Whatever it was, I tore a new piece of paper off the edge of my drawing pad. And on it, I wrote, my heart in my throat but knowing—just knowing—it was now or never, and that I had to tell the truth:

Although I tried to pretend like I was thoroughly engrossed in my drawing, this time I really was watching David out of the corner of my eye. I watched him open the piece of paper I’d tossed to him, and I watched him read what I’d written. Then I watched his eyebrows go up.

Way up.

And when, a few seconds later, a new wad of paper showed up in my lap, I knew he’d tossed it there, because I’d seen him do that too.

Feeling like I couldn’t breathe, I opened the new note. On it, he’d written the words:

That was an easy one. In fact, it was practically a relief to write: