and little round glasses?”
“Who? Oh—you mean Jamie. He wasn’t my boyfriend. He just lived in our dorm room. Because he hated his roommates. You know how that is.” Jamie would invariably sit on one side of me while Luisa sat on the other, each silently rolling their eyes at me when I passed them notes commenting on something Jonathan had said, or what he was wearing that day, or any of the other trivialities that are so important when you have a massive, hopeless crush on somebody who doesn’t know you exist.
“You’re kidding. I’ll have to tell Clark. He’ll kick himself, especially now that he’s married and has three kids.”
“And just think, they could have been mine.” Jonathan chuckled. Little did he know how much time I’d spent dreaming of him and our three kids.
“So, the letters,” I said, once again having to remind myself why I was there.
“Yes, the letters,” he repeated. He used a key to open a desk drawer and pulled out a stack of folded papers held together by a rubber band. “Take a look,” he invited, handing the stack across the desk.
“What about fingerprints?” I asked.
“So many people have handled these—Sara, Edie, me—I doubt that there will be any useful prints. And I suspect that whoever wrote these was pretty careful. They could have been typed on any computer and printed on any standard laser printer.”
I freed the folded pages from the rubber band and opened the one on top, scanning it quickly. Jonathan was right—it was entirely typewritten on regulation letter-size paper.
Darling Sara,
I saw you today, at a distance, your raven hair bent over your studies, a pen grasped in your graceful hand, and my heart overflowed. I wanted to rush to your side and take you in my arms.
I see you and hear the words of the poet:
“She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies”
You are my night, you are my starry skies. But how can I confess my forbidden love? I cannot. One day, perhaps, but not today.
I didn’t blame whoever had written it for leaving it unsigned—it was awful.
“Yeesh,” I said. “Are they all like this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nauseating?”
“You think it’s nauseating?”
“Well…” I cast about, trying to find a more appropriate word, but came up empty. “Yes. Nauseating. So gushy and gross.”
“Which one are you looking at?” he asked me.
I handed it to him, and he skimmed it. “Oh. I thought this one was sweet. Romantic, with the Keats and everything.”
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