“Jamie never read Fountainhead,” I said—a statement, not a question.

“No. He didn’t,” Simon said.

“He doesn’t know Billy Collins, and he didn’t pick out Ariana Franklin.”

Simon sighed and nodded.

“Nikki Giovanni. And the concert tickets. Both ideas that came from you.”

“Yes.”

“Is there more?”

“Those are the big things,” he said. “The rest were small. Observations. Stuff I noticed about what you like to drink and what kind of desserts you like. It wasn’t anything significant.”

I stood and walked into the basement. I needed movement. Distance. Space. “Everything is significant, Simon. Do you know how many times I doubted, wondered if my relationship with Jamie had the depth I wanted, when all of a sudden he would swoop in and do something or say something that pushed my doubts aside? That side of Jamie was the side that kept me hanging on. And it was never really him.” I thought of mine and Simon’s conversation in the car on the ride to Asheville four days before. “I . . . I even told you how I was feeling! In the car on the way here, I told you I felt like Jamie was two different people, and you didn’t say anything. You let me puzzle it out, knowing full well I actually was dating two men the entire time.”

“It wasn’t that blatant,” he said. “It was always Jamie. I gave him advice every once in a while. That’s it.”

“But you said it yourself. He was pretending to be something he wasn’t. To like stuff he didn’t like.”

“I know. You’re right. That’s why I told him he needed to be honest with you.”

“What about you? You didn’t feel like you needed to be honest with me?” I unfolded my arms and pulled out the book I’d been hiding inside my sweater. “Did you give this to me?”

He sighed. “Oh, Lane, I—”

“What were you trying to say? Was it from you? Or was it supposed to be from Jamie? Another one of your tricks to make me think he actually knows who I am?” Thoughts were tumbling through my brain at lightning speed, but rather than overwhelm or confuse me, it felt more like things were finally clicking into place—giving me the whole picture that had been eluding me for weeks.

“It wasn’t supposed to be from Jamie.”

“Simon, all the stuff that I liked the most about Jamie was the stuff that came from you. When I combine that with the way you’ve been treating me this weekend, looking at me, talking about me. When I think about that kiss, how am I supposed to feel? It’s felt real, but now I’m not so sure. And with this”—I held up the book—“I have no idea what you want me to feel.”

He ran a hand through his hair and forced out a heavy sigh. “Lane, the book was a mistake.”

I looked up, pain piercing all the way to my gut. “What?”