One Year and Two Days Later
How do you know? Andrew's fingers flashed. I couldn't really tell him the answer, because I still felt like a silly, smitten teenager. Technically, I was an adult, but what does a number mean? I still loved cartoons and sugary cereals, so I didn't feel grown up.
He paused, his dark eyebrows knitted together. I waited for him to continue signing, pulling my hands inside the sleeves of my red sweater that I always saved for Christmas Eve. It was a habit, making my sleeves into essential sock puppets, and it always annoyed Andrew--it's really the equivalent a person you're conversing with putting tape across his or her mouth.
Andrew's next question made me glare at him: Do you really trust him? I nodded firmly without hesitating. Cornell's not that close to NYU. You never know what could happen with some New York City girl while you're all the way up in Ithaca. There was something strange about his signing; hands are unique just like voices.
Donovan and I hadn't meant to both go to college in New York. I mean, I was beyond ecstatic when I heard that not only had he applied to schools, he'd been accepted to good ones. He'd said that there was a mistake, but I read his essays and saw his SAT scores. It was definitely no mistake. When he decided on NYU, I couldn't say I was disappointed.
Maybe that's how I know, then. I trust him. And…I faltered in the midst of signing a letter—was that a car I heard? Looking at the clock again, I saw that there were still fifty-seven minutes until Donovan's plane got in. I was fooling myself again. I talk to Donovan more than I do my roommate, and he's the first one I think of when something funny happens and I want to tell him. I just… know.
Andrew was just about to reply, and I knew that it would be something very cynical. Then he looked towards the door, frowning, so I followed his gaze. There was a shadow in the window by the front door. My heart was in my throat. I knew who it was. He didn't bother knocking, just opening the door. I was glad I managed to not squeal girlishly at the sight of my favorite person in the world standing right there…an hour early.
I ran towards him, throwing my arms around his neck and thinking of how to say…it.
He leaned down slightly, his hair tickling my neck, and whispered, "I love you, Piper."
If I hadn't been speechless, I would've told him how much I hate getting beaten to the punch.
As if he didn't know.