Page 18 of A Novel Love Story

“No, it’s not.”

“Then I’m dead.”

“No,” he repeated. “You’re here.”

“In a town that doesn’t exist,” I replied.

He twirled his umbrella around his hand. “Stranger things have happened, Elsy. Now come on,” he said, outstretching his hand to help me up off the bench.

I took it without really thinking. His grip was strong, his fingers soft and gentle,as he pulled me to my feet. If I was dead or dreaming, he certainly felt real. His skin was warm, and he was solid, and I clung to his presence like an anchor. Pru would judge him for his too-short trousers, the way the hem barely reached his ankles, and she’d ruffle his perfect hair and ask him if he was trying to be a romance hero with that cut. It looked just curly enough that my fingers would snag if I raked them through it—and that thought in and of itself startled me out of my head.

What was I even thinking? I didn’t know this guy. He was a character in a book series. He wasn’treal.

“The café starts serving lunch at noon,” he went on, checking his watch, “and look at that, it’s quarter past.”

“By café, do you mean …”

“The only one in town,” he confirmed and I followed him down the street, back toward the main thoroughfare.

It was half-past by the time we reached the café. On the walk, I caught glimpses of people I felt like I’d met once in a dream. It was the strangest sort of déjà vu, and each time it happened, it sent a stronger shiver up my spine.

He reached for the door handle, and then paused and turned back to me. “Don’t act weird. Pretend you’re a stranger. You don’t know anything. You don’t know anyone.”

I squinted. “Who are you?”

He rolled his eyes in exhaustion, and opened the door. The café was charming, just like I’d imagined, the booths a worn black vinyl, the tiles checkered. The logo of the restaurant, Grumpy Possum Café, was on the window, a cartoon possum holding both a pancake and a waffle, looking ready to bite the head off a person. I scooted into one of the booths, and he took the other side and handed me a menu. I blinked, thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me, and then I squinted a little more. Most of the menu was normal,but there were a few items that were just … half-printed. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The words didn’t change.

“They weren’t imagined,” he said simply, flipping over the menu and skimming the back. “The pancakes are good. So are the waffles. And the club sandwich.”

I barely paid attention to him as I glanced around at the other people in the café, wondering if I remembered them from the books as well. Pru would—shecertainlycould—name them all. My brain was finally beginning to shake off the shock. Curiosity, giddy and insatiable, swelled in me, growing larger and larger like a snowball rolling down a hill.

Eloraton.

This wasEloraton.

I set down my menu, leaned over the table toward Anders, and whispered, “How is any of this possible? The town? The people? Did Rachel Flowers base everything on a real town? No, that can’t be right. Even on Google, the town doesn’t show up, and there’s a plaque on the side of the road—”

“She based Eloraton on all the romance novels she fell in love with as a teenager,” he said, setting down the menu. “I can’t answer how this is real, or how you found it—but you did. And didn’t I tell you not to act weird?”

I gave a start. “How else do you expect me to act?”

“Normal.”

“I am being very normal, thank you—oh my god, I can get the Honey Surprise,” I said excitedly. “The special. I can get the special!”

He sighed, and it sounded like his soul had left his body. “Yes. You can. Then you’ll get back in your car, and you’ll leave.”

Oh, I realized.He doesn’t know my car’s dead.

I thought about correcting him, but that might upend this lovely lunch,and I really wanted that Honey Surprise. “Yeah, of course,” I said lightly, inspecting the menu, hoping he didn’t sense my lie. “I will …eventually.”

He narrowed his eyes further. “Don’t you have people who are going to start missing you soon?”

“I mean, notimmediately—” I began to reason as a peppy waitress hurried over to us, a notepad and pen in hand. Anders already knew what he wanted: plain black tea.

“You’re so boring, Andie,” she sighed.

“I like it how I like it,” he replied simply.

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