I hesitate.
“Are you afraid of the work?” she says.
“No.”
She turns away, pulls a book off her shelf, and hands it to me. “Are you sure?”
I look at the title. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway.
“Have you read it?” she asks. “This is what we’re reading right now.”
I wouldn’t know a Hemingway book if he stood in front of me and read it out loud. “No.”
“Want to give it a try?”
“I’ll think about it.”
I wait for her expression to turn disappointed, but it doesn’t. She nods. “Keep it. Try it. Let me know by the end of the week?”
“Sure.” I feel a bit breathless.
Rev and I walk to our lockers, and the early buses must have started to arrive, because the hallways are slowly filling with students.
“Are you going to do it?” he says.
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think you should.” He pauses. “Are you really worried they’d think you don’t belong?”
Normally, I’d deny it, but this is Rev, and I tell him everything. “Yes. Wouldn’t you be?”
He shrugs a little. “Maybe.”
I tug at the sleeve of his hoodie gently. “Maybe?”
He stops in the middle of the hallway, and for a moment, I worry I’ve pushed him too far after our conversation the other night. But he pushes the hood of his sweatshirt back. Slides the zipper down.
And then he freezes.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Jeez, Rev, at least wait till we’re alone.”
He hits me in the arm and starts walking again. The hoodie is still on, but the hood is down. The zipper stays unzipped.
“I’m wearing short sleeves,” he says after a moment.
“Okay.” I glance over. “You don’t have anything to prove, Rev.”
“I’m not ready,” he says. “Not yet.”
I shrug and try not to make this seem like a big deal. “There’s always tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “There’s always tomorrow.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Anne Arundel County Student Mail Server
INBOX - Juliet Young
No new messages
By lunchtime, he hasn’t written back.
I have no idea what that means.
In the cafeteria, I linger in the line, then casually walk past the table where he usually sits with Rev.
They’re not there.
It shouldn’t, but this feels deliberate. And not in a good way.
Rowan and Brandon welcome me to their table, but they’ve moved to the point of their courtship where everything is teasing flirtation and double entendre. Rowan is currently feeding him grapes by tossing them into his mouth, and giggling a little too hard when he misses.
I’m trying really hard to keep from sighing heavily.
A denim-clad leg swings over the bench, and weight drops beside me.
I’m somehow surprised, yet not at all, when I turn my head and find Declan straddling the bench.
He steals my breath. He looks as striking and lethal as ever, but I know his secrets. I know how much of that is a front.
“Feel like taking a walk?” he says.
“Ah . . . sure.”
And then he surprises me by taking my hand.
We’re at school, so our options are limited, but I’m under his spell and I’d walk into fire if he asked right now.
He doesn’t. He leads me out the back doors of the cafeteria and onto the quad.
The noonday sun blazes down, robbing the air of any hint of a chill. Students are scattered everywhere, but it’s more private with the open air around us.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you all morning,” he finally says.
“You didn’t email.”
He shakes his head. “I wanted to talk to you.” He looks chagrined. “And now that I’m next to you, I wish I could go back to The Dark.”
I understand exactly what he means. Butterflies ricochet around my abdomen. “Want me to pull out my phone?”
He smiles. “I’ll save that for my last resort.”
My own tongue is tied up in knots, so I smile, and we keep walking. The silence presses down.
He inhales to speak—but hesitates.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “We don’t have to talk.”
He laughs under his breath. “I don’t know what my problem is. You know everything.”
“So do you.”
He rubs his jaw—another morning without the razor, I see—and runs a hand through his hair.
“Wait,” he says, pulling me to a stop. “I have an idea.”
He turns to face me, and before I’m ready for it, he moves close. Very close. So close that his cheek is against my cheek, and one hand is against my neck. If I take a deep breath, I’ll be pressed up against him. His breath tickles my ear, his stubble brushing my jaw.
“Is this okay?” he says softly.
“Okay? This is about three thousand times better than my idea with the phones.”
He laughs, and our chests do touch. One of his hands finds my waist. We could be dancing instead of sharing secrets. I have the sudden urge to wrap my arms around him.
“I need to tell you something,” he says.
I wet my lips. “You can tell me anything.”
“I’m sorry for the times I was mean to you. I’m trying to work on that.”
I feel light-headed, drunk on his closeness.
His thumb brushes against my neck in a soothing rhythm. “I like you.”
“I like you, too.”
“I’ve liked you since the morning you ran into me.”
I giggle and try to shove him away, but he uses the motion to pull us closer. “You have not,” I say.
“I have,” he whispers, and now his lips brush against my cheek. “I remember thinking, ‘Nice job, dickhead. Add another girl to the list of people who hate you.’”
“I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.”
“Now, that’s reassuring,” he says, but I can hear the smile in his voice. He inhales along my cheekbone, and sparks flare through my abdomen. “You should write for Hallmark.”
“All my future love letters will start with ‘To whom it may concern.’”
“Are you going to send me future love letters?”
I flush, and I’m sure he can see it. Feel it.
But then his voice loses the smile. “You were the first person to see all of me, Juliet. The first person who made me feel like I was worth more than a reputation and a record. That’s the hardest part of losing Cemetery Girl. I don’t know if anyone will look at me that same way again.”
I draw back and put both hands against his chest, then slide them upward until I find his jaw.
He looks away.
“I see all of you,” I say. “And I’m looking at you that way now.”
He takes my hand, puts it over his heart, and holds it there. His eyes close. “You’re killing me, Juliet.”
“Look at me,” I say.
He looks at me.
“You can’t make your own path with your eyes closed,” I tease.
“Watch me.” Then he leans in and captures my mouth with his.
Acknowledgments
Full disclosure: I’m writing this while I’m sick, and my eyes are kind of blurry, and I’m at that emotional part of an illness where you think about people and their kindness and you start crying. So if I sound like a blubbering mess in print, blame Influenza A.
First and foremost, I have to thank my husband. He’s my best friend, my confidant, my rock. (Okay, I’m crying already. Second paragraph. Go me.) He has been unfailingly supportive of my writing career since day one, and I couldn’t do this without him.
Tremendous thanks go to my agent, Mandy Hubbard, who is quite possibly Wonder Woman. (I know you have the gold wristbands, Mandy. ADMIT IT.) One day we will meet in person
and I will tackle her with hugs. I imagine this happening in a field of daisies, despite the fact that I wouldn’t even know where to find such a field. Thank you, Mandy, for everything.
Additional tremendous thanks go to my editor, Mary Kate Castellani, whose guidance and vision in the crafting of this novel have been invaluable. You can join me and Mandy in the field of daisies and we can all tackle-hug. Or shake hands, if that’s your thing. But seriously, I am so lucky for the opportunity to work with you. Thank you for everything.
Many thanks to everyone at Bloomsbury who has been working on my behalf. I wish I knew all of your names so I could thank you individually, but please know that I’m very aware that a book “takes a village,” and you’ve all played a part in mine. You have my sincere appreciation. I hope to meet you all one day.
Huge appreciation and love go to my close friends and critique partners, Bobbie Goettler, Alison Kemper, and Sarah Fine. You all mean so much to me, and I’m so lucky to have you in my circle.
This book took a ton of research, from legal issues to photography to automobile repair. Charles “Chuck” Allen, I owe you a lunch (or a dinner, or a restaurant of your own) for all the emails you answered in regards to photography and photojournalism. Officer James Kalinosky of the Baltimore County Police Department has been a constant resource for all matters regarding law enforcement, and this time was no different. Most of my automobile information came from Joe Clipston, Ryan Albers, Stephanie Martin, and Scott Prusik. All of these people provided brilliant assistance. Any errors in print are mine alone.
Many people read early pieces or drafts of this manuscript and provided feedback that helped make this a better finished product. Huge thanks to Jim Hilderbrandt, Nicole Choiniere-Kroeker, Tracy Houghton, Joy Hensley George, Shana Benedict, Nicole Mooney, Amy Clipston, and Michelle MacWhirter.
My heartfelt appreciation goes out to all of my readers, whether this is the first book of mine you’ve read, or if you’ve been along for the ride since you met Becca and Chris in Storm. Without you all, I wouldn’t be able to do what I love. Thank you.
As always, I must thank my mother for her eternal wisdom, guidance, and support, even when I was in second grade, writing a book about a dog. (Which she still pulls out to show people, folks. Seriously.)
Finally, as always, tremendous thanks go to the four Kemmerer boys, Jonathan, Nick, Sam, and Baby Zach. Thank you for letting Mommy follow her dreams, while I thank my lucky stars each day for all of you.
Copyright © 2017 by Brigid Kemmerer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First published in the United States of America in April 2017
by Bloomsbury Children’s Books
This electronic edition published in April 2017 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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[email protected] Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kemmerer, Brigid, author.Title: Letters to the lost / by Brigid Kemmerer.Description: New York : Bloomsbury, 2017.Summary: Juliet Young has always written letters to her mother, a world-famous photojournalist—even after her mother’s death, she leaves letters at her grave. When Declan finds a haunting letter left beside a grave, he can’t resist the urge to write back. Soon, he is sharing his pain with a perfect stranger. When real life interferes with their secret life of letters, Juliet and Declan discover truths that might tear them apart.Identifiers: LCCN 2016009032 (print) | LCCN 2016036029 (e-book)ISBN 978-1-68119-008-2 (hardcover) • ISBN 978-1-68119-009-9 (e-book)Subjects: | CYAC: Grief—Fiction. | Love—Fiction. | Letters—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Love & Romance. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Death & Dying. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Adolescence.Classification: LCC PZ7.K3052 Le 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.K3052 (e-book) | DDC [Fic]—dc23LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016009032
Book design by Colleen Andrews
Brigid Kemmerer, Letters to the Lost
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