My father looks stunned. I hand him my card with my private cell number. “Send the details. I’ll be there.”

“Will you tell Gavin? I don’t have any way of contacting him. He doesn’t have a company to mock-take over for catch-up chats. I’d like to ask him to come.”

“I’ll tell him.”

My dad nods then offers his hand again. I take it and give him a firm clasp.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?”

“For reminding me of something I’d forgotten.”

I leave him standing in the conference room and rush down to the busy streets of London. There’s a passage I underlined in Jessie’s copy of The Horse and His Boy. In it Aslan tells Shasta that no one is told any story but their own. I don’t know Jessie’s story. I don’t know if it’s true whether or not Gavin is her soul mate. Her story isn’t mine, although our stories intersect. But I know my story, and in it I’ve loved Jessie all my life, with all my heart. Right now, I don’t know the ending, but I do know the next chapter.

18

Jessie

It’s funny, when I finally got everything I thought I ever wanted it turned out that I was wanting the wrong thing. I slide the pile of romance books and romcoms into the library book drop. They fall and hit the bottom with a dull thud. All the formulas and the meet-cutes and the ways people fall in love in fiction—none of it is real.

I spent my entire life hiding behind fantasies and books.

I shove the books into the slot and let them go—I used them for the formulas, but love doesn’t have rules. You can’t make someone love you and you can’t choose who you love.

Before she died, my mom told me that in a town like Romeo you’re guaranteed to find your true love. It’s not a matter of if, but when.

The back of my eyes sting and my throat tightens.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

I look over. It’s Wanda. She’s early for the seniors’ computer class. Gladiola and Petunia stand behind her near the circulation desk.

I press my lips together and sniff. I shove the last of the books into the drop and try to swipe at my eyes without them seeing.

Wanda sets her hand on my arm. “Dear? What is it?”

I drop my head. “I think,” I whisper, “that if my mom were alive, she’d be ashamed of me.”

I look at the carpet and my throat burns with the tears I don’t want to let out.

“Dear, no,” cries Wanda.