I pull the covers close. “Do we have pets?”
“Only a dozen dogs,” Oliver says. “All basset hounds, of course.”
“Every day,” I add, “you go to work.”
“I do?” Oliver asks, truly surprised.
“Our country’s not a monarchy,” I point out. “The peasants aren’t going to pay for the college educations of your three kids.”
“What on earth do I do?”
I think for a moment. “You teach . . . fencing!”
“And you own the corner bookshop,” Oliver pronounces. “Filled to the rafters with fairy tales.”
“After every dinner, we tuck the children into bed, and drink a cup of tea and watch the news.”
“And the best part is at night, I get to hold you,” Oliver says. “And I know that I never, ever have to let go.”
“And we are absolutely, positively, blissfully ordinary.” I sigh.
He looks up at me, and I stare down at him, and even though we’re both smiling, there’s a whole world of sadness between us. “Oliver? Will you stay with me while I fall asleep?”
“Always,” he swears.
I put the book down on the pillow beside me, still wide open. One minute I’m awake and the next I’m not. It happens that fast, that effortlessly—like the moment night turns into morning, or summer shivers into fall. Like love.
You’ve seen those pictures of couples kissing in front of a Christmas tree, or clasping hands on their wedding day, or holding a newborn baby between them—a snapshot of joy. But what do you really know about them? Just that at the second the shutter clicked, they loved each other. You have no idea what trials and tribulations came before, or after. You don’t know if one of them cheated, if they grew apart, if a divorce loomed on the horizon. You simply see that in one static moment, they were happy.
A fairy tale is a snapshot too. You never know what goes on post-happily-ever-after. It’s simply a frozen minute, and the only one we seem to remember.
The difference is, in a fairy tale, the story can’t be altered. The prince and princess will never have a fight. You’ll never hear the queen raise her voice. No one ever gets sick; no one ever gets hurt.
Maybe love is only safe in places where it can’t change.
EDGAR
We’re standing at the end of my driveway—or at least, what Jules promises me is actually my new driveway. “So,” I say. “Now what?”
She takes a step backward. “I guess I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”
She sounds less than enthused about this. In fact, she sounds like she’s just announced that she needs a root canal, or that she’s found a rat underneath her bed.
I go to jam my hands in my pockets and remember I’m wearing freaking tights. “Are we . . . good?” I ask.
Jules nods, but she doesn’t look at me.
I reach for her hand and pull her closer to kiss her goodnight, but she stops me. “It’s different here, Edgar.”
“It’s still you, and it’s still me,” I say.
“No. Here, you’re my best friend’s boyfriend.” She gestures between us. “Thiscan’t be a thing.”
“So you’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen?” I argue. “Us?” I think about how, in the book, shegotme the way no one in my life ever has.
“Itdidn’thappen. Not for real, anyway,” Jules says. “Edgar, it was a fairy tale. You can’t believe everything you read in books.”
She turns away quickly, and I start to call after her—but I stop short. What if she’s right? What if the guy I was in the book—someone confident and brave, a leader, not a follower—was just make-believe? It might as well have been a dream; I might as well have never left.
