This is Not a Love Letter Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim Purcell

  Cover design by Marci Senders

  Cover art © Shutterstock

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. 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 written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-368-00235-6

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  To my mom, Marion

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  7:01 AM Saturday, my house

  7:25 AM Saturday, the gang

  7:40 AM Saturday, your house

  8:35 AM Saturday, Steph

  9:06 AM Saturday, Steph

  I’m Not a Wild, Naked Girl

  9:45 AM Saturday, my house

  1:58 PM Saturday, the pool

  2:10 PM Saturday, the trail

  4:10 PM Saturday, Thomson’s Field

  5:15 PM Saturday, Scott’s Donutes

  6:15 PM Saturday, your house

  8:55 PM Saturday, your bedroom

  9:05 PM Saturday, my street

  When You Rescued Me

  9:35 PM Saturday, home sweet home

  12:45 AM Sunday, my bedroom

  Just Naked

  10:55 AM Sunday, the pool

  11:43 AM Sunday, the stands

  The Burger Throwing Incident

  11:51 AM Sunday, the detective

  12:02 PM Sunday, a new phone

  12:15 PM Sunday, Josh’s house

  2:45 PM Sunday, Josh’s backyard

  4:20 PM Sunday, a bitchfest, on Josh’s driveway, in front of your sister

  7:30 PM Sunday, the river

  Sunset, Last Thanksgiving, Making Love

  9:16 PM Sunday, the whistler

  9:45 PM Sunday, the parking lot

  10:20 PM Sunday, the news crew

  11 PM Sunday, the news

  12:11 AM Monday, trolls

  12:36 AM Monday, my back door

  8:00 AM Monday, the human flamingo

  Ain’t No River Wide Enough

  9 AM Monday, Matheson Trail parking lot

  3:34 PM Monday, Matheson Trail parking lot

  4:10 PM Monday, Scott’s Donutes

  4:45 PM Monday, Josh’s car

  4:55 PM Monday, Josh’s story

  10:35 PM Monday, your driveway

  11 PM Monday, the local news

  11:25 PM Monday, Tamara’s house

  1:55 AM Tuesday, garbage

  The Ball Game, the Beginning of the End

  3:45 AM Tuesday, the phone call

  11 AM Tuesday, the police station

  10:00 PM, Tuesday, the bridge

  11:20 PM Tuesday, researching

  What Happens to Dead Bodies in Water: An Optional Science Report for Sickos

  7:00 AM Wednesday, the river

  8:45 AM Wednesday, a discovery

  4:35 PM Wednesday, my floor

  9:45 PM, Wednesday, Chinese food

  10:21 PM Wednesday, Johnson’s house

  10 AM Thursday, waiting

  4 PM Thursday, a manila envelope

  6 PM Friday, teen night

  9:40 PM Friday, Michael’s car

  10:05 PM Friday, Bear Lake cabins

  11:25 PM Friday, Josh’s cabin

  If You Ever Left Me

  10:10 AM Saturday, the fake funeral

  4:10 PM Saturday, graduation

  your house

  middle of the night, my bedroom

  two weeks later, my bedroom

  the basement

  the river

  the next Saturday, Bear Lake

  a week later, the pool

  end of summer, a final campfire

  our spot

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  This is not a love letter…

  So don’t get all excited for nothing. Maybe I should write you one, to go with all the letters you’ve written me and folded into perfect little airplanes. But I never wrote you one before, and it would be seriously bad luck to start now.

  Chris. Where are you? How did you not come home last night?

  I don’t care where you went or what you’re doing; I just want to know if you’re okay. We all do. I mean, who does this? I’m starting to feel kind of weird. Desperate, if you want to know the truth. It’s like when I get a mosquito bite. You’re always telling me to leave it alone, but I can’t stop itching until it bleeds. Right now you’re my mosquito bite. Isn’t that romantic?

  I thought I’d write and let you know what we’re doing to find you. Maybe it’ll help me figure out where you are. So until you turn up, this is an account. I know. That’s the unsexiest word ever. But if you want a sexy love letter, you’re going to have to come back home and get it.

  7:01 AM Saturday, my house

  I’ll start this account with first thing this morning.

  I wake up to someone banging on my back door. I open my eyes. The pale light of early morning is drifting through my small basement window.

  Of course, I think it’s you at the door and I got to admit, I’m kind of pissed. I don’t know why you’d knock when you have a key, but it can’t be anyone else. I tug on my jean shorts and put on a bra under the tangerine T-shirt you bought me to match my hair. I wore it to bed. Yes, I admit—I was missing you, just a little bit.

  More knocking. “For god’s sake, I’m coming.”

  I open my bedroom door, step into the hall, and bump into a stack of magazines, which tips over, blocking the hallway. I climb over them. Seriously, if the big West Coast earthquake ever happens, I’ll be buried alive under a pile of US and People magazines.

  “Jessie?” My mom is making her way down the stairs in her old pink bathrobe, gripping the railing like her knees hurt. “What’s going on?” She sounds groggy. Probably because of the sleeping pills. She looks worse than normal. Greasy hair. Dark circles under her eyes. Her tired, sagging face. I’m worried about her at the moment, not you.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I say. “Go back to sleep. I got it.”

  “Okay,” she mumbles, and heads back up the stairs.

  I navigate around the piles of laundry and random towers of my mom’s stuff, and finally arrive at the back door, which I swing open. Nobody’s there.

  I stand with the door wide open. Really? Did you really wake me up and leave? I dig out the corners of my eyes for what you call “sleep surprises” and think about how we both get the same sick pleasure from morning crusties. You told me you love the feeling when you dig them out and they scrape against the corner of your eye, and right away, I realized that’s what I like too.

  This break is really stupid. In so many ways, we’re perfect for each other. Anyway, it’s a week before graduation and we should be together. I decide to stop being so stubborn and go make up. Give you a big old wet kiss. And forget about needing some “perspective.”

  I slide into my flip-flops, step out into the yard, and walk to the side gate. There’s a strong pulp-mill smell in the air, like a stew of farts, rotten eggs, and used athletic socks…and yes, plus a little sugar.

  The gate squeals as I throw it open. I expect to see you walking up the incline along our house to the front lawn, but nobody’s there.

  I listen for your truck. All I hear are the neighbor’s dogs going crazy, barking inside her house. Are you in your truck already? Are you going to leave, again? I take off, running up the path, my flip-flops
slapping against the gravel. I catapult myself around the corner of the house, ready to throw myself at you. Only you’re not there.

  Instead, I see Josh, pushing his bike past the giant tire in the middle of our lawn. The back of his white T-shirt is soaked with sweat.

  What is he doing at my house at this time in the morning? Were you running with him? Did you fall? Are you hurt?

  “Josh?”

  He turns. Sweat is dripping down his face. His blue eyes are rimmed with red, like he’s been crying.

  He pulls off his helmet. His curly blond hair is so drenched, it falls down like an air mattress without air. He runs a hand through it and swallows. “You hear from Chris yet?”

  I say something like why or what.

  “He’s missing,” he says, as if he’s reminding me, like that’s something I’d forget.

  “Missing?” The word missing echoes inside me, reverberates against the internal walls of my body, like an empty chamber. A guy like you doesn’t go missing. You’re responsible, smart, athletic, sexy, funny, sensitive, kind—you are hundreds of words, but you are not missing.

  “Didn’t Chris’s mom call?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Chris went for a run last night around nine, and he hasn’t come home yet. His mom said she called you.”

  The phone rang in the middle of the night, vibrated on my nightstand. I was still mad about how you acted at the mall, so I grabbed it and mumbled something like, “Chris, I said a week.” Then I turned it off.

  I slide my phone out of my back pocket. There are two texts from Josh. And a drunken text from Steph about winning some money at poker. No text from you, but there are two calls from your home phone. Why didn’t I see that? You never would have called from your home phone at two in the morning.

  I listen to the voicemail. It’s your mom. “Hi, Jessie. We’re trying to locate Chris.” Her voice is calm, not angry. “Can you call me?” She pauses, as if she’s going to say more, but then simply adds, “Thanks. Bye.”

  “His mom called,” I tell Josh. “I didn’t know it was her.”

  He looks away. He’s pissed. And I can’t blame him.

  I call your number, but it goes straight to voicemail: “Hey. This is Chris. You know what to do.” There’s a beep.

  I can count on one hand the number of times that I’ve heard that message. And that beep. You always answer. My heart flips around in my chest. My arms buzz. I feel electric, like I’m guarding at the pool, and I’m about to jump in the water for a rescue.

  “Hey, Chris, can you call me? I’m worried. Josh is here, and he’s worried too. Please let us know you’re okay.” I pause. “I miss you.” I don’t say I love you because Josh is standing right there and I don’t know why, it’s dumb.

  Then I send you a text: Call me!! XOXO

  Josh is looking at his phone, like he just got a text.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “Tim and them. They’re out looking too.”

  I wonder who “them” is. “Didn’t you have a big meet in Seattle this weekend?”

  “Yeah.” He shakes his head like it doesn’t matter. “I ran the two hundred yesterday. I came home in the middle of the night, soon as I heard. I’ve been riding the trails looking for him since I got back.”

  I cannot believe I’ve been sleeping this whole miserable night. “You check Matheson trail?”

  “Yeah, we go there all the time.”

  “How about the Pitt?” Of course, I’m thinking about how those guys from the Heights beat you up there.

  “I looked everywhere, Jessie. Been riding down every friggin trail, calling his name.” He bends over and wipes his sweaty face on the bottom of his T-shirt. “There’s nothing. No sign of him anywhere.”

  I have more questions, but I don’t know how much Josh knows. Did he search the ground? Was there blood? Did he look for broken branches?

  “That route is only twelve miles,” I say. “He should have been home in just over an hour.”

  Josh frowns. “I headed out when it was dark, but the light on my bike’s not great, maybe I missed something.”

  Down the street, a truck roars. We spin around to look. We’re both hoping it’s you, but it’s not.

  7:25 AM Saturday, the gang

  Tim’s red truck is speeding toward us. It’s a raging beast of a vehicle, a grizzly bear bellowing through the quiet of the morning.

  Tamara and Becky are sitting in the front. No idea where the rest of the guys are. The truck lurches to a stop and Tim jumps out. Tamara and Becky follow him. Josh pushes his bike down the driveway toward them.

  “What’s up?” Tim says to Josh, then lifts his chin at me. “Hey, Jessie.” He’s real serious, for once, instead of goofing around, speaking a mile a minute. His dark eyes hold mine.

  “She hasn’t heard anything,” Josh says.

  “I just found out,” I explain.

  “I’ve been calling everyone, waking them up. No one’s seen him yet,” Tim says, “but they want to help.”

  I feel a tiny swell of relief. People listen to Tim. Maybe it’s something he learned from watching his grandpa, when he was the chief of the Lummi Nation tribe. But it’s no coincidence that Tim’s the captain of the basketball team and the valedictorian. I always wonder how he does it all.

  Tamara and Becky walk up slowly. They stop next to Tim. Becky slouches over Tamara, like a willow tree giving her shade. They stare at my old house with its peeling paint, the big tire in the front yard, the long patchy grass we never mow. The curtain stirs. Mom is there, watching. Tamara glances at Becky and smirks, which makes me feel like crap, even though I know it shouldn’t. Who gives a rat’s ass what Tamara thinks, right?

  At least she isn’t wearing her little workout shorts, wiggling her butt in everyone’s faces like normal. Today she has this huge black hoodie on; the sleeves are so long, the fabric curls around her hands. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she’s not wearing makeup. Looks pretty harsh. Just saying.

  “I told you this is a waste of time.” Tamara jams out her hip. “They’re broken up.”

  “No, we’re not,” I say. “We’re on a break, for a week. We just needed some—” Perspective. Yes, I was going to say that word again. You laughed when I said it to you.

  She cuts me off. “Whatever. Did he come by your house in the middle of the night or not?”

  Like I’m your booty call. “No,” I say. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Tamara glares at me and I glare right back.

  Josh turns to me. “Chris stopped by Tim’s house last night before his run.”

  I look at Tim. “Yeah?”

  “Around nine thirty. I was having a barbecue.” Tim lifts his Seahawks cap and pulls it back down over his straight black hair, the brim curled up tight like a small n. “It was almost dark. We should have made him stay.”

  “We tried, remember?” Tamara wraps her arms around herself, tucks her fingers under her armpits. “He looked over your fence at me and said he’d see me later.”

  It bugs me how she takes possession of you with those words, like you were coming back for her. Did you really say that?

  “He even gave me his hoodie,” she says. “He asked me to hold it for him.”

  What the hell? That’s your hoodie?

  Breathe. I got to pretend it doesn’t bug me.

  Tim shakes his head. “I don’t know where he could have gone.”

  “Chris likes to go for long walks in the middle of the night.” I hold up my knowledge of you like a trophy. “Sometimes he can’t sleep. Maybe he went somewhere in town, like the doughnut shop or something.”

  “We just checked there,” Becky says. “They didn’t see him.”

  “We looked everywhere,” Tamara adds. “He’s not in town.”

  “Maybe he went for a drive, like to Seattle or Portland.”

  “He left his truck and his wallet,” Josh tells me.

  “What about
his phone?” I say, thinking how maybe it’s in your room and that’s why it’s going to voicemail.

  “It’s not at his house.”

  “That’s weird,” I say. It can’t be dead. You’re so good about charging your phone. You even plug in my phone so you can reach me.

  “He didn’t go home to shower or anything,” Josh says.

  “He would’ve showered,” I say.

  Tim nods. “Even when we go for burgers after a ball game, he always has to stop by home to change first.”

  “Has his mom called the cops?” I ask.

  Josh heaves out a frustrated sigh. “Nope, she thinks he went somewhere for the night.”

  “Where the hell’s he going to go with no truck and no money?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Something could have happened,” I say.

  “Like what?” Tim asks.

  “Maybe he got jumped.”

  “Who would jump him?” Becky says with a little laugh.

  “He’s a huge black guy,” Tamara adds, rolling her eyes. I want to punch her.

  “There are plenty of people who would jump him.” The words whistle out of me. Before I can say more, Josh opens his eyes a little, warning me, and I stop talking. I don’t get why it has to be a big secret. If you told your friends not to get revenge, they would have listened.

  “Like who?” Tamara asks.

  I kick at some grass sprouting out of a crack in the driveway. “I don’t know. Some drunk assholes.”

  They’re quiet for a moment.

  “Nobody would do anything to him.” Tim pauses, looks worried. “If they did, they’re going to regret it.” He pulls his keys out of his pocket and they jangle in his hand, a strangely happy sound, considering what he’s just said. Even though Tim’s normally a pretty easy-going guy, if he says someone’s going to regret it, you don’t want to be that someone.

  “Why do you have a tire on your lawn?” Tamara says.

  Everyone looks at it now, like it matters. That tire’s been there forever. Dad changed it off his rig when I was little and I liked it so much, I begged him to leave it. We had so much fun on this tire, me and Steph. She’d come over, we’d climb on it and dance around, play queen of the tire, and then, when I got older, I’d take a blanket and read here in the streetlight, my butt in the hole, breathing in the night air, just to escape my hoarder house for a while.