I grab the book and rip it open to page 43. Oliver stands at the bottom of the rock cliff. As I watch, the bluepaint spattering his tunic vanishes, until he looks the same way he always does on page 43. “Whatare you doing?” he yells.
“Saving your life!”
“It wasworking!”
“Oliver, you started to show up in my room. But you started to show up flat as a pancake. Did you really want to live in my world that way?”
“Maybe I just looked like that because I wasn’t finished yet,” he says. “Maybe I’d puff up like a pastry at the very end.”
“Even so—how would you be able to finish painting yourself out of the story? At the very least, your arm or fingers or hand would have to stay behind to put those last brushstrokes on the canvas.”
He sinks down to the ground. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I know,” I say sadly. “I’m really sorry.”
Oliver is sitting with his knees drawn, his head bent. I wish I could tell him everything will work out in the end, but that’s only true in fairy tales—the very place he’s trying to escape.
“Maybe we should call it a night,” I whisper. I set the book, still open to page 43, on my nightstand and crawl into bed.
“Delilah?” Oliver’s voice drifts to me. “Do me a favor?”
I sit up again. “Anything.”
“Can you close the book, please?” He looks away. “I kind of want to be alone right now.”
These are the very words I just said to my mother. The same ones she insisted were signs of depression. I wish I knew how to help Oliver. I wonder if my mother feels this way about me.
But instead, I just nod and, as gently as I can, do what he’s asked.
