay—and now I’m worse because he thinks I’m crying over him. “I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you.” His green eyes survey the empty living room behind me. “I know your parents and brothers left yesterday for vacation. I wanted to make sure you made it through your first night alone.”

First night alone—ever. And it epically blew. I’ve got six more days of alone and then, come fall, the rest of my life. “I survived.”

Stephen scrutinizes me with a cocked eyebrow that says he can tell I didn’t sleep. Which I didn’t because I was too busy being terrified. My imagination boarded a train south to crazyville and convinced me that someone was scratching on the windows.

A hot June evening breeze drifts into the house, bringing with it the scent of the sickly sweet gel he uses to force his brown hair into a styled mess.

“Can I come in?” he asks when I’m obviously not offering.

No. I sigh. “Sure.”

Stephen enters and fingers the purple Post-it on the phone reminding me to check the caller ID. When I woke up yesterday morning, I found the peephole note, along with about a hundred other Post-its stuck to various objects around the house. All of them my mother’s desperate attempts to teach me how to live on my own so I’m prepared when I head fourteen hours away from home to the University of Florida.

“You can call me if you’re scared to be alone at night,” he says. “I’ll come over.”

I snort. “I’m sure you will.”

Stephen was my first...and last. When I gave him my virginity, I thought I loved him, and maybe I sort of did, but then everything became complicated. Not everything—me. I became complicated and I didn’t want to have sex anymore. Stephen lacked sympathy.

And then there was Lincoln...

My lips tremble and a new pool of warm tears builds in my eyes.

Stephen turns toward me with his mouth popped open for his next witty suggestion. It snaps shut when he spots my face. “Whoa. Lila. It’s okay.”

It’s not. My bones suddenly weigh too much for my body, and I collapse onto the couch. The tissue in my grasp balls into a rock. “I’m fine. Just tired.” Just heartbroken. Lincoln lied to me this morning and then he cut me off. As if the past two years of letters meant nothing to him.

Letters—not emails, not texts—letters. It’s what we promised each other when we met. Because somehow, letters made our relationship private...different...real.

I stare at the red-and-black amoeba patterns on the Oriental rug covering the hardwood floor. My stomach aches when I see the project that started or ended it all, depending on how I choose to view it, peeking out from underneath the cherry end table. The sturdy scrapbook paper represents hours of cutting and pasting and care meant to celebrate Lincoln’s graduation from high school. The petals of the dried-out lilac-colored roses Lincoln sent me for my graduation last week create the border.

I’m so unbelievably stupid to have fallen for a guy I’ve met once. Stupid because nice guys only belong in the land of make-believe.

The other end of the couch shifts as Stephen half sits on the arm. How many times did my mother ask him not to do that? Stephen licks his thumb and rubs dirt off his new prized possession: the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar athletic shoes he stood in line for overnight.

“Seriously, Lila.” One more lick. One more rub. “I’ll stay with you this week. No strings attached.”

I blow out enough air that my hair moves. I’m not being fair. Stephen’s a good guy. It’s my fault I fell for someone else. Someone who doesn’t really exist. “I know, and thanks. But I’ve got to work this out for myself. How can I even imagine moving to Florida on my own if I can’t stay the night in my house alone?”

Stephen scratches his chin, indicating I’m going to hate whatever gushes out of his mouth next. “Look, I know you better than anyone else and here’s the thing...you’re not as strong as you make everybody think you are.”

“Oh. My. God.” A combination of anger and hurt splits open my stomach as my shoulders roll back. “Did you really say that to me?”

“Just listen,” he says in a rush. “Your mom told my mom that you haven’t turned down the offer from the University of Louisville. You must be having second thoughts, so I’m not saying anything you aren’t already thinking.”

My throat tightens and I avoid eye contact, ashamed that I’m close to trashing a dream because of fear.

“Stay home.” He softens his tone. “And you don’t have to worry about being scared. Echo’s staying. Grace and Natalie are staying.” He pauses and glances at the floor. “I’ll be here.”

I suck in my lower lip—half mad, half emotional basket case. The University of Florida has always been my goal, but I’m frightened of leaving home. Scared of leaving everything and everyone I’ve ever known. But I’m also tired of everyone wearing me down with their 1,001 reasons why I shouldn’t go.

When I don’t respond, Stephen continues. “I know that’s why you broke up with me last month. That you don’t think we can handle the whole long-distance thing. So stay.”

No, that’s not why I broke up with him, but it is the reason I gave. Two months ago, Lincoln sent this amazing letter and it shook me to the core. Actually, every letter he sends is amazing, but it finally hit me why Stephen and I could never seem to get it together. It was because I had given my heart to Lincoln.

I didn’t want to hurt Stephen then and I don’t want to hurt him now. Especially since I realize what a fool I’ve been. My eyes shut as I digest what I have possibly thrown away with Stephen. “I don’t know.”

The defeat crushes me in such a way that the couch no longer feels steady enough to carry my weight. Maybe everyone is right. Maybe all my crazy dreams of moving away are stupid and insane. Maybe I just think I’m capable of being more than what I really am: not strong, but a homebody.

All my strength and energy flows out of me and right into Stephen. He jumps off the arm of the couch. “Go to college here, in Louisville, Lila. It’ll be like high school. Chad’s staying. So’s Luke. All of us will be together, going to the same school, and then you and I can start again.”

My head snaps up. But I’m not in love with you. The words catch in my mouth. His green eyes shine and his face completely lights up. What do I honestly know about love? Obviously nothing after what’s happened with Lincoln. “I don’t know.”

Why is that the only phrase I seem capable of saying?

His fingers spread out as he raises his hands. “That’s good enough. For now. Look, I’ve got to get to work, but I’m serious—if you get freaked staying by yourself, call. Mom and Dad won’t care if I stay with you.”

I suck in a breath to try to explain to him that I need to do this on my own, but before I can form the first word Stephen plants a kiss on my cheek and strides out the front door.

I blink a few times, trying to let my mind process the turn of events. “Crap.”

In the span of minutes, Stephen managed to drag me back into high school. Wasn’t this drama supposed to end when I received my diploma?

Three quick raps on the door and a surge of angry adrenaline pumps in my veins. Good. He’s back. Now I can really tell him what I think about him staying the night and implying that I’m not strong. Forget the fact he’s possibly right. No guy should ever call me a coward.

With a particularly hard yank, I throw open the front door and yell, “You really are a jerk, you know?”

All the air rushes out of my lungs in a fast hiss. It’s not Stephen. No. Not at all. This guy has hair the color of midnight. He’s tall, built like no guy I’ve ever dated before—in an oh, hell yeah sort of way—and possesses soft blue eyes that entice me to hold him already. And he’s clutching a bouquet. Roses. Purple ones.

Something nags me from the back of my brain. Then I remember that I’m required to speak. “Can I help you?”

He shifts his footing, shoving one hand into his faded jeans. “It’s me, Lila.”

Me? “Sorry?”

“Lincoln.”

I really should have taken my mother’s advice on the peephole.


Lincoln

I know I should stop gushing about the card you sent for my birthday, but I can’t. See, Stephen forgot about my birthday. It’s cool. Really. He remembered eventually, and bought me roses, but I need to complain. I know I’m going to sound like a snot, but he got me red roses.

Red. Whenever I see red roses I think of my grandma’s funeral, and then I want to cry. I’ve told Stephen that—twice.

I’ve dropped hint after hint that purple are my favorites. Of course, I told him that I loved his present and gushed about it, but what do I need to do? Tattoo it on my forehead? Purple!!!

Or at least not red.

Here’s the reason why I don’t care about Stephen forgetting: you made my birthday special. No one has ever made me a card before. So thanks, Lincoln. Sometimes I think you’re my best friend.

~ Lila

She’s stunning. Yeah, she was drop-dead gorgeous two years ago, but now...

I’m staring and I need to stop, but seeing her inhibits brain function. Girls don’t know it, but standing in the presence of beauty impairs guys. At least, it impairs me.

Screw it. It’s Lila. Lila impairs me.

The ends of her golden hair curl near her shoulders. She cut it and I like the new style. A lot. When I first met Lila, she was between—not quite a girl, not really a woman. With those curves, she left between in the dust.

I was only a few inches taller than her then. I grew. She stayed the same height. Lila would fit perfectly under my arm, tucked close into my body. She let me hold her hand the night we met, and I never forgot how her skin felt like satin. I hope she’ll let me touch her again.

That is, if she can forgive me.

Her bewildered sky blue eyes travel along my face, over my arms and chest. Crimson stains her cheeks as she prevents herself from checking out anything lower. I clear my throat to disguise the chuckle.

I want to laugh because she looks so damned cute, but she wouldn’t see it that way. She’d think I was belittling her. Lila can’t tolerate guys who view women as beneath them. I received more than one letter from her with that rant.

Lila’s house sits in the middle of nowhere. Its zip code exists in the city of Louisville, but acreage borders three sides of her house and across the street is a state park. The only beings watching me beg for her forgiveness on the wraparound front porch are the crickets and God.

It’s better this way. I’m not a people person.

Her blessed pink lips pucker to form a w and then flatten. She repeats the cycle three more times until she finally decides on a word beginning with h. “How did you find me?”

“Google.”

She gives me the you’re-crazy stare.

“Maps.” Very awkward pause. “I know your address by heart.”

The worry lines on her forehead disappear as the lightbulb turns on. “But you live...”

“Ten hours away. Yeah, I know.”

“Twelve, actually,” she mutters.

My world blanks out for a second. Does that mean she calculated the distance between us too? “I didn’t exactly adhere to recommended motor vehicle regulations.”

Her mouth twitches; she’s well aware I’ve never been a fan of rules. “You sped.”

“I bent suggested limits.”

The blush fades, leaving her cheeks pale. “Is that how you view what you did to me?”

The hand grasping the roses begins to sweat. “I got these for you.”

Silence.

“They’re roses. Purple.” Keep talking, man. You’re losing her. “Your favorite.”

Lila folds her hands over her chest and juts her hip out to the side.

Stupid, moronic idiot. The girl has eyes and an IQ. Didn’t she score a twenty-seven on her ACT? She can think fast enough to figure out what I’m holding. “Anyway, you’re right.”

“What?” Her eyes scrunch together.

“You called me a jerk when you opened the door.”

“Not you. Stephen was. Is.” She closes her eyes, then reopens them. “I take that back. You are a jerk.”

My head snaps to the side. Stephen? Her ex-boyfriend? The kid will not give up and, when it comes to Lila, he has a proven track record of winning. This is the third time they’ve broken up. He groveled twice and both times she took him back. When we first started writing, it didn’t bother me. Lila and I were friends. But then I fell for her and Stephen became a sharp rock wedged in my side.

I trash all the questions I have about Stephen and his appearance at her house and focus on what’s important: Lila. “I’m sorry.”

“You. Lied.”

“I know.” I run my hand through my damp hair. It’s ninety degrees with the sun setting, though it could be her microscopic stare making me sweat. “I can explain.”

Her head falls back. “God, Lincoln. If you had come here two days ago or last week or last month, I would have been ecstatic. But now? I thought I knew you.”

I step forward as my heart surges out of my chest. “You do.” She does. Better than anyone else. “Yes, I lied. But everything else is true.”

The way she sucks in her lower lip as her head shakes no tells me that the odds are against me.

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “For all I know you’re the serial killer the Post-it note warned me about.”

“What?” Never mind. It doesn’t matter. “Lila, you are the one person who knows me. I swear it. I lied to you about one thing. One minor thing.”

“Minor!” Her eyes redefine the term frigid.

I retreat a step. Bad choice in words. “Minor could be an understatement.”

“Understatement!” she shrieks. “You didn’t graduate from high school, Lincoln, and you had the balls to lie to me about it.” Lila bursts forward and stabs my chest with her long pink fingernail. Each poke a piercing reminder of my mistake. “I...was...depending...on...you.”

“You still can. I’m going to fix this.”

“Go to hell.”

A gust of air hits my cheeks as she slams the front door in my face. My arm drops and the leaves rustle together as the roses slap the side of my thigh. A few petals float down to the wooden porch. With a heavy sigh, I sit on the steps. Not that I ever wanted to know, but this is what being set on fire must feel like—everything shrouded in agony.

If I feel this way, how must Lila feel?

I glance to the left, then to the right. Disoriented. Lost. Not knowing which way is home. But that’s been the problem since the beginning. The root of all my evils.


Lila

So the guidance counselor asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I answered—rock climbing. He said it wasn’t a profession and to get serious. That if I wanted to get into a decent college I needed to apply myself now.

I told him I was serious. That I loved rock climbing. He said that was a hobby and that I needed to become realistic about my “goals.”

I told him it wasn’t my damn fault he pissed away his life to make thirty grand a year and to drink cheap coffee. And then I asked him to kindly stop dumping on my dreams. He gave me two days’ detention. Did I mention the guy’s an asshole?

Do you know the last time I had detention? Never. I’m no saint, but I keep my mouth shut and head down. Rules suck. Society sucks.

Josh followed the rules and now he’s dead. He liked riding horses. Maybe if he had looked that damn counselor in the eye and said, “I want to ride horses for the rest of my life,” then my brother would still be alive today.

~ Lincoln

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, I turn over Lincoln’s letter. My fingers slide over the deep indentations of words obviously written in agitation. Words written so quickly, I wouldn’t have been able to decipher most of them if I wasn’t already familiar with his handwriting.

He sent this one to me in the fall, a week after he started his senior year. Lincoln hated his guidance counselor. He was the one who convinced Lincoln’s brother to join the Marines out of high school. It’s because of that fateful decision that I met Lincoln.

“Lila,” says Echo, her voice a bit disjointed from the speaker. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” I say and glance at my phone lying on the bed next to me. My best friend is in freaking Iowa with the freaking love of her life on their way to freaking Colorado. Right now, I despise happy people. “How’s Iowa?”

“Kansas,” she corrects.

“Whatever, it’s flat and they have tornadoes.” I pick up one of the many stacks of letters from Lincoln cluttering my bed and easily find the one I’m searching for. The one that promised he’d come with me to Florida.

Cluttering isn’t the right word. Nothing about me is cluttered. Each stack represents the month the letter was sent, and each letter is arranged by the date on the postmark. My favorite letters have a pink highlight marking the side.




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