I’m standing over Nolan Endsley with my hair falling everywhere and my shirt sticking out at odd angles because of the beanbag. I look unkempt and probably irrational in front of the person I once had the most ambition to meet, but I don’t care. I’m suddenly and inexplicably furious at everything. At the world, for taking Jenna away and leaving me with such a strange, unlikely, and poor substitute as this, the author of my favorite books. I’m angry at myself, for not having cultivated backup friends, ones waiting in the wings to take Jenna’s place should she—most probably—grow tired of my antics or—least probably—die in Ireland.

I’m both irritated and relieved that N. E. Endsley is actually just Nolan Endsley and that he doesn’t open portals to Orman, but I’m let down by how he seems incapable of carrying on even the smallest of conversations. He is entitled and grouchy and I’m desperately sad that all my imaginings of him don’t hold water, but even more sad that he will not play along with me like he did with the whale watching. And I am livid that he won’t share what he remembers of Jenna.

I’m mad at Jenna, at Nolan, at the lying books, and even the stupid whales.

“Look, I’m going to be honest,” I tell him. I feel myself gearing up to shout him into the ground. Wally snorts himself awake at my tone and shuffles over to sit by Nolan. “I’m pissed. You’re rude and unsociable and moody. Just because you wrote some of the greatest books the world has ever known doesn’t make you special or particularly tortured.”

Here, Nolan raises an eyebrow.

“Well, it doesn’t,” I say. “Make you special, that is. I mean, everyone is special, but you’re not special-er. And don’t you dare raise your eyebrow at me, because I know that’s not a word. And when I asked to see you today, I thought it would be a chance to get to know you better and to hear about Jenna—my best friend, who is dead, but what the hell do you care? Your best friend is alive and well and your biggest worry is that your precious third book isn’t finished because of your stupid writer’s block.”

Nolan is calmly petting Wally. They have their heads cocked to the side like they are examining me, an erratic migratory specimen of a girl, driven out of her mind by grief and confusion, who has come to rest in their private sanctuary.

“Anything else?” Nolan asks archly.

“I’m pissed,” I say.

“That has been well established,” Nolan says.

I stare at him for another beat, disbelieving the words even as they come out of my mouth.

“You know what? I don’t have time for this. I’m leaving.”