I stand in the hallway, holding a plate of Rice Krispies and a letter that feels heavier than any apology I ever begged for and never got. And for the first time in a long, long time…I don’t feel like I’m too much or that I have to prove my worth, and I don’t feel like a stupid consolation prize.
I feel wanted. Not for what I can give, or how small I can make myself, or how easy I can be to love. I feel wanted exactly as I am.
And maybe, just maybe, this is what real love is supposed to do.
It’s not supposed to fix you or save you…It’s supposed to see you.
Then I remember the man on the subway, who thanked me for seeing him. I remember the woman in the airport, who whispered,“Thanks for seeing my chaos and not calling me crazy.”I remember the family at The Bean, who had just celebrated a year of their mother being cancer-free, and I wanted to make sure their picture was perfect.
I’ve been loving people all this time, and yet, I’m not sure I’ve fully loved myself because I don’t think I’ve forgiven myself for who I had to be so I could become who I am today. The girl who ran away, not because she was scared, but because she needed to choose herself. The girl who finally said “no” when she’d always been one to say “yes”—even when she didn’t want to. The girl who didn’t go back home because she needed the time and space to heal, to remember who she was.
All this time, I think I’ve been waiting for an apology, and now, I realize I’ve been able to give it to myself.
I set the Rice Krispie treats, envelope, and letter down on the bed and go back to the mirror in the bathroom, looking at myself, tears soaking into my skin.
“For the girl I had to be to survive. For the girl I was when I finally broke free. For the confident woman I’ve become. Forthe woman I am, who doesn’t have anything to prove. For Evan Michaels showing me what loving me can look like, and for the fact that I’m in love with him, too,” I say.
Oops. That’s six again.
I wipe my tears with my palms, swipe on new mascara, and leave my shoes behind to go find my marshmallow man.
Chapter 39
Evan
Melaniewasbothirritatedand happy when I changed the ending of what is nowLife After Daybreak. Marketing materials were now having to be changed, and yet…I saw the way her firm expression slipped momentarily to relief when she said,“I didn’t mean to change the book when I told you to rewrite your ending.”
But I believe in Barrett again, and well, I couldn’t just kill him off as easily as I thought. I had convinced myself that it was just words on paper, but Barrett is so much more than fiction, and he deserves, at the very least, a second chance.
I’m waiting backstage for our fifth forum in front of the largest crowd we’ve had when I see Rachel slip through the door wearing the purple dress I bought her yesterday that sent my pulse into an erratic rhythm, just like it’s doing now.
“Hi, Marshmallow,” she says as she slips her arms around my neck looking up at me with those green eyes that I swear are the most perfect shade of anything I’ve ever seen.
“You got my note,” I reply, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her closer so there’s no air between us.
She nods her head, then her eyes go wide as her eyebrows arch. “You were going to kill Barrett off?”
I laugh, because of course that’s the first thing she’s going to say. “Well, I’d read a few comments on this fanfiction website that said someone else could write Barrett better.”
She smirks at this. “Maybe not better…”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I messaged her, and she signed her letterThe Better Barrett.”
Rachel laughs. “Well…”
“She wasn’t wrong,” I say. “You saved him.”
“I didn’t save him,” she argues. “I saw him.”
I rest my forehead against hers. “You did.”
And it feels warm, complete, like I’m holding everything in one person.
“I love you, too,” she says quietly before she moves to look up at me, our mouths inches apart. “And I know that maybe it’s too soon to say it, but I’ve been thinking about how I feel on the three-minute elevator ride and walk here, and I know that’s not a lot of time either, but it was plenty of time for me to realize that I’ve known you for a long time because I knew Barrett, and well…I’m not exactly Willow Starborn or Serendipity Blaze, and I don’t have a lot of glitter to offer, which I believe you were highly offended by, but I write myself in my stories, too. Except I write in the parts of me I wish were true, and you make me believe they are.”
I let her ramble because I love her rambling. Her heart spills out when she opens her mouth, and I know not everyone has always been gentle with it.
“I love you,” I say, because I need to say the words out loud before my mouth is soon over hers. She kisses me fervently, without holding anything back.
