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.”