Page 104 of A Novel Love Story

I was falling in love with a real person, utterly and irrevocably against my will.

33

All Roads

JUNIE AND WILL WEDthe next night, on a perfect summer evening. We’d spent the entire day decorating the Daffodil in deep purples and sunny yellows and aquamarine blues and sage greens. Sometimes, Anders would steal a glance from across the room, or we would brush shoulders in a hallway, touch hands, and each little bit of him sent shivers down my spine. Every time I thought about kissing him, touching him, beingwithhim, my chest wound so tight I could barely breathe.

I didn’t want to be in love again, because what if it all went bad? What if Anders saw some flaw that I hadn’t seen and, like Liam, knew he could do better? But what if he left with me? What if things turned outgood? I wasn’t sure I could handle that, either. It was my anxiety talking, I knew it was, but there was no one else in my head to tell me otherwise.

I was scared. I didn’tneedlove.

But oh, oh, how Iwantedit.

I borrowed a floral dress from Gemma, and a pair of Ruby’s heels that were a bit too big, and thought about the wedding dress still hanging in my closet and the shoes still in the box,and how that life would have been so much different than the one I lived now. I wouldn’t be the same person. I wasn’t sure I’d even recognize myself. But I knew, deep down, that this was me. This version, mangled with heartbreak and hope all twisted together, and I liked this me.

I liked this me very much.

The ceremony was loud, and joyous, and I would never forget the look on Will’s face when he saw Junie for the first time, gracing the stairs on the way down to the first floor, framed so perfectly with her best friends on either side. Lace dress hemmed to the knees, long lacy sleeves, a flower crown of bright yellow daffodils, and those threadbare pink Converses.

They said their vows tearfully and kissed, and for a while after, as we clapped and cheered, they pressed their foreheads together, and he whispered something soft, something that made her smile, and my heart ached because I wished I knew what he said. I wished I knew what she replied. I wished the scene could have been painted in Rachel Flowers’s words, and I wished I could’ve been reading them from my perch on my floral sofa, Pru on the other side.

I wished I could hear her commentary, and I wished I could’ve handed her tissues one last time, and I wished we could’ve talked all night about the meet-cute, the delicate turns of phrases, the happy ending.

Pru would’ve sighed, content and wistful. She would’ve said, “Oh, how corny,” and loved every word.

Behind me I heard Jake whisper something to Ruby, and I glanced over my shoulder as they disappeared out of the back and stepped into the garden. I didn’t know what they said, but I knew Ruby was smiling as he kissed her fingertips delicately. I wasn’t very good at reading lips, but I could read his—

“It’s you,” he said to her. “Wherever, whatever, with you.”

She cupped his face in her hands. “Then let’s get the fuck out of here, babe,” she replied, and crushed her mouth to his.

I took a glass of champagne from the catering table, and all around me, stories were meeting their ends, circles were connecting, periods and last pages and the softthumpof a book well loved and closed in adoration.

As it turned out, the story didn’t need me at all. It just needed someone—anyone—to turn the page.

In a corner of the parlor, Frank was chatting with Gail, rosy cheeked and laughing, and Gemma was dancing, with Lily on her feet, and the air was bright and everyone was loved.

I wouldn’t fault Anders for wanting to stay for so long.

In another life, I’m sure I could’ve written myself into Eloraton and become that quirky English professor who lived in the loft of an independent bookstore, searching for her great American novel. I didn’t have to be anyone else. Defined by few adjectives and a name, padding other people’s stories so they didn’t feel so empty. It would have been a good life. But I wanted a little more.

Anders slipped up beside me, and offered me his hand. “Care to dance, Miss Merriweather?”

My chest grew tight, and I told myself to enjoy this. “Why, Mr. Sinclair,” I replied, placing my hand in his, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He led me into the parlor, and we slow danced cheek to cheek. I closed my eyes and decided to commit this to memory. The way his clean-shaven face felt against mine, the smell of his aftershave, the soft curl of his fair hair. Eventually, we danced our way out onto the veranda. He began to hum to the music inside—and I recognized it, finally.

It was the starlings’ melody.

“Come on, Eileen.”

I held on to him tighter. “I think,” I whispered, “I’m falling in love with you.”

To which he replied, not missing a single dance step, as if he already knew, “I’m not a book boyfriend, you know. I’m real.”

“I know,” I agreed, and with my cheek against his, enjoying the smell of his aftershave and the warmth of his skin, and the way, when we danced, we seemed to breathe together, too, “and I think you’re worth the heartbreak.”

However hard the heartbreak would be.

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