“All right, I’ve shared your calendar with mine. Now I’ll know exactly when every assignment is due. I’ll know when to leave you alone so you can study,” he says. “I’ll help you get the scholarship, Evie.”
I need him to do exactly what he’s saying, but I don’twanthim to leave me alone. I worry if I’m not directly in his line of sight, some other, more incredible girl will walk into his life and steal him away from me while I’m off cramming for a modern history exam or trying to balance chemistry equations. I see the way they all look at him, everywhere we go together.
I want to show my mum this boy. The way he supports me. The way he is as dedicated to the future I’m trying to create as I am.
He pulls me into yet another breathtaking kiss that sends me into some other world. This time it’s deeper, and faster. He rolls me onto my back and pins my thigh to the mattress with his knee. I push my leg up underneath him, testing that I’m not trapped, and he immediately releases me.
His hand trails down my throat toward the button on my school shirt, playing with it. It’s tantalizing, and terrifying, and I wonder if he’s waiting for me to stop him.
“I’ll always look after you,” he whispers. I’m not sure if we’re still talking about the scholarship, but my heart races either way as his fingers deftly flick the plastic button and the top of my shirt falls open, exposing the lace of my white bra underneath.
He’s looking at me as if I’m the first girl he’s ever seen. “Is this okay?” he asks.
I need more information. If he’s talking about just that topbutton, then yes? I think so? It’s just that I’m frozen right now and can’t utter any response one way or the other.
“Do you know how gorgeous you are?” he says.
I do not know that.
His finger trails along my skin, teasing the lace. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says, simply, while I stare at him. “Isthatokay?”
He kisses my neck, and then my chest, and then I’m swooning like all those eighteenth-century girls, in the very best way. I know it’s been only a few weeks, and they’ve been intense, but helovesme? Already?
“Maybe we’re soulmates,” he suggests. “There’s never been anyone else who’s made me feel like this, Evie. Never. Seriously.”
I get it. I do. Soulmates. What else could something this powerful possibly be?
I want to tell him I love him too. I really want to. I should. It must be true—I’m entirely obsessed with him, after all.
His leg pins mine again, the weight of it heavier this time as he looks into my eyes with a silent intensity. I try to push back but can’t, panic flooding my chest until I open my mouth and say the three little words he’s expecting.
And the pressure from his leg instantly lifts.
the PRESENT
24
Evie
The Book Cottage is a block up from Darby Street, in the shade of a large red maple. The tree drops so many leaves that they pile around the cart in front of the shop and its owner, Rose, has to brush them off the books. How can I remember the name of the bookshop keeper but nothing else from the past decade? It’s maddening.
According to my high school plan, I was meant to be through my undergrad degree at Sydney Uni, and ultimately a PhD, which I would have completed in three years—the minimum time. I should have spent semesters overseas in postdoctoral fellowships at Yale or Brown or Oxford, and by now I would be working as a forensic linguist, solving crime by day, writing bestselling thrillers by night.
Thatwas the plan. Not becoming a supporting character in my high school boyfriend’s story with nothing discernible to show for my life except a giant diamond ring that I hate, a clinically decorated mansion, a viral podcast, and a gorgeous Instagram aesthetic.
I pull on the familiar brass handle and predict the exact moment the door will creak, and it does. The scent of old booksand the whirring of the vintage fan above the counter send me straight to my childhood. It feels like home.
Hold it together.
Drew steps into the shop behind me, tall and broad.Hisscent is far less familiar. I turn and glance from the dark waves of his hair to the stubble on his jawline and picture him inWildmagazine—some glossy profile on the rugged photographer behind the beautiful landscape imagery—and instruct my imagination to stay on track. I’d had to do the same last night, standing beside him at the counter of a beachside hotel. The sixteen-year-old in me ran away with the whole notion of it—my being away in another city with aman—until he checked us into separate rooms and, admittedly, a sense of relief washed over me.
Walking tentatively toward the counter now, I see Rose serving a customer and my heart quickens. She hasn’t changed. A bit rounder, maybe. Still wearing her light brown hair in that tight, messy bun, brown eyes still twinkling when she talks to people about books. Right now, the soft-spoken, middle-aged former librarian is the only connection I have with anyone from my past. I want to throw myself into her arms and stay there until everything rights itself and she hands me the scoop on my parents’ whereabouts … but at the same time, I’m terrified. What if this is the moment that breaks me?
She looks up and her familiar features crumple into an unreadable mash-up of emotion. I want to step forward, but something stops me—as if sudden movement will scare her off.
Someone steps on a floorboard in a nearby aisle and it creaks, breaking the moment. Rose swallows and takes an audible breath. “Evie,” she says at last. She comes around the counter, walks up to me, and touches me on the cheek, as if she can’t believe I’m here.
Hot tears well, and I struggle to contain them. I want to keep my act together almost as much as I want to fall spectacularly apart. I need to know about Mum and Dad—now. But just as I’m about to ask that question, Rose turns, takes a step sideways, throws her arms out, and says, “Drew!”
