Love, Creekwood (Simonverse) Read online

  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: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  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: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  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: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  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: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  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: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  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 Leah and Nick and everyone, even Martin. And now I’m surrounded by people you’ve never met, and you’re surrounded by people I’ve never met, and I don’t know, Simon. I really miss inhabiting your universe.

  Okay, I just stopped and counted up the number of days since we’ve seen each other, and it’s been less than two weeks. Thirteen days. I bet you haven’t even done laundry yet, have you? God, I miss you. I miss you every single second.

  I want to know every detail about your life, okay? I want to know about Kellan and his Stephen King fetish, and whether you’re wearing shower shoes to the bathroom, and who the most annoying person is in every single one of your classes. I want the stuff you think is too boring to share.

  Here’s my update: I had peanut butter toast for breakfast. Best class of the day was poli-sci, because we had this amazing lecture about spotting misinformation in news articles (I’ll save the real geeking out for FaceTime so you can properly make fun of me). Also, I think you may be right about that girl Ella with the tongue piercing. She caught a glimpse of my lock screen today and was weirdly flustered about it? But it actually ended up being a fun conversation. She was really curious about you (“What’s his name? How soon is he transferring here? Why’s he wearing a tux in an American Girl store?” ALL VERY GOOD QUESTIONS).

  What el
se? Hmm. The libertarian edgelord from econ blessed us today with some brilliant advocacy on behalf of the devil! I know I loved being stuck in class an extra fifteen minutes to really soak in that game-changing wisdom. Then I showered and did some problem sets and fell madly in love with your latest Instagram selfie (excuse me, how is your face even legal?). And I had peanut butter toast again for dinner, because there’s nothing more delicious than not walking into a giant dining hall full of strangers.

  So that was my day. I didn’t stop missing you for a minute. How was yours?

  Love,

  Blue

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  DATE: SEP 11 AT 12:07 AM

  SUBJECT: RE: I DON’T LIKE THIS

  “I really miss inhabiting your universe.” Hello, is that a euphemism?? And in related news, can we discuss your intentions re: the phrase “unexpectedly hard”????

  I miss you. Yup. Every minute. Every second. Honestly, missing you feels like the whole point of my day. Which kind of scares me, you know? Is it supposed to feel like this? Why did I think it would be easier? But Bram, hear me out. I think I left half my heart in your dorm room.

  Ah yes, the libertarian edgelord. What a treat. Have I told you about the one in my psych class? Front row, gelled-up bangs, passionately defending the Stanford Prison Experiment by day three of class. Not gonna lie, I’m starting to suspect they plant one of these dudes in every 101 class as part of some big social psychology experiment. Or maybe . . . maybe COLLEGE ITSELF is one big social psych experiment, and we’re the test subjects. *cue dramatic music* *close-up on my gaping-mouthed face*

  Okay. My day. Let’s see. Kellan was up at five thirty, *noisily* screwing in a Pennywise light switch cover. B, I’m not even convinced this is about Stephen King. I think he just really likes Pennywise. Maybe clowns in general. Anyway! I guess my day was basically like yours. Class, shower, etc. No comment re: the shower shoes. I don’t really have any girls in love with me though (I TOLD YOU, BRAM. I TOLD YOU). I think people are clocking me as gay, maybe? Could it be the rainbow shoelaces? Or the fact that I’m incapable of going five minutes without mentioning my boyfriend?? Anyway, I like it. It’s refreshing!

  To respond to Ella’s most excellent questions:

  1. My name: His Royal Highness Simon Irvin Lovesick Sad Bramless Spier the first, of Oreo House.

  2. DON’T TEMPT ME.

  3. Garrett Laughlin.

  Now go eat some real food, okay? I love you way too much to let you miss out on dining hall grilled cheese.

  Sincerely,

  HRH Simon ILSB Spier

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  DATE: SEP 20 AT 12:17 AM

  SUBJECT: HAPPY

  Guess what—it’s your birthday!!! I know it’s weird to be emailing you when you’re currently sleeping two feet away from my desk, but listen up, freckle face. I have to tell you something, and I don’t trust myself to say this properly when you’re making bedroom eyes at me (don’t deny it. You think I don’t know what your bedroom eyes look like? I live in your bedroom).

  So here’s the deal: I know four-letter L words scare you (which, not gonna lie, is a BOLD stance coming from a girl whose name is literally a four-letter L word). But the truth is, I don’t need you to declare a single thing, because it’s written all over your face. Those are the facts. You come with subtitles, and you don’t even realize it.

  Hate to break it to you, Leah Burke, but you’re in love with me.

  I can’t stop thinking about the game last Saturday. I swear, I’m grinning my face off right now. Just the thought of my nerdy drummer girlfriend earnestly typing into her phone for two hours, not even glancing up for touchdowns. Didn’t think it was possible to crank out an entire sociology essay in your notes app during a division one college football game. But then again, it’s you.

  You in your Creekwood homecoming shirt with the collar cut wide. Me, openly spellbound by your shoulder freckles. So many mysteries all wrapped up in one girl. Like the fact that Leah “fuck homecoming” Burke somehow managed to acquire a CHS homecoming shirt in the first place. Or the fact that you wore it to a UGA home game. I don’t know if you noticed the tens of thousands of people in the stands wearing red. But I loved how little it fazed you, no self-consciousness whatsoever (this from a girl who double-proofreads every Instagram caption). You, Leah Burke, are an encyclopedia of contradictions.

  (Like how you won’t admit you’re in love with me! And yet you’ll email me love letters!)

  Well, birthday girl, how’s this for a love letter: I’m head over heels for you, Leah. And if you ever want to try out one of those scary four-letter L words on me, I promise I’ll say it back.

  xoxo,

  Abby

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  DATE: SEP 20 AT 3:13 PM

  SUBJECT: YOU WERE BORN!!!

  HEY, LEAH, IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!!!!!! So here’s your birthday email, not to be confused with your birthday texts or the voicemail I left you at 9:20 a.m. or the one I’m definitely going to leave you at 9:20 p.m. (phone alarm is locked and loaded). Well, I hope you’re out on the town right now, living that charmed nineteen-year-old midafternoon life. God, it’s so weird not seeing you on your birthday. I want to hear about everything. How are your classes—how’s sociology? How’s everything with Abby? Did you talk to Nick? He said he was going to call you early, because Taylor wants to go to the symphony orchestra in Boston, which she apparently thinks is a Shawn Mendes concert or something, because she’s insisting they get there two hours early “just in case.” And Nick’s just like, “oh well, gotta keep the girlfriend happy.” Leah, my jaw dropped. GIRLFRIEND?? Did you know about this development? Because I sure the fuck didn’t. Our Nick, sealing the deal with Taylor freaking Metternich. What a JOURNEY.

  Aaaaaand speaking of shitshows (sorry, I realize this email is like 90 percent gossip, but I keep forgetting to text you this golden information), have you heard anything about Garrett and Morgan? I can’t 100 percent confirm this one, since it’s coming secondhand from Nick, but apparently Morgan was up at Tech last weekend? Morgan Hirsch at Georgia Tech??? There can only be one explanation for this, and it starts with M and rhymes with takeout. Of course, Garrett’s currently denying everything, but Bram’s working on getting more info, so stay tuned!

  Anyway, I miss your face and your voice and god I wish you were here with me at Haverford, doodling in the margins of all my notes. And I hope you’re having the best birthday ever. I love you so much, beautiful Leah, and I’m so glad you were born.

  Love,

  Simon

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  DATE: SEP 23 AT 4:14 PM

  SUBJECT: GUESS HOW BADLY I MISS YOU

  Dear Jacques,

  I hate everything. I hate every white square on my calendar. I doubt you’re even past Newark, but you might as well be halfway to Mars, because either way, I can’t kiss you again for another twelve days.

  Can we just rewind to Friday afternoon? I keep scrolling back to your text saying you were finally pulling into Penn Station (look, I’m not trying to be dramatic about this, but it was starting to feel like your train was being pulled by a single elderly mule). But then you stepped into the concourse in your Haverford sweatpants, looking so bowled over by the entire concept of Manhattan.

  Simon, I don’t know if you noticed the giant Oreo donut sign outside Krispy Kreme, but you ran straight past it, into my arms (greatest compliment of my life, hands down). And then I held your face and kissed you in the middle of Penn Station, because apparently public kissing is a thing I do now. What’s your deal, Simon Spier? Are you made of magnets or what?

  Anyway, now I’m sitting here staring at my laptop, trying to find the words to explain how it felt to have you here again. I . . .
don’t even have a frame of reference for it. Like, I keep thinking about Garrett, and how it’s been a month since I’ve seen him. And that sucks, don’t get me wrong, but it’s like going a month without waffles or something. Not seeing you until your fall break? That’s like twelve days without water.

  And now I miss you even more, because you’re all over my dorm room. The Oreo boxes in my trash can, the song lyrics on my whiteboard. Even this laptop. How am I ever going to use it for homework when it just makes me miss watching your absolute shitshow top thirty life hack videos on YouTube? (For the record, though, I do NOT miss those shitshow videos. I just miss you leaning your head on my shoulder while we watched those shitshow videos.)

  And then there’s my bed. How am I ever going to sleep there again without remembering how little sleeping we did in it?

  Love,

  Blue

  FROM: [email protected]

  TO: [email protected]

  DATE: SEP 23 AT 8:19 PM

  SUBJECT: PRETTY SURE I MISS YOU MORE

  Abraham. Romeo. Greenfeld. I think I need a minute here. (Not for that. Mind out of the gutter. I just have to, like, catch my breath. Or something.) I mean, THAT? That was a love letter. Bram, I’m blushing. This is junior year all over again. I feel like my secret email boyfriend just told me he imagines me fantasizing about sex (HEY BLUE, REMEMBER THAT?).

  I swear, everyone thinks you’re so freaking innocent, but then you sign into gmail and it’s like BAM. Innuendo. Sex grenade. How little sleeping we did?? I mean, you’re not wrong, but WOW. And the best part’s how you had this whole food itinerary, with the Dinosaur Bar-B-Que restaurant and the hipster ice cream parlor. Which I’m sure are delicious (who doesn’t love eating dinosaurs?). But peanut butter toast and never leaving your dorm room tasted pretty great, too. ☺

  A FEW IMPORTANT CORRECTIONS. First things first: “I always wanted to stumble into someone like you.” That, sir, is no song lyric. It’s a book quote (does this mean there’s a book on this earth you haven’t read yet??). Second things second, shitshow?? Are you saying you don’t need a succulent vase made out of a spray-painted doll’s head?