She was a thief. In his mind, anyway. She stole his yearbook, his Yankees hat, his umbrella, anything she could get her hands on.
So he didn't notice when she stole his heart.
.
.
He chased her down the street that day. She was laughing and holding his yearbook under her arm, yelling something about cowboys. When he finally caught up to her (she was pretty damn fast for someone who never did track) he tackled her, and they both landed in the grass. She was on top of him, blonde hair falling over her face and onto his. He rolled out from under her, and she rolled with him until they were both on their backs, brushing grass off their clothes. She looked over at him and laughed - not a fake laugh. A real, happy laugh.
He leaned over and kissed her.
.
.
"Lucas." Her frantic voice came through the phone. "I can't find my locket."
"Maya, it's - fuck, what time is it?"
"Don't you have a clock? It's three in the morning."
"Then what the hell are you calling me for?"
"Lucas!" She yelled. "I. Can't. Find. My. Locket."
Her words began to sink in.
"Can you please come over and help me look?"
He sighed, rolling off his bed. "Lemme get dressed."
.
.
She stole his Yankees cap, climbing impossibly high up a tree and watching amusedly as he yelled at her to come down.
"You come up!" She retorted, but he wouldn't budge.
She later found out about his fear of heights.
.
.
Sometimes he went to her house, but she normally went to his. He lived in a tall, southern-y house, painted yellow. She always said it reminded her of butterflies. They would talk for hours in his room. She would draw, and he would read her poetry from his favorite poets. One morning, he woke up to find poetry books all over the floor, and Maya sleeping peacefully beside him.
She always was confusing.
.
.
He was afraid of heights, but she was so scared of the ocean she got seasick whenever he even brought it up. To say the least, they never went boating.
.
.
She took his things every day, but would lose it when he stole something from her. He took her paint set once, just to see what would happen. Fifteen minutes later, he was back at her house, calming her down as he slid the paints out of his backpack and under her bed.
She never knew how that had happened. He just tried to remember not to take her things anymore.
.
.
And the last day of high school, she stole his yearbook again. Two days later, he found it laying on his bed, her lipstick staining the front page just under her signature. Because she was headed to college in Oregon, and he was going to NYU. But he knew he'd see his personal thief again.
Because as they said goodbye, she slipped a note into his pocket, and stole a kiss.