Finley Richards.
He showed up at Dia’s house at 7:00 a.m. on Saturday morning and pulled us out of bed, begging her to hear him out. It took both Dia’s dads and her older brother, Jesse, to get him off the property. I wish I was kidding.
He hasn’t been at school since.
That’s how bad this is.
I glance at Dia, who’s immersed in her text conversation with her boy toy of the day, and grab my own phone. I scroll through my contact list and tap the number I added five days ago.
Zac’s.
I’ve been staring at these damn digits all week, trying to gather the courage to text him. But I can’t bring myself to do it. There’s something rather… personal about texting someone.
Something more dangerous.
The risk was manageable when we were just writing letters, but giving him my number? Isn’t that just begging him to try and uncover my identity? What if he asks around?
Many people in this school have my number. Dia, Lacey, even Finn, just to name a few. Zac could easily trace it back to me. With that said, he did promise that he’d never try to find me.
The question is…
Do I trust him?
“Who’s Z?” Dia’s voice startles me.
“What? Oh, it’s nothing. I mean, h-he’s no one.” I put my phone away before she can blink.
Dia’s eyes widen. “He?”
Shit.
“Aveena Harper D’Amour, are you talking to a boy?” She completely butchers my French name, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Is that why you’re always searching for someone in the halls lately? Because you’re seeing some guy?”
And here I thought I was being so slick.
It’s true that I’ve been playing detective around school this past week. I can’t stop myself. Every time I see a guy from the senior class, I wonder if I’m looking at Zac.
Every. Single. Time.
This whole pen pal thing is screwing with my mind. I want nothing more than to tell Dia about the letters, but I’m a firm believer that once you let a secret out into the universe, word will spread. Might not be tomorrow, might not be next week, but it will get out one way or another.
The only way to make sure something truly remains secret is to keep it to yourself.
I make up an excuse. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s just an old number. Been going through my contacts. Deleting a bunch.”
Guilt sweeps over her.
“Vee, you know you can still talk to me about these things, right? Just because mylove life is a pile of dog shit doesn’t mean yours has to be, too. I’m here for you. Always.”
Right.
Except when you’re not.
Which is often lately.
“I’m telling you, there’s no guy.”
I’m met with a puzzled look. She’s not falling for it.