Page 93
“I’m him.”
“And he’s you.” I open my eyes.
Will tilts his head, as though clearly finding me amusing. “He’s me.”
“So . . . what,” I say, venturing toward a new thought. “You knew about the secret room because you’re the son. You probably know every square inch of this house. Of course you knew.”
“I know about the room because I made it my first summer in middle school,” he says. “It was originally just an offshoot of the ARC room. Dad spent a lot of time with me over the years, teaching carpentry skills, how to use my hands. One day when I was cleaning out the room for some odd jobs, I realized that if I covered up the old door with that cabinet and did some basic maneuvering, I could just about erase the room from existence. Turn it into my own getaway.”
“Did many people know about it?”
“A few. Most of them gone now. But my mother is one.”
I raise a brow. “Your mother? Your mother knows about the room?”
“Who do you think supplied the rug and furniture?” Will grins and lowers his voice as he leans down. “Mother’s a bit of a Narnia fan.”
Well, I’ll be. Ms. Pennington likes happy fiction. Playful, whimsical fiction without any despairing ending or anything.
As he steps back, he frowns. “So you really didn’t think it was me. All this time. I admit, I’m having a hard time processing that right now.”
“I wanted it to be you. But no. And then I found myself fighting with myself, because I found myself so . . .” I hesitate.
His forehead creases. “So?”
I exhale. Confess. “So attracted to the person on the page, and yet whenever I was with you face-to-face I felt the same way, and it was all so confusing, believing I had feelings for two totally different people and having to choose. And yet . . .” I break off.
“Yet?”
“Yet here you are. And it turns out . . . I don’t have to choose at all.”
“Hold on.” He seems to recall something and puts up a finger. “Does that mean . . . when you told me on paper you cared for someone else—”
“That I was rejecting you because I liked you? Yes,” I supply.
He is quiet for a moment and then laughs. A hearty, rich laugh that makes the carpet shake. “You know, you should write a book about that. That’s a pretty good plot twist.”
I grin and tilt my head. “Meet Me in the Margins. It has a nice ring to it.”
And as we stand there, smiling at one another, his eyes transition from holding mirth to something more. As though he remembers something. Something . . . inviting. He considers me. “So. Did you ever get that kiss scene sorted out?”
Biting my bottom lip to keep a feeling of hopeful trepidation from rising, I shake my head. “I guess that means Maggie can’t publish the story after all, doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. Can’t publish a romance without a proper kiss scene.”
And then I realize he’s touching my elbow.
He’s taking a step toward me.
I can smell the old scent of cedar and grease around me now. Can almost feel the warmth of his old truck and the morning routine of choosing from one of his four coffeepots as he watches the flakes fall past his window. I want to be a part of that life. I want to be in it.
“But . . . ,” he continues softly, gazing down into my eyes now, mere inches between us, “if you’re open to it, I’d be happy to give you some suggestions.”
I have an intake of breath as his finger grazes my chin and gently lifts it. My eyes rise and, with them, my hope.
“Well, for the sake of the manuscript . . . ,” I manage to all but whisper and lift oh so slightly on my toes.
And then, as though he’s been waiting all his life for those final, acquiescent words, his hands cup my jawline, and he draws me in.
