I grab the fairy tale and let it fall open to page 43.
Oliver springs to the rock wall, holding on the way he would if anyone ordinary were to open the book. When he sees that I am the Reader, however, his eyes widen.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “I tried not to open the book, I really did. I know you think I shouldn’t come here anymore. It’s just . . . I can’t not talk to you.”
I realize that Oliver has hopped down and is smiling from ear to ear. “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me,” he says. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“What are we going to do?” I whisper.
“Well,” he says bravely, “it’s not all bad. It’s sort of the way we started, isn’t it?”
“I don’t mean now. I mean in ten years. Twenty. I’m going to be ancient and you’ll still be . . . perfect.”
He grins. “You think I’m perfect?”
“I’m not kidding, Oliver.” I shake my head. “It just doesn’t work, if you’re in there and I’m out here.”
He thinks about this for a moment. “But youarein here. No matter what I look at, I see you.”
“Can you really tell me that’s enough for you? Won’t you get sick of pining away for someone you’re never truly going to be with?”
Oliver looks up at me. “You’re a part of me,” he says. “To get rid of you would literally tear me to pieces.”
For the first time since Oliver has left, I smile. “I bet you say that to all the girls who were your ticket to freedom.”
I expect Oliver to laugh, but instead he sobers. “Delilah,” he says, “even if I’d been born in your world, I would have foundyou.I would have chosenyou.”
“How am I supposed to go to school, and be normal, and pretend that you never happened?”
“It’s what I do every day,” Oliver replies. “It’s called acting. It’s not all that difficult to be the person people expect you to be. It’s harder to remember who you really are.”
“Who I really am?” I repeat. “I guess I’m just a girl looking for a prince.”
“Any prince?” he jokes.
“Just the fictional kind. I have a thing for two dimensions; I like my guys flat.”
He sinks down against the rock wall, drawing his knees to his chest. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could write our own fairy tale?” Oliver muses.
I curl onto my side, propping the book against the pillow. “How would it start?”
“ ‘Once upon a time,’ of course,” he says. “We meet at . . . the market.”
“I ask you to reach the spaghetti on the top shelf,” I continue.
“And it’s love at first sight,” Oliver adds.
“What would we do?”
“Well,” Oliver says, “we’d live in a little cottage. With window boxes, where you’d plant violets. And every morning you’d cook me your amazing chocolate chip pancakes.”
“And what would you be doing for me while I’m slaving away in your sexist kitchen?” I ask.
“Someonehas to take care of the baby,” Oliver replies.
“We have a kid?”
“Three. Two strapping lads and a little princess.”
