PRESENT

BEV GRIPS ONTO MY ARM, eyes bleeding into my skin as Wesley stares at me. Bev's grip is a grounding force, and I allow myself to inhale and exhale. Calvin's hand rubs circles into my back. 

For years, I've faced an innumerable amount of sucker punches. Time and time again, people have sliced right through my trust, sending me sprawling to the ground and forced to gather my resolve and pull myself together. Often, I've had to do that alone.

The steadiness of both Bev and Calvin's presence allows me to pull myself together once again. But this time, I'm not doing so alone. 

"Are you sure you wanna talk to him?" Bev asks, and of course, I would rather not, but I don't see any other choice. 

I guess I thought that I could outrun my history. But how could I? I might have been running, but not far enough or fast enough. I haven't even moved out of state. My history would always only be a few hours away.

I'm attending a university hours north from the county I grew up in southern California. The drive is horrendously long. I suppose I didn't expect anyone from my past to take the trip. Clearly, I was dead wrong. 

Shaking my head, I say yes, mustering the most amount of conviction I can feel. I can't run away forever. 

I make my way up to Wesley. He's 5'11'' now, towering over me by a few inches. He's got his hands slipped into his pockets. His hair is cut shorter, as compared to the locks he kept in middle school. 

With Bev and Calvin's eyes burning into our skin, Wes juts his head toward the door and I follow him out, closing the door behind us and pressing my back against the painted wood.

"I saw your letter about me," he cuts to the chase immediately once we're outside. 

A wry laugh slips out of my lips. "Yeah, seems like everyone in the whole damn world has."

"All your letters been reposted a ton of times. I saw them on Instagram and Twitter. Both posts I've seen already have 10,000 likes and apparently it's also on Tumblr."

My lips part. The devil works hard, but whoever is posting my letters works harder. "Are you kidding me right now? I only checked Instagram and the school's blog."

"Wish I was," he mutters, handing the phone to me.

Humiliation makes it hard for me to hear anything else he says. When I snap out of my trance, I glance up at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm in town for spring break," he replies, taking his phone back. "Someone texted it to me and so I went to find you. Seems like we need to make amends."

"We don't," I reply, then elaborate. "We don't have to make amends. We were kids."

"Maybe," he flashes the screen of his phone in my direction. "But you're clearly hurt."

"Was." It's difficult to look at him, to see how he's grown, how much taller and broader he is. The last time I saw him, we were eighteen. And by then, we were already so far apart. We had no idea who the other person was anymore.

We're strangers, but it wasn't always that way. 

"Are  you really gonna be like that, Eden?" And then we're kids again, and he's got that charm back in his voice and that tease that always used to crack my walls. 

I exhale a breath. "Like what?"

"Difficult," Wes replies. 

"It's just weird," I finally say, "seeing you." A pause. "And it doesn't help that it's in this context." My arms wrap around my waist. 

"'Course not," Wes replies. "But we should talk about it anyway."

In response to my silence, Wes tries again, "Please, Eden."

I push myself off the door of my apartment. "Fine. Let's go on a walk."

***

The walk is awkward. It's not like all those walks we took in middle school, running into each other, shoulders bumping, secret laughs traded between us. Instead, it's strange, with a physical distance of a foot between us and a metaphorical distance of millions.

"So," Wes starts, "the letter stung."

"Yeah," I agree. I don't take it back, don't apologize for it. I know how I was feeling while I was writing the letter; I had no plans on taking it back. I might have been caught up in my emotions, but I certainly wasn't lying. 

"Made me look like a total asshole," Wes says, eyeing me from his peripheral vision. 

"I didn't lie about anything I wrote."

"I know you didn't." Wes laughs. "I actually think that's what makes it worse."

"Well, we were all dumb in middle school," I say. I can't tell whether the statement is meant to make Wes or me feel better.

Wes nods. "Yeah, but I can't even remember half of what I did or said. I didn't know I hurt you that much."

"You did hurt me," I don't want to revisit it. It's been so long, and yet the feelings are still so raw. 

"For the record, I didn't mean what I said."

"I know you didn't," I reply. "We were kids," I repeat for what feels like the millionth time in fifteen minutes. 

"And I'm sorry I didn't say anything, wasn't there for you when—"

My heart is overcome with a sudden, numbing pain. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Right," Wes replies, running his hands through his blond locks. "Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry."

"Besides, you didn't owe me anything," I reply. "I'm sure that in your own way, you were trying to spare my feelings when you pretended to like me."

Wes stops in his tracks. I have to retrace my steps so that we're side by side once more. 

"What?" I ask, eyebrows raised. 

"I did like you, Eden," Wes says. And he's all emphatic, and I'm not sure whether to trust him or not, but I realize that now that we're so far from middle and high school, he has no reason to lie.

I pause. "What?" I'd thought so at the time, but after he'd played me like a fiddle, the question regarding whether or not he actually liked me, remained that; a question. And over the years, I'd started allowing myself to accept the glaring likelihood that he didn't like me.

"I think you liked the attention I gave you." I'm ready to keep walking, but Wes refuses to budge. 

"That's not true," Wes shoots back. "I did like attention, of course I did. But I also liked you."

"Why didn't you want to be with me, then?" It's so stupid, such petty drama from so long ago, but yet I need to know the answer. Those little rejections so early in life have you questioning everything for years to come. 

"I did," Wes replied. "But I wanted to eat my cake and have it. I wanted to be with you, but I also wanted to be with other girls. I'll be the first to admit that I took you for granted, assumed you'd always be there. You know I was a dumb kid, Eden. I wanted popularity and girls like Elodie gave me that. She was the type of girl that other guys would congratulate me for being with."

It was glaringly obvious in a way. Pretty, perfect Elodie with athlete's legs for days and a seemingly unending supply of crop tops and wits. Me, with my big glasses and the constant frizz to my curls and my awkward height.

"And I wasn't," I replied. I didn't fit his aesthetic. I knew that, to an extent. But I also never thought he'd admit it, largely due to the fact that I was sure we'd never talk again. 

But here we are, talking.

"I'm not saying it was right," Wes replied, "But I was a stupid kid. And if I had been braver and not needed constant validation all the goddamn time, then maybe we would've dated, for real." He shrugs. "I don't know."

Finally, a small half-smile appears on my lips. "I don't think we would have lasted even if you had been bolder. We were tweens. And teens, the last time we spoke."

"We could've been high school sweethearts," that familiar, toothy grin appears on Wes' lips, and I remember why I adored him.

"Could've, should've, would've," a half-smile appears on my lips in return. "I doubt it, though. I had three boyfriends after you that didn't work out."

"Life happens," Wes replies, peering down at me, hands in his pockets. If I was fourteen, I definitely would've eaten that up. At twenty-one, I just smile wryly. "I've probably dated what? Six different people since our thing? I can't judge."

His newfound self-awareness is refreshing, this reminder that he has matured. And I have too. "You've grown up a bit," I find myself saying. We're not who we once were, but maybe that's not a bad thing. 

"Yeah?" Wes replies, and there's a little bit of that back-and-forth from before, that teasing. I see how much he's changed physically and perhaps mentally. "You too."  I wonder about the changes he notices in me. I know I'm not the girl I was in middle or high school. But does he see that? Somewhere, does he still see his nerdy best friend with the massive crush on him?

And if I wanted to pursue this new connection more, I might have asked him what about me has changed. If he likes those changes. But, like I said before, I'm not the girl I once was, so I say, "I hope so."

Wes holds my gaze for a few moments, blue eyes thoughtful. "Want to grab coffee?" 

And in another world, he might have held out his elbow and I might take it, and we might ignite something new or reignite something old. But in this world, he simply offers me a nod and we walk alongside each other, keeping the space between us and the conversation light.

**

We talk about little nothings. Wes pays. We have some reminisces about our friendship, about middle school. We talk little about the freshman year of high school, where everything went to shit. Wes is in San Diego right now, going to college, living his life. He says he's a part of his school's fraternity, which is utterly Wesley of him. 

When we make our way back to my apartment, the tension has largely evaporated. The past is still there, but not overarching. When I catch Wes with his new stubble and silver chain and washed out jeans, I see little glimpses of the boy with blue braces, the boy who would camp out in my backyard tent, the boy who became my best friend and a fixture of my past. 

But the past element of our story remains front and center. It happened, and now it's long gone.

I reach out my hand, and Wes dismisses it, throwing his arms around me. He's familiar, but also unfamiliar. His stubble brushes my forehead. We're in tacit agreement that we should keep this hug short and sweet, and we do. 

I wonder if I will feel a longing when I pull away. Wes meets my eyes. His smile is friendly, distant. I appreciate the distance. I return it. There is no longing and there is no regret. There's just the two of us, twenty-one and familiar and unfamiliar, our past between us like a faint memory.

***

"How'd it go?" 

Bev's laying down stomach-first on the couch, looking up when I walk into the room. 

"Do we have to fight him?" Calvin asks from the dining table, as if he has ever hurt a fly in his life. 

"It went fine," I say, shutting the door closed behind me. "Better than I thought it would go, actually." I turn toward Calvin. "So, no. No one's fighting anybody."

"Good," Bev says, sitting up.

"So, what're we doing now?" Calvin asks, rising to her feet. 

The question of the letters hangs in the air. 

"I could go for a drink," I say. "Or a walk. I don't know. Just don't want to stay inside, alone with my thoughts right now."

"Drink it is," Bev says, offering me a half-smile.

***

The bar is dimly lit and the three of us grab stools in front of the bar counter. 

"So, how're we going to solve this letter leak thing?" Calvin asks. 

I gently bang my head against the counter, exhaling a breath. "No idea."

Bev messes up my hair.

"We'll figure it out."

Pushing my curls out of my face, I groan. 

"Who do you think could've done it?"

"I don't know," I reply. "I don't think I have a ton of enemies, but it's not like the sorority sisters are big fans of me. And I mean, anyone drama-obsessed enough who got their hands on my letters would share them." It's not always personal. When it's someone else's drama, it's all fun and games. 

"Can I take your order?" A familiar voice rises to the air; tenor, rust, song. A surprised pause. "For the second time today?"

I look up, and sure enough, it's Xavier Jean, in all black, nose piercing and silver stud glinting in the light. His eyes land on mine.

"Do you just work everywhere?" Bev asks. 

Xavier's eyes flit away from me to her. A laugh leaves his lips. "Just about. Got to chase that bag."

"I respect the hustle, man," Calvin says. 

"You get it," Xavier replies. Noticing my silence, his eyes flit back to mine. 

"Eden, right?" he asks. 

His gaze rests on me. He's seeing me and I'm burning. I don't know when I gave him my name; he's probably seen it plastered onto every social media site since the Powell Press blog post that was released today.

"I saw what happened with the letters," his gaze is unwavering. "Really sorry about that." 

I nod. "Thanks." His lips quirk slightly upward in return.

He takes our orders.

I watch as he makes our drinks, all languid movements and precision. He's mesmerizing to watch, enough for me to temporarily forget the drama of today. 

He hands us our drinks, and I take a long sip out of my glass. 

Bev and Calvin are shooting out possible solutions for the letter leak. I'm hearing all their suggestions, but I'm not necessarily listening. It feels like too much to tackle. If we're going to try and find out who's behind it, where do we even start?

I don't know how much time has passed, but I do know that the bar empties more and more as time goes by. 

"Hey guys," Xavier's voice reappears. He leans against the counter, meeting our eyes. "We're closing up in a bit, so."

Bev's eyes widen when she checks the time on her watch. "Shit. Yeah. Thanks for the drinks. We'll be on our way."

Calvin nods, tipping an invisible hat in Xavier's direction.

I give him a smile. Xavier returns a dizzying one. 

The three of us make our way out, Calvin and Bev sandwiching me in between them as we walk out. The night is black and silence permeates the air. 

We haven't walked five steps when a voice rises to the air behind us.

It's Xavier, and he's jogging up to us.

I pause once he slows down to a stop in front of me. Up close, it's clear he has more than a few inches on me. His black shirt is fitted, hands shoved into his black jeans. 

"I'm a Computer Science major," he says. 

My eyebrows knit together.

"I think I can help you track down who posted your letters. Or try, at least."

"Why?" I ask. 

"Because it's screwed up. And I heard your friends mention that it's your birthday. No one deserves that shit, especially not on their birthday."

"That's so sweet of you," Bev takes the words out of my mouth as I stare at him.

"And your skill-set with Computer Science and all would be helpful," Calvin adds. "I mean, we don't have that," he says, a laugh leaving his lips. 

"And you're okay with this?" I ask, eyes resting on his. "Because you don't have to do any of this."

His eyes don't leave mine. "Yeah. Can't make any promises, but I'll do what I can. I can give you my number."

"Thank you," I say, and his lips twitch as I hand him my phone. "Seriously. Thank you."

"Of course."