I turn around. “For what?”
“I seem to recall you and I making a bet. I said Gav would fall for you.…”
I grin. “That is one bet I’m happy to lose.”
I call my sister as soon as I’m home.
“My sistah! What’s up?” she says, not drunk but on her way. I can hear voices and music in the background—dorm life, my dream.
“Tell me the truth,” I say, “am I a rebound?”
“With Gavin?”
“Who else?”
“The truth? Yeah, probably,” she says. “Look, I don’t know Gavin personally, but he seems like a tragic teen if ever there was one.”
“What’s a tragic teen?”
“Like, tragic, you know. Emo shit.”
I roll my eyes. “First of all, Gav hates emo—”
“What I’m saying is that the dude is Shakespearean. And don’t get excited, because I don’t mean that in a good way,” she says. “People who try to commit suicide have issues. Is he on meds?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, that’s super personal. I can’t just ask him.”
“Um. Yeah, you can. If this guy wants to be with you, you need some guarantees that he’s not gonna get all Byron on your ass.”
I decide this isn’t a good time to tell her that I sort of love Byron.
“I want to be with him,” I say.
“Well, duh,” she says. “He’s a super-hot rocker guy. Maybe you should talk to Summer—find out what happened with them. Wait. Hold on.” She pulls the phone away from her and I hear muffled conversation, then, “Dude, I gotta go. Just … follow your heart but keep your eyes open. ’Kay?”
“Okay. Love you, Bets.”
“Love you, Gracie.”
Before I go to bed, I get one more text from you: It’s 11:11, make a wish.
I wish for you.
NINE
I am in love with your parents.
I’m practically shaking with nerves when I walk up to your front door, worried they’ll think my pink Doc Martens and Princess Leia buns are weird, but it’s too late to go home and change into a normal girl. I’m wearing a lacy babydoll dress I know you like and my jean jacket and black tights with tiny pink hearts that I got on sale at Target. I can hear piano music and the clanging of pots and pans and as soon as I knock, your dog, Frances, starts barking. I wonder if she can smell the fear on me.
You open the door, your hair still wet from your shower. You look me up and down and then shake your head.
“How am I supposed to not jump you during dinner?” you murmur and I laugh. I’ve never been jumped before. I now have a new life goal.
“I have a feeling your parents wouldn’t approve of that.”
You usher me inside and I instantly feel at home. Your house is like those children’s books where the animals live in trees or underground or whatever and everything is cozy and safe. There are overstuffed chairs and pretty paintings on the walls and thick woven rugs on the hardwood floors. It smells like lasagna and I love how there’s a sweater lying over the back of one chair and a half-finished game of chess on the living room table. Your backpack is leaning against the couch and there’s a stack of magazines on an end table. It’s delightfully messy. Frances bounds toward me, very keen to be paid attention to, so I get on my knees and scratch her Labrador ears and let her lick me.
“Ah, here she is,” your dad says as he stops playing the upright piano in the living room. He stands—he’s very tall, your dad, but you look just like him—and, instead of holding a hand out to me, he pulls me into a bear hug.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Davis,” I say, flushing.
“You too, sweetheart.” He glances at you. “I don’t know what you see in this hooligan.”
I laugh. “Oh, he’s not so bad, once you get to know him.”
You beam. “I told you she was perfect,” you say, and now I’m speechless.
Your mom bustles out of the kitchen wearing a Kiss the cook! apron.
“Grace! I hope Frances didn’t slobber all over you.”
“Just the right amount,” I say.
She also gives me a hug. “Aren’t you adorable? Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll let Gavin give you the tour.”
Your house is my dream of what a house could be like. On one wall is one of those sepia-tinted photographs of you all dressed in Western gear, the kind you can get at Disneyland. You guys have a whole bookshelf filled with board games. There’s dust—oh, heavenly dust!—and ratty old toys of Frances’s lying around. Another shelf filled with books—mystery and sci-fi and fantasy. Outside is a pool and I love that there are weeds and that your patio furniture has seen better days. It’s clear your mom doesn’t make you spend hours scrubbing and weeding and sweeping.
“And here,” you say, pushing open the door to your bedroom, “is where all the magic happens.”
You have four guitars—one acoustic and three electric. A poster of Jimi Hendrix and, of course, Nirvana. A kittens calendar that the guys bought you as a joke gift last Christmas. It’s still on January even though it’s April. You don’t have a lot of books on your bookshelf, but you do have The Alchemist. I pick it up. There’s a folded piece of notebook paper inside.
“Favorite book?”
You blush a little. “My parents gave it to me when I was … after … you know.”
“Oh.” Fuck. Now what do I say?
You cross to me and take the book out of my hands and flip to a dog-eared page, then hand me the book.
“I thought of you when I read this,” you say, pointing to an underlined passage.
You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it’s better to listen to what it has to say.
“That’s beautiful.” I want to know so badly what your heart told you. I want to know why these words made you think of me.
You nod and hold up the piece of paper.
“Not as beautiful as this.”
“What is it?”
You smile, soft, and hand me the paper. I open it up. And see my own writing.
I understand …
I know right now it seems like …
You matter, even if you think you don’t …
You are the most talented person I’ve ever …
My letter. The paper soft and wrinkled, like it’s been read hundreds of times.
I swallow. “I was so afraid you’d think I was a total freak for writing this.”
“Not even close. You know, my parents wanted me to stay out of school an extra week, but I couldn’t. I had to see you.”
I look at you and my heart is like a diver, waiting to jump. “Really?”
You lean your forehead against mine. “Really.”
“Gavin! Grace! Dinner!” your mom calls.
You take my hand and lead me to the dining room, which is more like a breakfast nook off the kitchen. A huge tray of lasagna sits in the center of the table, with a salad and bread.
“I hope you’re hungry, Grace, because I made enough to feed ten of you,” your mom says.