My doorbell rang at 5:14 p.m., three nights after I’d seen Simon from the corner of the rose garden. No one ever rang my doorbell. I was back in my bedroom, changing clothes for soccer practice. “Just a second!” I called from the hallway. I threw my shirt on and hurried to the door.

Jamie.

I didn’t really know who I’d been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t him. “Oh my gosh! What are you doing here?” I reached up and gave him a hug, which he returned with a broad smile.

“It’s good to see you. Can I come in?”

I stepped out of the way and let him in, then followed him into the living room. “How are you? How’s California?” We sat on opposite ends of the couch. He had a bag with him, like a gift bag but simple. Brown, unmarked.

“California’s great. Things are . . . Things are good.”

“I’m really glad. That’s really, really good.” Internally, I cringed. Maybe I should’ve said “really” a few more times.

“Are you playing soccer?”

I looked down at my jersey. “Oh. I’m coaching. Carlos’s daughter, Javie, is on an indoor team, and I’m helping out.”

He nodded. “That’s great.”

“Yeah. It’s been good for me, I think.”

“So I, um . . .” He reached for the bag. “I found something. At Simon’s house. And I think you should have it.”

I sat up a little straighter. When Jamie pulled out the copy of Cien Años de Soledad, my hand flew to my chest, a reflex to try to still the crazy pounding of my heart. He held the book, looking at it for a long moment before handing it to me. “This was always meant to be yours, Lane. There’s a card inside the front cover. Sorry. I know it wasn’t meant for me, but when I found it, I didn’t know what it was. So I read it.”

I read over the inscription one more time—the words that had floated through my mind countless times since I’d first read them. It is enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment. I swallowed. “Did he—”

“Did he write the inscription?” Jamie asked.

I nodded.

“I asked him. He did. What’s it from?”

“It’s a line from the novel,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

My hands shook as I pulled out the card. I looked up at Jamie. “I’m not sure I can read this.”

“You can,” Jamie said softly. “And you really should.”

I shook my head. For him to be the one giving me this felt all kinds of wrong. “But for you—”

He cut me off. “Lane. I’m fine. Just read it.”