" The rain is colder than I expect—which is ridiculous, since it’s March. My cheeks are freezing by the time we go two blocks, my hair has a sodden weight on my shoulder. My glasses are so wet I need to shove them in a pocket. I threw Mom’s pullover windbreaker over my sweatshirt before leaving the house, thinking it would be waterproof, but I am so wrong.
By the time I make the final turn for the church, I wonder if I’m stupid for being out here. It’s pouring so hard that a haze has formed around the streetlight, and I can barely see anything through the darkness.
My sneakers squish in the grass. I get to the spot where we sat for the last two nights.
And of course he’s not there.
I sigh. Only a complete moron would go meet in the rain.
Then Texy woofs and bounces on her front paws.
I turn, and it’s like I’m in a chick flick. His shadowed figure lopes across the grass.
Okay, maybe the dark and rain make it more like a horror movie than a romantic comedy, BUT STILL.
He draws to a stop in front of me. He had the sense to wear a heavy, waterproof coat over his hoodie, but the hood is soaked and rain drips down his cheeks.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a little loud over the rain.
I’m blushing. I tell my cheeks to knock it off. “Hey.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d show up, but I didn’t have a way to text you …”
“I had the same thought process. "
― Brigid Kemmerer , More Than We Can Tell (Letters to the Lost, #2)