1642734778_punk-57-pdf

“Because he hasn’t written you in months,” she snips. “You need to let
it go.”
Anger boils under my skin as I watch her twist toward the mirror and
mess with her bun. “Tell me again how that’s any of your business,” I snap,
and I don’t care if our mom hears.
“Ryen, it’s pathetic,” she says, looking at me like I’m a child. “You look
like you’re chasing him. When he gets his shit together, he can find you.”
I throw down the letter and grab my lipstick, facing the mirror again.
“He’s not my boyfriend who needs to check in, and I don’t have to explain
myself to you. Don’t touch my mail again.”
“Fine.” She turns and walks for the door but stops and turns her head to
look at me. “Oh, and mom’s waiting for you at the kitchen table. She saw
your essay score online.”
She walks out, and I close my eyes, entertaining the idea of taking a cue
from Masen for a wonderful split-second.
Cannonball or washing machine, Carson? Maybe a haircut?
I walk out of my house and past my Jeep, holding the strap of my school
bag over my shoulder as I carry my letter to Misha back to the mailbox. I
stick it inside and raise the flag so the mail carrier knows to pick it up.
But then my eyes fall to the trash cans next to the mailbox, and I pause.
You look like you’re chasing him. It’s pathetic.
Pathetic.
I swallow the bitter lump in my throat.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not a priority anymore. Maybe he got a
girlfriend, and she made him stop writing me. Maybe he got bored. His