Page 121 of Not in My Book

“God,” I sighed. “Me too.”

SUMMER

CHAPTER THIRTY

I’d been home for a month and hadn’t written a single word since I got back. Some of the best lines I’d ever written had been with Aiden. I was determined to make something better, to show that I had moved on, but writing felt impossible now, as if Aiden had taken that from me, too. I loved writing, but I’d loved it so much more when it was with Aiden.

My mom checked on me every day, trying to get my spark back, but nothing worked. No matter how many rom-coms I started, I felt physically ill at my favorite scenes and had to stop.

I holed myself in my room, reading. At first, I read Aiden’s mom’s book that he bought for me at the Strand,As Best I Can. It was obviously about her divorce. Tears streamed down my face as I wondered how much was fact or fiction. Aiden had made it sound like his father was borderline emotionally abusive and negligent. But the little boy in the book, Aaron, wasdesperatefor his father’s attention, stopping at nothing. The story focused mostly on how the mom character tried her best, but still fell short.

I wanted to call him and tell him that I loved him. That he wasn’t defined by the people who didn’t. But part of me believed I’d made everything up in my head. I’d seen what I wanted to, and when Aiden didn’t follow the plot I fantasized about, I let myself get hurt.

But I wasthere.I’d felt the way he’d kiss my shoulder each morning. I’d felt the weight of his gaze on me.

He was only a phone call away, but the Aiden I knew felt unreachable. I hadn’t realized how many of her books I’d read when in was in high school. I pored through them, desperate to find some hint of Aiden in them.

When the first few chords of “All Too Well” by Taylor Swift played for the fiftieth time, my sister barged in my room.

“Enough,” she said, whipping my comforter off me. She walked over to my speaker and unplugged it from the wall. “I love Taylor, but this song is going to make me and my baby sick.”

Ever since Maria announced her pregnancy, she’d used it as an excuse for everything.

“Your baby will love Taylor Swift,” I said from under my comforter. “It’s never too early to prepare for heartbreak.”

“Stop that,” she fussed. She sat on the edge of my bed, pulling the covers away from me. “This isn’t you. You’re aromantic.You’ve never listened to this many break-up songs in your life. Even after Simon. Rosie, you can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

She gave me a flat look. “You know what I’m talking about. You can’t live like this forever. Your heart was broken, and I’m sorry. Aiden wasn’t who you thought he was and I’msorry,Rosie Posie, I really am. But you have to start living again.” She said this gently, as if it would make me feel better.

“You don’t get it.” I turned on my side away from her.

“Then explain.” She pulled my shoulder, so I faced her again. “Talk to me. We’re worried sick about you. You won’t talk to any of us, you rush out of rooms at a moment’s notice. You’re not writing. Talk tomeat least.”

I pushed upright, sitting against my headboard. My limbs felt so heavy, my chest felt so tight. I didn’twantto talk about it. I wanted to wallow and live in my world of misery.

I closed my eyes, taking heavy breaths. In and out, slower and slower. More in, more out.

“I just keep playing it back in my mind. All of it. I was socertainthat we were meant for each other. And then I feel so foolish for even letting myself believe that. For letting him deceive me.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “What else?”

“Aidenshould’vebeen my person, but he tricked me into thinking he was someone else and I fell for it. And there’s no one thatreallyacts the way he used to when things were good between us.”

“Oh, Rosie,” she said gently. She nodded her head, telling me to scoot over. I made room for her on the bed, and she pulled the covers around us, resting her hands over her belly. “You know that’s not true. He’s out there.”

“He’s in New York,” I said miserably. “In the Strand. In the romance section of fiction.”

“Stopit,” she scolded. “If soulmates weren’t real, how’d Mom and Dad find each other? How’d Peter and I find each other?”

I crossed my arms, hugging myself tightly. “I miss him,” I said quietly. “That’s the worst part of it all. I miss him so much that everything reminds me of him. I miss the scratch of his pencil when he’s writing in his notebook. Or the way he’d spot me across the street and his face would light up. I miss him.”

“That’s okay,” she said softly. “That’s normal. You fell in love—”

“I never even told him!” I cried, new tears springing from my eyes. “I never even told him I loved him, and he never even told me, we just wrote in our book. I’m lovesick over a guy who probably hasn’t thought twice about me since I left.”

“Rosie.” She sat up and pulled me with her. We sat face to face, and she pushed my hair from my face, tucking it behind my ears. “I’m saying this becauseIlove you. But you need to take all of this, every tear, every piece of anger, and put it into writing. Even if it’s terrible—especiallyif it’s terrible. Don’t let this pain be for nothing.”

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