Loving KalvinBy: Siobhan Davis
I used to think I was a decent person.
Kind, mostly selfless, with a good sense of morality, a good heart.
But I was clearly mistaken.
Because a good, kind, selfless person doesn’t do the things I’ve done these last couple months.
A good person wouldn’t continue to lie.
A good person wouldn’t accuse the only boy who’s ever mattered of such a horrible thing.
“Lana, we need to leave in thirty minutes to ensure we get parking outside the courthouse,” Mom says, poking her head through the door. She checked us into adjoining rooms in the hotel because she’s terrified to let me out of her sight these days.
I look up from the desk, chewing on the corner of my pen. “Okay. I’ll be ready.”
Her expressive hazel eyes—so similar to my own—flit to the handwritten page in front of me. Straightening up, she levels a stern look at me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m writing Faye a letter,” I lie with the confidence of an expert deceiver. The lies just flow off my tongue like warm butter sliding off a knife these days.
I’m a total fraud, and I couldn’t hate myself any more if I tried.
I swallow the painful lump in my throat as I offer her a brittle smile.
“Why? You don’t owe that girl anything.” Her lips pull into a tight line.
“Don’t, Mom.” I shake my head. “She was my friend, and I owe her an explanation.”
“I beg to differ.” Mom crosses her arms over her chest. “Today is all the explanation she needs. Once you testify, she’ll understand exactly why you left without clarifying what happened. It was better that way. Leave it alone, darling.”
Nausea swims up my throat, and I doubt I’ll get through today without hurling. I could continue arguing with her, but then I won’t get my letter finished. And it’s too important to rush. “Mom, please. I don’t want to fight. Not today. I’m writing my friend a letter, and then I’ll put my suit on”—I gesture toward the black, shapeless monstrosity she laid out on the bed earlier—“and meet you in the lobby before we need to leave.”
Clearly noting the resolve in my tone and my expression, she backs down. “I don’t want to fight with you either, honey. I know how difficult today is going to be. I’ll leave you to write your letter in peace.” She closes the door quietly behind her.
I collapse in my chair, exhaling loudly.
Yes, today is going to be difficult.
But not for the reason she thinks.
Shaking aside those thoughts, I refocus on the task at hand. I examine the heap of crumpled pages in the trash—testament to more epic failure. For someone who aspires to be a writer, it’s pathetic that I can’t find the right words to tell the boy I love how sorry I am. I know him inside and out, so this should be uncomplicated. Shoot straight from the heart. Cakewalk, right?
So, why is this one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do?
Glancing at the half-written page in front of me, I scan my latest effort with a frown. Frustrated, I scrunch the page into a ball and toss it clear across the room.
Ugh. Propping my elbows on the desk, I drop my head into my hands and shut my eyes.
His hauntingly beautiful face dances across the fields of my imagination, and a deep pang of yearning punches another hole in my heart.
Gosh, I miss him so much, and I’m not sure I have the strength to do this.
The problem is simple really.
I could write this letter, but I don’t want to.
That’s what’s holding me back.
Even though I know it’s for the best, there’s a romantic, nostalgic part of me that still sees Kalvin Kennedy as my Prince Charming. My Mr. Right. My future.
The issue with that picture isn’t Kal. Not really. Although, I’m sure he must hate me now, but this one is on me.
It’s all my fault.
I wish things were different.
I wish I could rewrite our story, but I can’t. The damage is done, and there’s no going back.
The usual panic waylays me. I take deep breaths. In and out. Reminding myself I’m doing the right thing. And I can do this.
I’m strong enough.
I’ll have to be.
I rub a tense spot between my brows, picking up the pen and a new piece of paper. I squint at the clock. Time is ticking. It’s now or never.
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