Page 82 of Based on You

"We should probably go upstairs," he murmured.

I looked at him a long, quiet moment, feeling content.

"Okay," I said.

EPILOGUE

VIOLET

Four months later…

I got the mysterious text on a quiet morning in early March.

Meet me at the address below.

7 p.m. Wear something nice. Something warm. — S.

The address was tucked somewhere in the West Village.

I'd been writing all day. I had a huge chapter due to my editor on Friday, and I'd been at it since nine in the morning, hunched over the desk in the sunny apartment I now shared with Sloane, in the comfortable chair by the window that took the afternoon light at just the right angle. I hadn't even glanced at my phone for hours. The cryptic text had come in at eleven.

I texted Sloane.

Violet

Do you know what this is?

She wrote back a second later.

Sloane

No.

She wrote back far too fast.

I forwarded the message to Olivia.

Violet

Do you know what this is?

She replied instantly.

Olivia

No.

She wrote back far too fast, too.

I stared at both identical responses on my screen, then glanced at my heavy winter coat hanging on the hook by the door. There really wasn't much to think about. He'd asked me to come somewhere, he'd told me to wear something nice, and both Sloane and Olivia were terrible liars. That was enough to know.

I put on the warm coat.

I went.

The address belonged to the independent bookstore. The one from the launch.

I'd walked past it a handful of times since that chaotic November night, each time aware of it, feeling the pull of a place where something important had happened to you. I stopped dead on the freezing sidewalk and stared at the front window.