What she’s telling me is that I’ve hit a dead end. And I can’t let that be true. “But youhaveto try!” I burst out.
She hesitates. “How wouldyouhave ended the book?”
Embarrassed, I mumble, “Oliver gets to leave the story.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Ah. I think I’m starting to understand. Heisquite good-looking. I used to develop crushes on characters. There was one detective in my murder series who had the dreamiest smile—”
Tears fill my eyes. “It’s not a crush,” I tell her. “He’s alive, to me.”
“And he always will be,” Jessamyn says kindly. “Everytime you open the book. That’s the beauty of reading, isn’t it?”
If I can’t make the author understand, then surely I have run out of options. I’m certain she thinks I’m nuts—some delusional girl who shows up unannounced, talking about a fictional character as if he might be sitting in the room sipping tea.
But how will I break this news to Oliver?
Suddenly, it’s just too much. I thought if anyone was ever going to understand the things I felt for this story, it would be the author herself, and yet here she is telling me—like everyone else—that I’m wrong. That what’s between me and Oliver is impossible.
I start sobbing. I get to my feet, embarrassed, suddenly intent on leaving as quickly as possible. I’ve been an idiot to think that real life could have a happy ending.
“Delilah! Are you all right?” Concerned (and whowouldn’tbe if a crazy girl was hysterical in the living room?), Jessamyn puts her hand on my arm. “Is there someone I can call for you? Your mother, maybe?”
This makes me cry even harder, as I think about how frantic my mom must be by now. During our car ride I had checked the messages on my cell phone; I stopped listening at number twenty-three.
Jessamyn leads me to a couch. “I’m going to go geta glass of water for you,” she says. “And then we’ll figure out what to do next.”
She leaves the room, and I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself down enough to at least be capable of opening the book and telling Oliver it’s over.
I hear footsteps and look up, but it’s not Jessamyn returning from the kitchen. Instead, standing in the doorway that leads to the front hall, is Oliver.
At first I think I am hallucinating. But then he glances at me. I would know those eyes anywhere. “Hey,” he says.
Leaping up, I throw my arms around him. “Oliver! How did you get here?”
He shoves me backward, looking at me as if he’s never seen me in his life. “I walked downstairs,” he says. “And the name’s Edgar.”
My jaw drops just as Jessamyn enters, carrying a tall glass of water. She glances from Oliver to me. “Delilah,” she says, “I see you’ve met my son.”
And at that moment, everything goes black.
***
I’m not a fainter. I’m unfazed by the sight of blood, and I can watch horror movies without wincing. And granted, I apparently took a massive conk to my head when I fell yesterday—and then traveled 230 miles without eating anything but Cheetos. But all the same, I’m pretty embarrassedto find myself lying on a stranger’s couch with a cold, wet washcloth on my head and a boy who looks just like Oliver but isn’t, staring down at me with absolute revulsion. “You’re drooling,” he says.
Mortified, I wipe my hand across my mouth.
“She’s awake,” Not-Oliver says. “Can I go now?”
He is speaking to Jessamyn, who carries a bowl of soup from the kitchen. Why does everyone keep feeding me soup?
“Thanks for watching her, Edgar,” Jessamyn says.
“Whatever,” Edgar replies. He rolls his eyes and trudges out of the room.
“All right.” Jessamyn sits on the edge of the couch. “It’s time to tell me the truth. Are you in trouble, Delilah? Did you run away from home?”
“No!” I answer. “I mean, Ididrun away, but only temporarily. Only to findyou.” I take the bowl she offers me. Broccoli cheddar. It smells delicious.
“And I’m guessing you have a mother somewhere who has no idea where you are right now?”
