Yeah, you guessed it—it was my diary.
The very thing Bob had been itching to get his hands on for years.
He'd seen me scribbling away and grinning like an idiot every time I opened it, and his curiosity was practically bursting at the seams.
Sure, it held my deepest, most embarrassing secrets, but there was no way I'd let Bob crack it open—not even if I had to utter his beloved "magic words" or roll on the cold tiled floor like a fool.
And thanks to these ridiculously tight jeans, that's exactly where I was.
"Give it back, Bob!" I yelled, crawling after him in the most humiliating way imaginable.
"What's the magic word, sis?" he teased, dangling the diary like a trophy and smirking.
"Just say it… come on, I'm waiting," he taunted again.
"Ugggh," I groaned, knowing exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Okay, ple…"
Before I could finish, salvation arrived in the form of Mom.
She walked in just as Bob was admiring the cover of my diary, completely oblivious to her presence.
I stayed on the floor, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, fully aware of what was about to go down.
Bob caught my smile and raised a suspicious brow.
"What's with the grin? You're supposed to be begging! You don't want me to..."
He barely began to flip the cover when an earth-shattering "BOB!" echoed through the room.
He jumped so hard the diary slipped from his hands, landing safely in my lap.
His eyes went wide as saucers, and the panic on his face? Priceless.
Mom stood at the doorway, arms crossed, radiating all the terrifying authority of a judge, jury, and executioner.
"We agreed you'd stay out of her private business, didn't we? So, what are you doing here?" she barked, stomping towards him.
Bob barely had a chance to stammer out a defense before Mom latched onto his ear like a vice, dragging him out of the room with Bob "ouch-ing" every step of the way.
At the threshold, she turned to me, her gaze narrowing.
"And you! Get your jeans on. No one needs to see those bright pink panties of yours! Two minutes, young lady."
She slammed the door behind her, leaving me smirking as I clutched my rescued diary.
A sigh of relief escaped my lips: "Phew."
Still sprawled on the cold tiles, goosebumps crawling over my skin, I flipped open the book.
As I skimmed the pages, memories spilled out; some sweet, some awkward, some downright hilarious.
There were entries about my wild ambitions, my take on life's big mysteries, and even a section on my frenemies and secret crushes.
Yeah, there were lots of crushes, and I had a knack for talking my way out of all of them.
I wrote down every excuse, every method.
Why? Because I wasn't ready for love. Nope, not even close.
"Love sucks," I'd scrawled once. "It just makes you vulnerable." That was me; cautious, emotional, and totally unprepared to gamble on romance.
I reached a fresh page and sighed.
Too lazy to get up, I stretched toward the desk, yanked open the drawer, and grabbed a pen. Almost dislocated my arm doing it.
Using my teeth, I popped the pen cap off and scribbled a fresh title: College Experiences.
"Well, this'll have to wait until I actually get to college," I muttered, snapping the diary shut.
Bracing both hands on the floor, I pushed myself up with a grunt.
One final, heroic tug, and my jeans finally slid up over my hips.
Another "Phew" escaped as I adjusted them over my curves.
A quick touch-up on my makeup, a little hairstyling, some jewelry, and my boots later, I felt presentable,...barely.
Heading downstairs, I struggled with a stack of boxes.
Dad swooped in to help, holding them steady as I grabbed the rest.
"Hey, angel," he said with a warm tone.
"You do know you're wearing mismatched boots, right?"
I froze, looking down to confirm his words. Sure enough, one brown boot and one black stared back at me.
"What the heck was I thinking?" I muttered, my mind then drifted to memories of Marie.
Just as Marie always helped me in corrections, so also was my father, who treated me like a queen everytime and never wanna see a scratch or anything wrong with me.
Marie was my first neighborhood friend when we moved in.
She had a knack for spotting my mistakes….crooked buttons, messy hair, mismatched outfits….and teasing me about them as she'd say, "fashion crimes."
She didn't stick around long; her family moved a few months after we met, right after we'd gotten so close.
Marie's first dinner at our house was a memory I'd never forget.
When she walked into our home for the first time, her eyes darted around, taking in every detail with that curious, slightly judgmental expression she always wore.
We sat down for dinner, and that's when the real confusion hit her.
She stared at my dad like he was some unsolved mystery.
Her fork hovered mid-air as she studied him carefully, her brow furrowing in disbelief. "Wait," she finally blurted out, pointing her fork at him. "That's your dad?"
I laughed, almost choking on my drink. "Of course, he's my dad! Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"
Marie blinked, clearly still processing.
"He's so... young. Are you sure he's not your older brother or something? I mean, come on, look at him! And the way he's treating you."
I couldn't help but laugh again, though I could understand her confusion.
My dad didn't just look young for his age; he acted young too. And the way he fussed over me? Yeah, I could see why Marie might think he was more like a doting husband than a dad.
But the truth was, Mom and Dad had me when they were practically young themselves.
They always said that growing up with me made them feel like they'd hit a rewind button on life.
Marie couldn't stop stealing glances at Dad throughout dinner, her confusion only growing as he brought me extra servings, wiped a crumb off my cheek, and made sure I had everything I needed.
At one point, she leaned over and whispered, "I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd think he was married to both you and your mom."
I snorted so hard I nearly spat out my food.
"You're ridiculous," I whispered back, though her words stuck with me.
It was funny how much Dad doted on me. He treated me like I was the center of the universe, and honestly? I didn't hate it.
I shook off the memory, thanked Dad with a sheepish grin, and headed back to my room.
There, I noticed the window was slightly open. On the sill sat a note.