Dedication
For Creekwood’s own Amy Austin,
my forever PT
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Begin Reading
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Kate in Waiting
About the Author
Books by Becky Albertalli
Back Ad
Praise
Copyright
About the Publisher
Begin Reading
FROM: HOURTOHOUR.NOTETONOTE@GMAIL.COM
TO: BLUEGREEN118@GMAIL.COM
DATE: AUG 28 AT 10:09 PM
SUBJECT: I DON’T LIKE THIS
Wow. Hi. This is weird, right? I swear, a part of me believes this email is going to land in your inbox circa junior year of high school. Remember when we were two oblivious dumbasses emailing from across the lunch table? As opposed to 117 and 1/2 miles away?
117. And a half. Miles away. WHO ALLOWED THIS??
So yeah, email sucks, because I want to see your face (and touch your face and smell your face and put my face on your face) (because I miss you) (I MISS YOU).
(I hate this.)
I’m not doing this right. I’ve forgotten how to do emails. Especially to you. How does this go again?
Dear Blue. Dear Bram. I love you. I miss you. I wish you were next to me on this shitty dorm bed with its sad little mattress, and btw I’ve eaten OREOS thicker than this mattress, but ANYWAY. Let’s try this again, with a little positivity (yay! wheeee!).
Hi! I’m in college! And it’s nice here! Everything’s nice! My customs group is nice! I miss my fucking boyfriend!
Fuck this,
Simon aka Jacques aka your sad, pining boyfriend who is HANDLING THIS VERY POORLY
FROM: BLUEGREEN118@GMAIL.COM
TO: HOURTOHOUR.NOTETONOTE@GMAIL.COM
DATE: AUG 28 AT 11:17 PM
SUBJECT: RE: I DON’T LIKE THIS
Dear Jacques,
Sorry it took me so long to reply to your email. You can blame it on the cute college boy who FaceTimed me five minutes after he sent it.
Well, I miss you. So much. I didn’t think it would hit me this quickly. It seems impossible that fifteen hours ago, I was waking up beside you in the (weirdly fancy??) Newark airport DoubleTree, and now I’m here. And you’re there.
New York City feels so empty without you in it. Is that weird? You were only here for two hours. You left your mark, Simon Spier. And, no, I won’t tell your mom you drove me into the city. (I love that you drove me into the city.) (Also, you’re never allowed to drive in Manhattan ever again. I’d like to grow old with you, thank you very much.)
Anyway, nothing I write feels remotely adequate right now. I miss you. I love you. I hope you’re finally settling in. Glad your roommate’s such a devoted Stephen King fan, and I’m sure that giant Pennywise poster will be a joy to wake up to. Do you think you’ll sleep tonight? I don’t think I will. But I don’t mind being a zombie for orientation, because my theory is that zombie brain will make the weeks go faster. I just need it to be September twenty-first. You know how people strike off dates on a calendar? I want a clock where I can strike off every single second.
TL; DR: I miss my fucking boyfriend too.
Love,
Blue
FROM: LEAHONTHEOFFBEAT@GMAIL.COM
TO: SIMONIRVINSPIER@GMAIL.COM
DATE: SEP 2 AT 10:21 AM
SUBJECT: RE: RELEVANT TO OUR INTERESTS
Okay, I have to admit, I thought you were full of shit with this one, but the link checks out. Wow, Simon, wow. There’s a nerd frat at your school. That is a thing that exists. Apparently this place was made for you. And, hey, what a revelation for orientation week.
So I guess we’re emailing now. Pretty adorable, Spier. Walk me through the rules here. Are we still allowed to text? Or is this just a pit stop on the way to your true boomer agenda of handwritten cards in the mail? I’m not saying I mind it. Maybe Abby and I should start doing the whole email thing too, since I’m pretty sure her new Android hates my iPhone. Seriously, don’t ever fall for a girl who can’t iMessage. It’s the worst. Abby’s the worst (she says hi!).
Also, I’m an asshole for complaining about iMessage when the *actual* worst thing is you being in Philadelphia. I miss you. And I can’t even imagine what the last few days must have been like for you and Bram. You seem . . . okay? Seriously, though, vent to me anytime you want. And feel free to smack me if I start getting insufferable about Abby. I’m pretty sure I suck at this whole girlfriend thing. Forget college—they should make orientations for being in relationships. Half the time, I don’t even know who I am anymore. WTF is this giddiness?
Anyway, everything’s good here, just busy. I don’t know why all of your weird northeastern schools start so late, but we’re coming up on the first set of exams here. You know what’s no joke? Timed essay tests on Elizabethan poetry. So enjoy your freedom while it lasts, Simon. Go live your wild orientation-week life doing shots of butterbeer or whatever the fuck at your nerd frat.
Did I mention I miss you?
FROM: LEAHONTHEOFFBEAT@GMAIL.COM
TO: ABBYSUSO710@GMAIL.COM
DATE: SEP 9 AT 11:51 AM
SUBJECT: WAKE UP, ABBY
I don’t know how you do it, Abby Suso, but it’s almost noon and you’re still sleeping. Remember that drunk girl on the quad who was mad she couldn’t bring a guy home to make out because her roommate was there sleeping? Abby, you are the sleeping roommate who is preventing my makeouts. Can I file a formal complaint about this?
You’re so cute, though. Look at you. You’re just this lump of blankets on the bed with one elbow sticking out.
Anyway, this is me sending you love letters like Simon and Bram, because they’re gross, and we should be more gross. So wake up and respond to this email, okay? Doesn’t have to be in writing.
Respectfully,
LCB
FROM: BLUEGREEN118@GMAIL.COM
TO: HOURTOHOUR.NOTETONOTE@GMAIL.COM
DATE: SEP 10 AT 10:10 PM
SUBJECT: RE: I DON’T LIKE THIS
Jacques,
You know what’s been an unexpectedly hard adjustment? The fact that we don’t know all the same people anymore. I know that’s such a weird thing to miss. But it was really its own kind of language, having all those people in common: Garrett and Abby and
