“I’m all ears.”
She makes an exasperated sound, picking up her wineglass again. “But that’s exactly it. Of course you are. You’re probably agreatlistener, because your type is bound by law to be good at listening.”
I’m surprised to see a fevered, almost miserable look in her eyes as they travel up and down the length of me. “I’m… not following,” I say.
“Oh, please. The PhD for a worthy cause? The muscles for days? The genetically inherited carpentry skills? Therolled shirtsleeves?”She points her wineglass toward my bare forearms as if they, above all else, prove her point. “Everything about…this,” she says, waving her hands and wineglass up and down to indicate my entire being, “is straight out of an overserved romance novel. And I would know!” she cries. “I write them!”
When I don’t respond, she closes her eyes and rubs her temple with the same hand that holds her wineglass, sloshing it slightly. “My point is, you don’t seem… real. Or if you are real, then you’re obviously hiding something. Like volcanic bacne. Or an elbow fetish.”
I can only stare until Margot makes the cutest hiccup I’ve ever heard, jump-starting my brain. Is she really saying what I think she’s saying? That I seem too good to be true? I might feel elation if it weren’t for the clear disgust she’s radiating.
“I’m not sure if I should feel insulted or flattered,” I say slowly, “but I can assure you I don’t suffer from any eruptive skin conditions or extremity fetishes.”
“Oh, don’t feel flattered,” she scoffs as she begins clearing up her station. “If it’s not an elbow fetish, it’s something else. You’ve probably been collecting your own fingernail clippings since you were eight, or you have a secret Edward Cullen tattoo.”
I snort. “Now, Margot. You of all people should know the only face I have tattooed on my body is Vin Diesel’s.”
Margot spits the sip of wine she’s taken back into her glass, laughing. When she recovers, she says, “I’m sorry. I’m just not buying it. I’ve been in too many tropes with you for this to be reality. I’ve either had a Pilates accident back in L.A. and all of this is a romance-novel-inspired coma dream… or you collect clown masks.”
I sigh, dropping the asparagus stalks into the steamer basket. “Maybe. Then again, maybe my fatal flaw is not keeping well enough away from grumpy romance writers from L.A.”
Our eyes catch, and something hot lurches in my lower abdomen.
“We might be dangerous, but I doubt we’re fatal,” she says with a smile.
My eyes drop to her mouth. Slide over her curving lips to each dimple in turn. “I guess we’ll see about that.”
16MARGOT
Dear Margot,
You’re halfway through! Release the confetti! Do a shimmy! I hope the latest excursion was incredible. I can only imagine the things you’ve seen! If you haven’t been taking photos, this is a slap on the wrist to get snapping. Make sure you’re taking pictures of whoever is with you too. I’ll need to put faces to names, especially if any ruggedly handsome mountain men are involved (PLEASE say there are ruggedly handsome mountain men involved).
I think I just felt your eye roll from here. I realize you only barely tolerate my belief that every situation is a rom-com plot waiting to happen, but just imagine if, on top of writing your next bestselling novel, you found TRUE LOVE in Alaska. Bear with me for a second (get it?!). Maybe he’s a hardcore survivalist who only speaks in grunts, but you somehow get snowed in together (because classic) and you charm him with your L.A. girl addiction to avocados and Pilates. The title possibilities for your future memoirs areendless. Snow One Like You. Love on Ice. Northern Nights. Polar Promises.
Okay, sorry, I’m done.Glacial Heat! Okay, now I’m done. Of course, I know you’re reading this thinking I’m crazy for hoping you might find romance, especially after I read your Happily Never After file. But I guess old habits die hard, and I’m the kind of person whose day-to-day life sort of depends on ridiculous hope. Even when hope is the fastest route to disappointment. I know I don’t need to explain that to you—you’ve had more than anyone’s fair share, Margot. And yet through it all, you’ve always managed to put aside your own pain to continue taking care of me. Case in point: Evan Ferris.
Do you remember that night you went to his seniors-only party in high school? I can’t even tell you how jealous I was, watching you get ready. You were the prettiest girl in the whole world that night (still are, UGH), and I tried so hard to stay up so you could tell me EVERYTHING. Namely and specifically whether you’d finally caught Evan’s attention. But because I have the energy reserves of an elderly koala, I fell asleep.
Later, I didn’t hear you come in, but I felt you crawl into bed with me. Or maybe it was being punched in the nose by your cucumber-melon body spray that woke me up. Either way, I went completely frozen because, unbelievably, you were crying. You who never cried. You who always wipedmytears. You were trying to be so quiet, but you were shaking, and I didn’t know what to do, Margot. I pretended to be asleep because I told myself that’s what you wanted. Now I can admit it was because I was scared. I’m so sorry I made you be the big spoon that night. I’m sorry I made you comfort me when you were the one who needed to be held.
You only told me what had happened years later, but honestly, I knew that night. I knew you’d given Evan everything you had to give, because that’s what you do, Margot. You give. Evan and his dickhead friends spread the rumors at school, but even if I hadn’t heard a peep, I’d have known from the way you never said his name again. How you never said any boy’s name again, if you could help it. I would have known from the way you started sacrificing even more of your time to take care of me.
More than anything, I regret taking advantage of your apparently limitless generosity. For not seeing how much you were compartmentalizing. I hope Evan fucking Ferris regrets it, too, and if I ever set eyes on him again, I hope you’re ready to bail me out of prison.
But even if I can’t go full “Vigilante Shit (Savannah’s Version)” on all the men who’ve hurt you in the past, I have hope that one day you’ll stop letting them control your view on love. You give so many readers a blueprint for the kind of partner they deserve, and after all the bullshit you’ve put up with over the years, you deserve a Happily Ever After more than anyone. So yes, weeks from now, when you’re reading this and I’m missing you like I’ve lost a limb, I will also be manifesting that you’re cuddled up with a bearded giant who has a heart of gold and the equipment and stamina of a wild bull. You’re welcome.
Stay safe, but not too safe (except with contraception!),
Savannah
I let out a groaning laugh and pick up the envelope this week’s letter came in. Forrest gave it to me tonight after we’d cooked and eaten together, and he graciously didn’t point out that I’d completely forgotten to ask for it. I don’t want to admit, even now, howpreoccupied my mind has been with him this week. How, ever since seeing what he did to adapt his father’s rooms, I can’t stop noticing the responsibility he takes for everyone at North Star. Somehow, even the romance heroes from my own books are starting to fall short of him. I have no idea if Savannah’s got the “wild bull” part of her letter right, but “bearded giant with a heart of gold” feels scarily accurate. I exhale, forcing myself to stop thinking about him, and take out the picture Savannah included with her letter.
It’s a supremely corny photo of us in our prom dresses, and my eyes immediately begin to water. We’re posing under a blue and silver balloon arch in a classic couples pose. Being slightly taller, I hold my sister tenderly from behind, our corsages angled just right. We wear simpering smiles, and I can still remember how we practically vibrated from trying not to crack up. I almost skipped prom that year, but Savannah insisted and (as usual) got her way. Thanks to her, it was the best night of my entire high school experience.
But just because Savannah has an annoyingly good track record of being right about most things doesn’t mean she’s right about everything. Particularly about “true love.” My eyes roll at the thought like a muscle reflex, and I put the letter and photo on the bedside table next to me. I remind myself that Evan Ferris was just the first in a long line of romantic disappointments, and nothing in the intervening years has given me hope of finding a partner who isn’t another dick in good-guy clothing.
Liar liar, Savannah’s voice seems to whisper as images of Forrest flash unhelpfully through my mind. The straining muscles of his neck as he carried me down a literal mountain. His anxious hands as he bandaged my ankle. The moonlit expanse of his bare shoulders when he shared his body heat.
