Dear Peter,

I decided I Super-Love you

- Katie

P.S. I was the one who broke your favorite Star Wars guy, the gold robot.

Chapter Twenty-One

The headache hadn't been as bad as she had expected. The wine had been, though. Cheap wine, from Carol's top cupboard. Probably used for cooking years

ago and left there.

She'd made it through Monday, though. Her presentation was done, double

and triple checked. Still a few missing parts, but she was hoping she could fudge

those well enough to make it to the final round of branding candidates next week.

She shifted her weight, standing on Peter's front porch. The sun was down,

and fallen leaves rustled in the chilly shadows.

Her finger hovered over the doorbell. It was an old-fashioned one that rang

an actual bell outside on the porch. She was worried it would trigger her headache again, but the hangover had finally subsided.

She'd wanted to call Peter to apologize. She was embarrassed, as if she were

afraid he would call her parents or something and she'd be grounded. As if they

were still back in school and she needed him to keep some deep, dark secret.

She peered through the curtains to the side of Peter's front door. The lights

were on, but no one was in the living room.

Maybe he wasn't home. Maybe he was avoiding her because of last night.

She didn't know why she'd done that, drink almost a whole bottle of wine. It

wasn't like her, was it?

She rang the bell again. She thought she could hear footsteps. What would

she say?

Peter, I'm not really a lush. I just love cheap wine…

Peter, studies have shown that a little wine before bed helps you sleep better,until you throw up…

Peter, you should know I only drink when I'm back in my hometown dealing

with a high-stress project, and a guy I can't seem to get out of my brain…

Peter, I—

The door opened.

“Hi, Kate.” He didn't slam the door. Good sign. “Sorry, I was just out back

on the porch.”

The screen door was still there, but she didn't wait. “Peter, I just wanted to

apologize for last night.”

He shook his head and smiled. “No apology necessary. You're under a lot of stress.”

Yes, stress. Works for me. “Well, I just wanted you to know I don't normally, you know, drink that much.”

“Forget it.” He pushed the screen door open. “Come in?”

“You're probably busy. 'A teacher's work is never done,' right?” Another flat

joke.

“Actually, I'm all done for today.”

“Oh. Good.” She stepped through. The screen door dropped back, then

settled against the jamb with a click.

She'd always liked the Clark's house, almost more than her own. It just seemed so homey for some reason. Big wrap-around front porch, two stories with lots of character. Could be a bed-and-breakfast if someone wanted to put in

the work. Awfully big for one person, though.

Peter hadn't changed it much. There were a few signs a man lived alone here. A bike leaning in the corner. Running shorts draped over a dining room chair.

Music was playing in the background. She caught it from a memory. When

she worked a summer at the sweet-corn stand on the edge of town. Mr. Peterson

loved to listen to the oldies station. The title bounced up from her memory.

“Don't Do Your Love.”

“Nice song.”