The Love Letter I Should've Thrown Away novel · Chapter 8 of 24

Chapter 8: Terms

Phoebe arrived at the third window at eleven on Sunday night with a bag of pretzels and a folding chair.

"I don't trust library chairs," she said. "They have opinions."

Micah stood up when she came in and then didn't know what to do with his hands, so he put them in his coat.

I had already explained it to her on the phone.

She had listened without interrupting, which was how I knew she was taking it seriously.

"Say it again for the person who wrote it," she said. "He should hear it in your voice."

I sat on the edge of the table and looked at Micah.

"Brady's going to give the opening speech at the Founders' Gala. He always does. He can't write one, so you'll write it."

"Cora..."

"Let me finish. You write the best speech of your life. It's good enough that the board cries. And you put one line in it that only the writer of my letter would understand."

He stared at me.

"Which line?"

"The lamp at the third window that never stays on. You write it in as a joke about the library, and he reads it as a joke. He'll read anything you give him."

"Then?"

"Then I stand up in the middle of four hundred people and ask him which window."

Phoebe stopped chewing.

"Oh, that's mean," she said, delighted.

"He claimed he wrote the letter. He has to know what it means. If he doesn't, everyone at that gala will hear him not know."

Micah looked at the lamp.

It came on, glowed for a moment, and went out.

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