I hold my breath, hoping she’ll say more. That she’ll tell me what I can do to make this right. But she’s asleep again, and I know it’s unfair of me to expect her to fix this. I made this mess—because I’ve been terrified the girl I love wouldn’t be able to love me if I was the one who stole her dream.

For years, I’ve been happy to facilitate love stories for customers or read love stories about fictional characters. But all along, I’ve been trying to protect myself. Wanting the guaranteed happy ending without any of the risk.

This is a decision point, like Nora said. I can choose to let circumstances or fears come between us, pulling us in different directions, allowing us to slowly drift apart despite our best efforts to stay connected.

Or I can choose to fight for us. I don’t want our story to end like those tragic novels Josie loves, where the author tries to console the reader by insisting that sorrow and despair are more profound and meaningful than joy. I want a different kind of ending, the kind that’s like another beginning, a story that will hopefully continue for the rest of our lives.

I’m tempted to grab my phone and text Gretchen that I can’t take the job after all, but I won’t make another rash decision without talking to Josie. I’ll find another job in Boston, beg Xander to reconsider—anything. I owe it to Josie to try. I owe it to myself, too.

I yawn, suddenly feeling bone tired, and slip my arm around Josie, who sighs and curls closer.

As I close my eyes, I promise myself I won’t leave this bed without talking to her. I’ll be brave and honest and tell her how I feel—that all I want is to be with her—and then I’ll listen while she tells me what she wants. And we will figure it out together.

31

Josie

I wake to a soft buzzing sound and open my eyes, slowly remembering where I am: Ryan’s bed, warm and comfortable. He’s behind me, his breathing steady and deep, and my entire body feels at peace.

Then everything from yesterday comes rushing back: the awful meeting with Xander, Ryan storming out, everything he said about this new job. The confusion and hurt, all my old fears of being left behind resurfacing.

But then, the words he whispered later: No matter where I go, if I’m two hours or two thousand miles away, I’m yours.

He all but said he loves me, and I want to believe him. But does he understand me? If he did, he’d know that moving, even just a couple hours away, is the worst thing he could do.