Sunday evening, Kat and I are in the airport, waiting for our flight in the deathly boring seating area at our gate. All they have is chairs and a television too quiet to hear. Whoop-de-do. Would it kill them to maybe bring in some musicians or dancers? I’d even settle for a magician.
Kat doesn’t look bored. She’s just staring off into the distance, grinning stupidly. It’s better than her thinking about the flight, though. She already puked once this morning thinking about having to fly back alone, but after some negotiating at the check-in counter, complete with some particularly charming arguments from yours truly, we managed to switch the flights around so Stephen took her spot and she could fly back with me, and she’s been better since then. Less white face, more googly eyes.
When we saw Stephen—Dad? I haven’t decided if I should go back to calling him that—off at his gate, I let him hug me again, and that was okay. He still smells of sweat and wood, even after being away from the shop for an entire weekend. I don’t know how he does it. Maybe next time I’ll hug him back. Maybe.
I texted Grayson yesterday. Nothing rambly. Just, I’m sorry about before. I thought he wasn’t going to respond, but this morning my phone chirped with his reply. Me too.
Kat’s still grinning. I elbow her for like the hundredth time.
“Shut up,” she says, for like the hundredth time. Then she sits up straight. “Oh my gosh, Meg, look. Over there.”
I try to follow her finger, but the airport is busy with people. A middle-aged East Indian man buying a newspaper and a chocolate bar. Two young white kids running up and down the enormous hallway, shrieking with laughter as they chase each other in a seemingly lawless game of tag. A young white woman knitting a fuzzy orange scarf without even looking at her needles. I have no idea where Kat wants me to be looking.
“Come on.” Kat hops up and hurries away. I grab my bag and hurry after her. She weaves through the shrieking children, loops around a Starbucks kiosk, and marches toward another gate, stopping just short of the last row of chairs. She looks down at the guy sitting in the final seat. His legs stretch out less than a foot away from her.
It’s LumberLegs. Holy bananas, it’s LumberLegs.
His slick black hair practically sparkles with gel as he looks up at Kat and me, who are just standing there, staring at him. “Um, hi?” he says.
Kat’s mouth clamps shut. The muscle or whatever it is under her chin moves, as if she’s trying ventriloquism. Trying and failing. She looks at me, wide-eyed, as if to say, “Dude, it’s the world’s most hilarious video-game player, LumberLegs, our idol, remember? You’re the voice of this operation. Hurry up and say something before he thinks we’re a couple of creepy, mute stalkers and calls the police.” Or something close to that.
I put on my toothpaste-commercial-iest grin. “Hi,” I say. “We are big fans. Like, the biggest. Can we get a picture with you?”
He shrugs. “Sure.” He gets to his feet, shoving his duffel bag under his chair. I pull out my phone and recruit the curvy white woman two seats down, who’s watching us with a grin, to take a picture.
She has to back up to get us all in the shot. As she does, Legs turns to me. “Hey,” he says, “weren’t you at my autograph signing Friday night?”
It’s all I can do to keep from squealing. He remembers me.
I shake my head. “Nope. Wasn’t me.”
“Say cheese,” says the woman with the phone. Legs puts his arms around each of our shoulders, and all three of us—me and Kat and LumberLegs!—say, “Cheeeeese.”
The woman hands the phone back to me. “I snapped a couple,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say. Then to LumberLegs, “Thanks so much.”
He nods. “No problem.” He lowers himself back into his seat, checks for his duffel bag, then, almost as an afterthought, flicks us a two-fingered salute. “Be awesome.”
“We will be,” Kat says, finding her voice.
“We are,” I say. Then I take hold of my best friend’s arm, and together we cross the airport to board a plane back home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is the part of the book where I thank only a small fraction of the multitudes of people I’m grateful for, simultaneously making me feel like a jerk and like one of the luckiest people alive. If I don’t explicitly name you here, don’t think that you don’t make my heart beat with gratitude every day.
I am certain I hit the jackpot and won the editor lottery, because my editor, Stephanie Stein, has been nothing short of perfection. Stephanie, thank you for embracing the nerd in Kat and Meg, for your notes that always made me wonder why I hadn’t done it that way in the first place, and for always pushing me to dive deeper and go farther. Thank you to everyone at HarperCollins who’s touched Kat and Meg in big or small ways, especially copy editor Renée Cafiero, who helps save me from making too much of a fool of myself, Stephanie Hoover in publicity, Tyler Breitfeller in marketing, and the fabulously talented Michelle Taormina and Alison Donalty in design.
Thank you to my agent, Lauren Abramo at Dystel, Goderich & Bourret, who has been equal parts agent, therapist, and friend. Lauren, you are better than a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie with lactose-free milk. Thanks to the entire team at DG&B, including Mike Hoogland and Kemi Faderin, who make magic happen with numbers and money, and Sharon Pelletier, who social medias all the things.
Thank you to my family. To Mom, who loved Kat and Meg from the beginning like they were her own blood. To Em, who is my blood, but who I would choose as a friend. To Dad, Will, Anyu, Dan, Bear, Monkey, and the rest of my immediate and extended family, who send all their love and support to me from basically across the world.
I am so grateful to my critique group. I owe pretty much everything I know about writing novels to the years we’ve spent together. Leann Orris, you always saw what I was trying to do and helped me get there. Kat and Meg are as much yours as they are mine. Terri Bruce, thank you for all your tough-love pep talks. And Aimee, Teresa, Jeremy, Beth, and Sean, I am thankful for all your feedback and support.
To the Kats to my Meg and the Megs to my Kat, thank you thank you thank you. Katelyn Larson, you are the Sam to my Frodo. Laura Geddes, thank you for every friendship date we’ve had and for every one to come. Emily Bain Murphy, you are the heart on the crook of my elbow. I love you all dearly.
Sometimes I wonder how I’m possibly still standing, and then I look down and see all the people holding me up. Bree Barton, Caitie Flum, Chelsea Sedoti, Erin and Chris Dawson, Isabel Van Wyk, Jilly Gagnon, Kayla Olson, Keira Drake, Nic Stone—thank you for keeping me from falling into the abyss.
Thank you to my writer family, including K, Greggles, Morgan, Rachel, Jo, Josh, Katie, Jess, LL, Carrie, Tasha, Jason, and others already mentioned. You are my team, my strength, my cheerleaders, my silliness, my happiness.