I didn’t even think about it, because I was looking at my notebook, and Cam goes, Thee, can I write you something? He got up, walking over, squeezing my shoulders, and I go, Write on me, you mean? And Cam goes, If you insist, and I go, What, a love letter? He goes, You read my mind, and I knew he was up to something. But I handed him a Sharpie, then he pulled the sweatshirt down some more and started drawing on my shoulder blade, and it was long, too. Like on and on, and it tickled, and he goes, Hold still. And five minutes later, he finally waved his hand over my back, drying the skin, and then he goes: Voilà! So I went to the bathroom to read it in the big mirror, and you know what it was? Pythagorean Theorem—all over my back—ohmygod. I was just like, Cam, you are such a geek! That’s not a love letter, I whined, and he goes, It is, too—I love it, and I ignored him, trying not to smile. Help me wipe it off, I said, so he grabbed the sponge from the shower and helped me scrub all the ink off.
