"Come with me," I whispered. "It's not too late. Just get in the car. We'll figure everything else out."
She closed her eyes, fresh tears spilling over. "I can't. I'm sorry. I just—I can't."
I wanted to understand. I wanted to ask her why, what was holding her here so tightly that she couldn't take this leap with me. But looking at her, I knew pushing wouldn't change anything.
"Okay," I said softly. "Okay."
She loved me. I had to hold on to that. Even if I couldn't understand why she was so scared to leave, even if it hurt like crazy, she loved me.
"I'll call you the second I land," I promised.
"You better."
I kissed her one more time, trying to memorize everything—the taste of her tears, the way she held onto my jacket like she couldn't let go, the sound of her breath hitching.
Then I got back in the car, clutching the paper bag like it was something precious.
As Hal pulled away, I turned to watch her through the back window. She stood in the driveway, barefoot and beautiful and heartbroken, getting smaller and smaller, until the car turned the corner and she disappeared from view.
I looked down at the sandwich bag in my lap. There was writing on it in her handwriting:I love you. Come back to me.
I stared out the window, the streets of New Orleans blurring past. I was chasing a dream of this blockbuster movie, but what if I'd just walked away from the only reality that mattered?
43
ANNA
Lukeand I were killing this long-distance relationship thing.
Seriously, we could write a book. Teach a class.
The first day he was gone, deliveries started arriving at my door like clockwork. Every hour, on the hour, a new surprise.
Nine a.m.: Flowers. Purple tulips, my favorite, with a note that saidMissing you already.
Ten a.m.: A box of books from Octavia Books, an independent bookstore I'd mentioned once in passing. He'd remembered. Of course, he'd remembered.
Eleven a.m.: Reese's Peanut butter cups. An entire case of them. The note read:For emergency writing fuel. Or just regular fuel. I don't judge.
Noon: More flowers. That time, sunflowers, bright and ridiculous, which made the whole kitchen look like a meadow.
By three p.m., the mansion looked like a florist shop had exploded, and I was crying-laughing on the phone with Lucy.
"He's either the most romantic man alive or his assistant is really good at their job," she said.
"I'm choosing to believe it's him."
"Anna, no man coordinates hourly deliveries without help."
"Let me have this, Luce."
The next day, more flowers arrived—orchids this time, delicate and beautiful. The card said,Still missing you. Also, my assistant says I need to pace myself or I'll go bankrupt.
That night, my phone rang at exactly 10 p.m. That was our agreed-upon call time, because apparently, we were the kind of couple who scheduled calls now.
"Hey," Luke's voice came through, warm and a little tired. "How's my favorite author?"
"Caffeinated and slightly buried under flowers," I said, curling up on the couch. "How's my favorite movie star?"
