Email.
Lara-
It could have been uncomfortable as hell, but somehow we managed. Don't think you could get away with it in a Volkswagen, though, no matter what make or model-- please delete this email immediately so Grams doesn't find it and wonder what on earth we're talking about.
I'm happy, Lara. Emilio is good for me. I don't know what... I don't know where it's going. I have no earthly idea, if you want to know the truth. Coming off an Enormous Thing like being with Jack... it isn't as if Emilio is a stopgap. If anything, Jack was the interloper and Emi and I were meant to be all along, you know? Inevitability and detours and things like that.
Sometimes I feel the words "I love you" itching the back of my throat and open my mouth to say them (because really, just words, how hard can they be?), and something stops me. I do love him. I know I do. I love him very much and I love being with him and hearing him laugh, feeling him tug the back pocket of my jeans to keep me near him, the way he always smells my hair when he thinks I'm not paying attention. He is my most cherished friend and he takes care of me as if I were his chiefest treasure. There's so much about him I do love... so why can't I report it?
It's not as if he's asking me to anyhow. He's patient and good with me, and I in turn have been trying not to let my freak colors fly. I don't know if he's in love with me either. Does it really have to matter if we're in love, if we're happy?
I know what you're going to say, so this is me telling you pre-emptively to can it. I know this doesn't sound like me. Practical in every matter but those of the heart... I know love matters. I know it does. But I'm also seventeen years old, for God's sake, and I've already broken an engagement. I deserve to have a bit of goodness, a bit of stability, without having to worry, don't I? And he and I are on the same page, to take it as it comes to us.
No, I'm not changing that much. I'm only trying to be more grown-up. Realistic.
Call me on Saturday when you've got your free minutes, chatty girl, and we'll talk better. (You run up your phone bills calling Isaac the Mystery Boyfriend and then murder your minutes before I can get a word in edgewise and it simply isn't fair, you know.) And I know Grams wanted to ask me about something and I have a dreadful feeling that it's to do with college. If it is, wash your cell phone accidentally. Isaac and I will understand.
All my love,
Luce