It was true that she needed time to fall out of love with Dylan Monroe. And no, she didn’t want to think about Dylan for too long, too much.
But that was before.
Before these pictures.
Before five minutes ago that changed everything.
Because yes, goddammit, yes, she loved Dylan Monroe.
And if she was reading this right, remembering right, and sheknewshe was, Dylan Monroe loved her too.
She looked up at April and Olive, who were waiting, their own breaths shallow, their eyes wide. And then she asked the only question that mattered right now, the only thing that mattered in the entire universe.
“How long does it take to get to the Griffith Observatory?”
Chapter
Forty-Two
Dylan stood outsideon Griffith Observatory’s deck, the white stone cool under her forearms. She had on light-wash jeans, a plain black baseball cap over her long hair, and a fitted black T-shirt with the wordNonchalancespelled across the chest in white capital letters. It was a David Rose shirt fromSchitt’s Creek, one of her favorite shows ever, but it was also incredibly ironic.
She felt anything but nonchalant right now.
This was her fifth night in a row at Griffith. Her fifth time using her parents’ annual pass to get into the observatory. Her fifth time watching the sun set over the city from the deck. Her fifth time waiting…waiting…waiting, jumping every time someone came out onto the deck. And as it was summer, the town swollen with tourists, this happened approximately every five seconds.
Still, it wasn’t the waiting that bothered her. She’d always loved it here. She remembered her parents bringing her here once or twice during the more stable times in her childhood, and her aunt Hallie loved the observatory too. She’d bring Dylan any time she was in town, and they’d spend hours on this deck after the sun went down, staring at the night sky through the telescopes, dreaming up stories for the constellations.
But on this fifth night, the last night she’d told Ramona she’d wait for her—the last night she’d toldherselfshe’d wait for her—her stomach was in knots. Suddenly, this entire plan seemed silly and childish. Too hopeful for reality.
Of course Ramona didn’t pine over Dylan’s Instagram.
Of course Ramona wouldn’t come and meet her here, even if, by the smallest of chances, she did happen to see Dylan’s posts.
Dream on,Dylan Monroe, she told herself.
Still, she would wait. She’d wait and wait until ten p.m. when the observatory closed, and Harold, the night security guard, found her on the deck once again and escorted her from the building, tipping his hat and saying,Have a good night, Ms. Monroe, even though she had covered most of her face and he never let on thatMs. Monroewas anyone all that famous.
She sort of loved him for that.
“Good ole Harold,” she whispered into the evening air. It was nearly dark now, a Friday night, the observatory busier than usual. Families and couples wandered over the deck, holding hands, laughing, and still she waited.
She sighed, started thinking about what would come next, about how she’d have to give this up after tonight. Give Ramona up. Move on and all that. The thought made her feel lonely, a hollowness in her chest she could physically feel, but she could do it.
She could do anything.
And maybe, that was the point of all this, in the end.
Dylan Monroe could do anything she wanted. She could act in a rom-com. She could act in a horror film or biopic or a miniseries about spies. She could recognize her mistakes and own them. She could become friends with Blair Emmanuel.
She could forgive her parents.
She could forgive herself.
She could start fresh, remake, redo, be, become.
She smiled a little and gazed out at the city, a sort of contentment mingling with that cavernous feeling in her core. But still, she waited.
She waited, and she waited, and she—
