“What’s this?” Chaerin picks up the letter that has been sitting on my kitchen counter for three days now. I’m a little ashamed of how much wear the thing has gotten. Three days and I’ve read it probably thirty times.

“Drop it.” I point my cookie-dough-covered finger at her, which seems to have no effect, because she keeps reading the letter, a smile on her face. It makes me wonder if I looked just as goofy every time I’d read the thing.

“Wow. Six-five. That’s freaking huge. That’s more than a foot taller than you.” She eyes me up and down like she’s taking in my height for the first time.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m just saying he sounds like one of those guys who could pick you up and you against a wall.”

“Your husband is barely six foot; how do you know anything about wall-ing?” I tease, because Chaerin herself is almost six feet tall.

“He doesn’t me against walls, but he s me everywhere else.” She wiggles her eyebrows, letting me know that not having wall-ing in her life isn’t that big of a deal. “I’m just saying, you could do some wall-ing and tell me if it really works like in all those books we read.”

I giggle at her. Chaerin is my best friend, and we’re about as opposite as two people can get. She’s tall where I’m short, she’s got blonde hair where mine is bright red, and I seem to have all the curves, even though she eats my cooking just as much as I do because she lives next door and is always stealing food right out of my fridge, even when I’m not even here.

But what really makes us different is our personalities. She loud and bold and doesn’t have one shy bone in her body. There’s no filter from to her brain, and I adore her for it. She talks about as much as I talk about baking. Maybe that’s another reason I’m still hanging on to my V-card. With all her talk, I often feel like I know all about it. Every single detail.

“Give it up already. Don’t make me beg. I only do that in the bedroom.”

“Pretty sure I’ve seen you beg for food.”

“Don’t change the subject. Who’s this giant writing you dirty letters?”

“That was not dirty,” I retort, but hide my smile by looking down and rolling the cookie dough into perfectly spherical balls. I’ve been so giddy over the letter. It’s as if it really was a love letter or something.

“He was describing his bod for you. Sounds like it’s dirty to me! Even more so when the letter is for you. Now, give it up.”

I bite my lip, trying not to rock a stupid giant smile like I do every time I think about the letter.

“It’s silly. I did one of the pen pal letters with the class, and that was the letter I got back. But now I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about him, which, like I said, is silly. It’s just a note, no big deal.” When I look over at her, her face is all soft. “What?” I ask, wanting her to stop looking at me like that. For some reason I’d rather have a joke right now than that look.

“You’re all dreamy over some guy. I like it on you. Your face is so warm, it’s glowing. It’s y.”

I snort at the word. No one has ever thought of me as y.

“I’m warm because I’m baking.” I place the cookie balls on the baking sheet and slide them into the oven. I make my way over to the sink and wash the rest of