I open my P.O. box in the campus mail room to find a package. It's from Crane. He didn't tell me he was sending me anything, and I literally just got off the phone with him. I grab it and head back to my dorm room.
I miss him. This is the first time we've been separated for so long. It's our first year apart. He's at Oxford University studying history, and I'm at the University of California (Irvine). My major is criminology. The first night here I cried. It wasn't because I didn't have my parents or Jenny, but because I didn't have my best friend. I'm happy to have something in the mail from him.
It's November and a few days away from Thanksgiving break. I can't wait to go home.
When I get to my dorm, I throw my bookbag down and open the box. A note and a stack of journals are in it.
I hope these journals have found you, Abbie. Each of them contains every thought I've wanted to share with you, but I didn't because of my cowardness. As you read each page, I hope you find my heart laid bare for you.
-Ichabod Crane
Since we kissed in the treehouse a while ago, my feelings for Crane have grown, though I pushed them aside. Neither of us discussed that moment again. We went back to normal, but I had an inkling he felt something for me. I wasn't positive about it, and I was scared to ask for fear of rejection. Now, it's very clear. I open the first journal.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Dear Abbie,
This morning, you wore the prettiest floral dress that complimented your skin. I didn't have the right words to describe how beautiful I thought you were. You were simply exquisite.
Yours,
Ichabod Crane
I'm speechless, and my stomach's shaking in the best way possible. This entry was written two years before we kissed. Around 10th grade. He's known all this time. And I had no idea.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Dear Abbie,
At lunch today, while we gorged ourselves on pizza, I found myself distracted by the shape of your lips. I wanted to kiss them.
Yours,
Ichabod Crane
I turn the page.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Dear Abbie,
You challenged Mr. Wright on why students weren't reading more black literature in his course. I admired your tenacity. Please, don't ever lose it. It is one of my favorite qualities about you.
Yours,
Ichabod Crane
I almost want to cry. I've never felt this appreciated, this adored by anyone. It's mind boggling that he felt this way for so long and didn't tell me. At least he made do on his promise to share his journals with me.
I'm glad it's the weekend, so I can spend it reading. Homework be damned. I take my shoes off and get into bed. The pages blur by within a few hours.
He tells me how he gladly hounded Richard Parks for touching my behind in the hallway without my permission. I remember that. Crane got suspended for a day. Parks never messed with me again.
He recounts how he saw the stars in my laugh that night we stayed up watching funny movies. He wishes to always make me smile.
In another entry, he vows to never break my heart like Adam Oradel did right before senior prom. I found him cheating on me. And Crane punched him, too, and dropped his date to escort me instead.
He talked about how he loved dancing with me in the treehouse and wishes he could kiss my lips forever.
The journals covered so many moments. I remember each one of them and miss him now more than anything.
I'm finally in the fifth journal on the last entry. It's dated on the day we parted ways at the airport for college.
Dear Abbie,
I love you.
Yours,
Ichabod Crane
I close the journal and put all of them in the box. How do I even begin to express how I feel for him right now? I don't know whether to call him or leave him be. Is expecting me to say something? Or did he simply want me to know how he felt and give me the space to think about it? My belly's turning this way and that and my heart's vibrating. I feel light, and I let his words settle.
I want to call him and tell him how I feel, but I decide not to. I'll tell him in person when I return to Scotland. He'll back before me, but I think I can hold on for three days. I think…
Classes can't end quick enough. The quicker they end, the quicker I can get to the airport. Crane's already home, waiting for me. He calls during the three days, but I stick with texting him. Hearing his voice will ruin me and make me tell him everything right there. I see why he took to writing. These emotions are heavy. They sting the tip of my tongue.
When my English class is finished, I rush back to my room, grab my luggage, and head to the airport. It's about a ten-hour flight, and I reread his journals during it. My heart does strange things. I don't get into the UK until the evening. Mama picks me up from the airport, and I text Crane to tell him I'm almost home. He's waiting for me in the treehouse.
I throw my luggage in my room and run over to his house. I climb the ladder, and he's up there, reading.
"Hello, Abbie." He stands. "How was your flight? I've been quite impatient waiting—"
I kiss him on his lips. There is tongue and teeth and moans and sighs. He squeezes my ass like I remember, and I tangle my fingers in his hair. I want all of him.
"I love you, too," I say.
"You received my journals, I take it." He smiles.
I nod. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He nuzzles my nose. "I thought you wouldn't feel the same as I did."
"Well, I do."
"I am relieved, and I'm so happy about it."
He kisses me again, and we spend awhile in the treehouse.