That was the year of almost. Almost holding hands during a movie. Almost saying it when Katrina fell asleep on her shoulder during a bus ride home from a band competition. Almost, almost, almost.
Katrina reached out, took Laura’s hand, and turned it over. On Laura’s palm, still smudged from where she’d traced the carving, were the faint red remains of marker. From that first day. Or maybe from every day after. lauraloveskatrina
Katrina was standing at the edge of the field, hands in the pockets of her jean jacket. The sunset painted her gold. That was the year of almost
Katrina smiled, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “You doodle my name a lot.” Almost, almost, almost
“Show me,” Katrina whispered.
And later, when they drove to the beach for the first time together, Katrina borrowed Laura’s pen and wrote on her own palm: