In a text I received one night, Michael asked me if we could meet up at the sycamore tree after school. He wanted to show me his drawings to which I replied that I would bring some of my writings for him to read.

It was just a friendly meeting, but I was anxious and thrilled all together. I could hardly concentrate on my last class the following day. What was there to listen to, anyway? It was history class yet the teacher was droning about when she'd met a celebrity. To pass the time, I stared at the world map on the wall and thought about the things that could happen when Michael and I met. I wondered if he'd enjoy my work. I wondered if he'd smile.

My heart jumped as I heard the familiar beep of my phone, its sound muffled in my bag. When the teacher was facing the chalkboard, I dug the phone out and read the text under my desk.

Michael: I'm here.

I groaned and made a quick reply.

Me: Wait.

The bell had rung two minutes ago, but my class was still stuck in the room. It was either our teacher had serious hearing problems or she was having fun punishing us. When she dismissed us, finally, I almost shoved my classmates out of the way as I made a mad dash across the hall, down the stairs, and finally to the meeting spot.

"Hey," I said between my gasps.

Michael stopped fingerpicking his guitar to look up at me. He must've been keeping himself occupied with his instrument while waiting. "Hey, what held you up?" he asked.

"History class. It was torture," I said.

"Who's your teacher?"

"Miss Toland."

He snorted. "Huh, that old hag. Understandable. She teaches you more about her life story than the actual class content. Come here." He motioned his hand on the space next to him on the leaf-covered ground, and I sat there, ensuring a space between us. He placed his guitar to his side and drew his backpack closer to him.

"So, ready to show your masterpiece?" he asked and pulled out a black Moleskine sketchbook. Judging from its dog-eared pages and dirty edges, it must have been used for a long time.

"Masterpiece? More like a disasterpiece," I said, fishing out my special notebook, the one that contained my writings no other soul had ever read. He held out his hand, and I pulled away, pressing the notebook against my chest. "Promise me you won't laugh."

"I won't," he said. But he was smiling already.

I eyed his sketchbook. "Show me your art first."

"Nah, ladies first."

"What a gentleman."

"Indeed I am. I appreciate you for pointing that out."

Before we could waste our time bantering, I sighed and said, "Okay, let's exchange our stuff at the same time so it'll be fair."

Bravely, I extended my notebook to him and he did with his, and then we swapped.

"You're obsessed with ponies?" Michael asked, looking at the pony stickers on the cover.

My cheeks heated up. "I think almost every girl out there went through the 'I love horses' phase at some point in their lives. Mine was in second grade. Don't laugh."

He laughed.

Ignoring him, I opened his sketchbook and gasped in awe. Scattered across the yellowish pages were realistic sketches of everyday life—people, plants, animals, landscapes. I got more and more mesmerized the further I dove into his sketchbook. His lines were smooth and sharp as if he was confident with his every stroke of the pencil. It must take him hours to draw a single artwork of that quality. So talented.

I glanced at him. He was quietly reading my works. His rich dark hair fell tousled below his eyebrows, and a piece of it curled behind his ear. How are you able to see through that hair curtain? I wondered. He needed a haircut.

I returned my attention to his sketchbook and flipped to the last page—to the final drawing. My fingers froze.

It was a portrait of Claire.

She was drawn to perfection. From the waves of her hair to her almond-shaped eyes to her full lips, every feature of her was sketched in a clean and detailed manner. She was smiling softly in the drawing, but her eyes displayed a different emotion. Melancholy. The same emotion she'd shown when she recounted her memories of him to me.

"What do you think of my work?" Michael asked.

"Impeccable," I said and carefully touched Claire's portrait. "She's beautiful here."

"Just like how she is in real life. I was supposed to give that to her for her sixteenth birthday."

His words said with evident longing made my chest squeeze.

"Um, if you don't mind me asking... how long were you guys together?" I said.

"A year and a half. We dated in the fall of sophomore year."

"A year and a half..." I echoed, feeling the weight of those words.

He twisted his head to me, and I noticed his eyes had taken on a faraway look. At that moment, I knew why his face looked gloomy most of the time. His body might be in the present, but his mind lived in the past.

"She told you about what happened to us, didn't she?" he asked. "That night at the party. I was watching the two of you talk."

"Yes, she did," I admitted. I began fiddling with a leaf I had plucked off the ground. "Are you really okay with her leaving the band?" I finally let out the question that had been burning in my mind.

"I am," he said. "It was expected that she would leave eventually."

"You still love her, don't you?"

The corners of his mouth tugged up, and he turned to look into the distance. "When I was fifteen, I thought it would be impossible to stop loving her, and I couldn't imagine the day it would happen. Now, I can say I thought wrong. It still stings sometimes, I won't deny that, but it's because I just miss the fun things we did together. She and I have been doing our best to move on. And if her leaving the band is part of her process, then I respect that."

I smiled in relief. "I'm glad to hear you're okay."

"And anyway," Michael said in a lively tone as he turned his gaze back to me, "vous êtes la seul que j'aime maintenant." The words rolled smoothly off his tongue, and his accent sounded nasal.

I was baffled. "French?"

"Correct. I'm taking it this semester."

"I thought you didn't take your classes seriously," I teased him.

"Only Chemistry. Boring class with a boring teacher. But French? It's fun. I had to study my notes just to say those words."

My eyebrows shot up as my interest to know heightened. "What do they mean? I'm taking Spanish this year, and I'm not even great at it. The only language I'm fluent in aside from English is Klingon." I made the Vulcan salute—palm forward with fingers parted between the middle and the ring finger. "I've watched a lot of Star Trek movies. Dif-tor heh smusma."

He laughed. "Soon. I'll tell you what they mean soon."

"Why soon?"

"This is not the right time for you to know, Marmalade."

"But when is the right time?"

My question made him smile more, his sharp canine tooth showing and his eyes creasing in amusement.

"You know what, I'm hungry." He closed my notebook, stood up, and patted his pants. "Let's go eat. I know a place you'll like."

He offered his hand to me. I stared at it for a few seconds before pressing my palm against his. It was just a momentary skin-to-skin contact, but it made my heartbeats erratic. It was overwhelming and oddly satisfying—the feeling of holding someone's hand for the first time.

He pulled me up and released me. I helped him put his guitar back in its case, and then he slung the straps over his shoulder. As our silent walk began, I was glad I was behind him or he would have seen the redness of my cheeks. I clasped my hands behind me and suppressed a smile.

Sometimes, people like him who seem cold most of the time can be warm, too.