Page 107 of A Novel Love Story

It was a little startling, seeing her in person, because she looked so … normal. Like the rest of us. I knew that sounded silly,because authors and artists and movie stars were like the rest of us, but it was a revelation nonetheless. Here we were, sitting across from each other, all human and flawed andreal.

What was also very real was that no one else was here—and I meanno one. It was like the second the clock struck seven, everyone vacated the business so that there would be the least amount of eyewitnesses possible.

Rachel Flowers’s searching gaze settled on someone in the very back, and whoever it was seemed to give her heart, because she smiled and then greeted us.

“Well, I guess it’ll just be us tonight. Can I …” And then she went over to a concessions table where the lone, sorrowful bookseller had opened a bottle of chardonnay, expecting a lot more people. Rachel took a cup, tucked the bottle under her arm, and came over to sit beside us in the hard metal chairs.

“That’s better,” she said, and outstretched her free hand. “I’m Rachel. Do you drink?” And she filled my and Pru’s cups up again, and for the next hour and a half, we chatted about books, and stories, and favorite authors. Pru had forgotten every single one of her questions, and she didn’t remember them until the next morning, when she complained that the cheap chardonnay had given her a migraine.

When I thought back on the event, I remembered that the time flew by so quickly, it surprised me when a man came up behind Rachel and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “The bookstore’s closing soon, Chel.”

The man had probably been Anders, but my memory of him was blurry at best. The only thing I could recall for certain was Pru’s excitement even after we’d been shown the door and were on our way to our parking spot in a nearby garage. She overflowed with joy—she practically vibrated with it, and it was infectious. I don’t know if it was the three glasses of chardonnay or the fact that the night ended up being cool and crisp and basically perfect,but that was one of the best nights of my life.

Not because we got to meet and have a one-on-one chat with our favorite author (okay, maybe that was alittlebit of it), but because the evening had just been … nice. Really, and trulynice.

In the end, I’d apologized to Rachel Flowers about the horrible turnout, but Rachel had just smiled and shaken her head.

“It was perfect. I don’t write to be everyone’s favorite novelist. I write because I love this.” And she motioned to my best friend and me. “It sounds like a silly Hallmark card, I realize, but it means I get to meet you two.” She added, a little quieter, “I actually prefer smaller events. Less of a chance of me making a fool of myself.”

“You’re so cool,” Pru had gushed. “How could you ever? You’re perfect.”

“My fiancé would say otherwise. Apparently I snore.”

I said, “Where is he? I see him, it’s fight on sight.”

She laughed. “I’ll warn him.”

Then she’d thanked us, and said she hoped to see us at another event.

Just because we spent a couple of hours with the author didn’t mean that we knew her, obviously. I’m sure Rachel Flowers separated the person she was in her career, and the person she was in private—sort of like the rest of us. I rarely showed my full hand to anyone who wasn’t my best friend; I rarely bared my insecurities. There was a mask everyone had to put on to live in the world and guard their hearts; the only difference was some people were just more public than others. Pru and I were lucky—we’d always worn our hearts on our sleeves when we were together. The rest of the world might not understand, but it wasn’tforthem.

“Did I ask anything stupid? Was I annoying?” Pru asked me,and the answer was no. Of course not. “I hope she has a very nice rest of her tour events,” she went on, and then cursed.

I asked, “What?”

“I forgot to ask her about my theories on the end of the series! I need to know if they ever find that damn possum.”

“I guess you’ll just have to wait and find out,” I’d replied smartly. “Don’t worry, I’ll read the last page first and let you know.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’tdare, Eileen Marie Merriweather!”

“Oh, I absolutely would.”

Because Pru and I were opposites, and we were best friends, and sometimes in life, that was all you ever needed to get through the really tough bits.

A few months after the event, Rachel Flowers passed away in a car accident. A drunk driver T-boned her and her fiancé as they were coming home from dinner. The fandom mourned. They sent flowers to the publisher. They held vigils at their favorite bookstores.

And through the overtures of sadness, the series went viral. Everyone wanted to read about the kind of series that could evoke that sort of dedication. My best friend supposed it was half FOMO—the people who didn’t know to mourn wanted to get in on the mourning—and half coincidence.

The first book hit theNew York Timesbestseller list. Then the second. Third. Then the entire series. The books, and the author, had never found success while she was alive, but dead?

She was remembered.

And there was something startlingly bitter in the sweetness of that. We would never get more books from Rachel Flowers, we would just get the echoes of them.

Because even after the people were gone, there were still stories. There were always stories. Other people took the heart of her books,and kept them close, and nurtured them and grew into something new, because nothing could ever stay in stasis. Nothing ever stopped. Nothing was permanent. Art lived and breathed, like love, like friendship.

Life—like works of art—was transformative.

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