Her eyes light up. “I just finished it last month.”

We sit there for a while, letting our conversation shift to books, deciding which ones we think should be shelved as classics and which ones are completely overrated. We both prefer Steinbeck to Fitzgerald, and if we’re getting away from American classics, fantasy is our ultimate escape genre.

“Have you read the Mistborn series?” she asks, sounding hopeful.

“I tore through it in a week.”

Her entire face lights up with joy.

We could stay there the whole day talking books, but my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Harrison or Alexander, and if not them, someone else wanting to meet up and say goodbye. I ignore the first call, but another swiftly follows. I sigh, and she gets the picture.

“Do you leave tomorrow?” she asks, unable to meet my gaze.

I nod.

“You have so much to do, I’m sure.”

“Unfortunately.”

My room is barely packed.

With a reluctant sigh, I stand. I’m about to collect my books, but instead I point down to them. “Take them. Hoard them like I did if you want to. You’ll like them. I have impeccable taste in literature, as you now know.”

She laughs then nods, already pulling the top one off the pile so she can run her finger along the spine.

With nothing to keep me there, I start to walk away, but there’s a strangeness to the moment, a tightening in my chest as if I’m doing something wrong, failing somehow.

“Emmett?”

I glance back, relieved to have an excuse to look at her just one more time.

Her eyes are smiling for the first time since I’ve seen her, the green so vivid they seem otherworldly, more fitting of those fantasy books we both love than this dark and lonely library.

“Thank you.”

The words carry so much weight, as if she’s thanking me for much more than the books I just gifted her. Her brows crease in frustration and her lips part. She’s working up to say something else, and I linger there, giving her time to gather the courage.

Then she sighs and shakes her head. “…for the books.” Her shoulders sag. “Good luck in Paris.”

Part Two

Chapter Eight

Lainey

I grip the hard metal rail as the wind whips past. I’m standing on the balcony’s edge, trying to determine the distance between me and the concrete sidewalk down below. If I were standing on the second floor, I could maybe walk away from a jump unscathed, but on the third floor of my grandmother’s townhouse, the distance doesn’t bode well for my chances of survival, not to mention I’d likely land on one of the unsuspecting people strolling by, and there’s a difference between being suicidal and homicidal. There’s no need to take anyone down with me. Though, to clarify, I’m not trying to end my life. That’s not what has me standing here on the edge, looking down. It’s simply the idea of freedom that has me letting go of the railing and leaning a bit over the edge. It’s just enough to throw my balance off by a hair, enough to give me a taste of what the free fall might be like.