“Why do you have my clothes?” I ask.
“Honestly, Annabelle, I’m getting tired of explaining all of this to you,” Lucy says impatiently. “I’m on a serious deadline, and I’m already behind. Your clothes are here because I invented them, like I invented you. Everything I think about, everything that’s on my mind, is swirling around me in this house. It’s just the way it goes.”
Lucy does look more stressed than the last time I saw her. Now that I look more closely, her hair is a little greasy, and she has bags under her eyes. I take a little pleasure in it.
“Well, then, I’ll make this quick,” I say. “We want you to stop doing this.”
Lucy tilts her head. “I will also make this quick: no.”
“Can you write that smoke is coming out of my ears?” I ask her. “Because it sure feels like it.”
Lucy chuckles. “Somehow you are funnier than I ever intended. I didn’t know I had it in me.”
This only enrages me further.
“See?” Will mutters. “Total God complex.”
Lucy rolls her eyes at him.
“Will and I are both here because we want our lives back,” I demand. “This is the creepiest, most dysfunctional thing I have ever been a part of, and you should be ashamed of yourself. We want out!”
Lucy looks at Will imploringly. “Is that what you really want, Will? For me to stop writing all of this?”
Will’s face has lost a little color. “This is the weirdest moment of my life” is all he says.
“What’s your answer?” Lucy pushes, but her tone is still even.
“I want Annabelle,” Will admits.
I grit my teeth. He is not helping.
“Well, there you go,” Lucy says.
“But I want to know I’m choosing Annabelle because I want to. And that she is choosing me back. And I want to do normal things teenage guys do. I wanna get in trouble for piercing something or tattooing something else. I want to fail an exam. I want to leave my room a mess and not have it magically be all neat again when I get back from the kitchen.”
Lucy laughs. “Do you guys hear yourselves? Everything about your lives is perfect. I made it that way. You could have it a lot worse, you know.”
“My life is not perfect!” I say. “You are splitting up my parents just to create tension in your stupid book, and I’m spinning out of control. One minute I like Elliot, the next Will. One minute one guy is doing something sweet, another minute he’s yelling at me in a lifeguard tower.”
“Elliot.” Lucy exhales out her nostrils. “He wasn’t even supposed to be a main character. He was just supposed to be Sam’s annoying friend, comic relief when you were at home. But he kept pushing at his own boundaries.”
“Why?” Will asks.
“Because Elliot isn’t the right guy for her,” Lucy says. “You are.”
At this, Will’s eyes widen.
“How do you know?” I nearly yell. I’ve never felt so misunderstood in my life. I’ve never felt so . . . trapped.
“Because I know, trust me,” she says. “Elliot is not your guy. Elliot isn’t even in control of his own life. A character like Elliot . . .” Lucy pauses and sighs. “Annabelle, he only breaks your heart.”
Now this stops me for a moment, because it’s the first thing Lucy has said or done that might be true to my understanding of life. Because if I’m being honest, I’ve always had a suspicion he would.
Lucy takes a step closer. “Trust me, Annabelle. I know what I’m talking about. Trust someone who once chose the wrong guy. Your story with Elliot does not end well.”
My heart is clenching in my chest, and I look down at my shoes. “Maybe it will,” I try.
“No.” Lucy shakes her head. “Listen to yourself. You don’t even think it will. And I’m here to tell you it doesn’t. Let me give you the Happy Ending you deserve.”
Behind Lucy, I watch Napoleon wander out from the kitchen, look at me, and hop up onto the couch. Patio lights from Sea Salt Creamery are strung around the hallway. Cookies from the Malibu Country Mart are on a plate on the coffee table, and I think my father’s surfboard is leaning against the refrigerator.
“Love isn’t supposed to be hard, Annabelle,” Lucy says.
“Since when?” I ask.
“Let me give you the correct ending,” she says again.
“How do you know what that even is?” I demand.
“Because I created you,” she says without pausing.
“Total God complex,” Will repeats.
“Oh, shut up, Will,” Lucy says in exasperation.
“Elliot is what I want,” I say, because I mean it. I feel it deep within me. I turn to Will. “Will, you really are perfect. For me and even in general. You are honestly everything I thought I wanted that didn’t exist. Someone is going to be very lucky to be with you.”
Will smiles, but it’s a sad smile.
Now I turn my attention back to Lucy. “I didn’t pick Elliot. One day it just smacked me across the head. But you don’t get to pick the people you fall in love with. You know this better than anyone. You don’t get to choose for me.”
I glance around Lucy’s house some more, before noticing that the names of all my friends and family are written on a whiteboard above her desk. These names, once just a word written in marker, are real people to me. Their lives mean something.
I think about my parents, and tears come to my eyes. “And just because something ends, doesn’t mean it didn’t mean anything. Sometimes, you have to take the risk.”
Lucy has gone still, and she stares at me, continuing to absently scratch her dog’s head.
“If you had a chance to do it over,” I say. “Would you?”
“Do what over?” Lucy asks suspiciously.
“Do it over with Edwin,” I say.
Lucy looks at me sharply. “How do you know about that?” she asks.
“It doesn’t matter. Would you really do it differently? Would you take it all back, even if you were only going to grow apart in the end?” I ask her.
Lucy sets her dog down, and wraps her arms tightly around her torso. “Losing him was the most painful experience of my life,” she says softly.
“But would you change anything?” I press her.
Lucy swallows, then seems to snap out of it.
“You guys need to go,” she says. “Now.”
“We aren’t leaving until you agree to let us decide things for ourselves,” I say stubbornly, because I think I have nearly cracked her.
“Fine!” Lucy exclaims. “If that’s what you want, Annabelle, that’s what you’re going to get.” She marches toward her front door, and holds it open for us.
“Wait a minute,” Will says, his eyes worried.
“Good!” I yell back, walking out the door.
“Hang on,” Will cautions.
“If that’s what you want, Annabelle, I’m going to stop writing your life.” Lucy shrugs, watching us from her doorway.
“Why does this suddenly seem like a bad idea?” Will asks, following me back out the gate.