Page 116 of If Books Could Kill
“Well, how did it end?” I demand. “In your version, as you wrote it. How did it end?”
She shrugs. “That’s part of why I gave up on it, actually. Lissa cornered you and revealed herself as the villain, with a proposition that you join forces with her. And that’s what I wanted you to do, originally. You were going to be a good girl gone bad, all heart-hardened and out for blood.”
She cracks a smile, leaning back in her chair. “Thing is, you wouldn’t cooperate. Characters are funny like that sometimes. They have minds of their own. And when it finally came down to it, you wouldn’t let the bitterness win. Crushed and alone as you were, you still had hope.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Wasn’t the most exciting to read. But it made me realize maybe romance isn’t done with me yet, after all.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded.
“I have to go,” I sputter out, tripping as I back away. “Oh my God, I have to go.” I nearly knock over a book display as I runfor the exit. And then I halt again at the door. One last chance for answers before I go.
“Wait,” I say, out of breath as I spin back. “I know you probably didn’t write this or maybe even think of it, but … what happened to Raj?”
Anna breaks into a glowing, magnanimous smile, her hands folded on the table.
“Thanks to your help, Raj made a full recovery and gained a new lease on life. He proposed to his longtime love, Hugh, and finally tried out forThe Great British Bake Off. Which he won.”
I nod casually, in the manner of a person who cares a normal amount about a minor fictional character.
And I almost pull it off, until the frog-size lump in my throat wins and I choke out a half-sobbed “That’s really nice.” Dammit. Good old Raj.
I sniff, collecting myself, and give her one last look. “Thank you,” I say, and finally turn to go.
“You’re welcome,” she calls after me. “And you’re welcome to Grant, whoever he is!”
• • •
AT FIRST, I can’t get out of the store fast enough. But the moment my feet hit the pavement, I’m paralyzed.
All those things I imagined with Grant, all the things I said I wanted—real life, the ups and the downs and the in-betweens—they’re possible. They’re about twenty minutes away, if I sprint. But there’s a difference between wanting something and going after it.
Saying goodbye to Grant was among the most painful experiences of my life. But if that wasn’t goodbye, then the pain has just slithered off into the future instead. It’s hiding, coiled up and waiting to strike on some unknown date. The day I lose him, or the day he breaks my heart. Or maybe that pain will dissipateand settle into a long stretch of days in which we find ourselves stuck—not right enough to work, but not wrong enough to leave.
You could go home, that old voice whispers in my head.Go home and return to what you know and put this away on your bookshelf. Just another romance story. Beginning, middle, end. Nothing more.
I start to run.
• • •
I TRIP UPthe town house steps, fumbling for the key as I reach the door—only to come up empty. I ransack every pocket, peering into the windows for any sign of Grant.
But, of course, there isn’t one. There’s no sign of anything familiar, in fact, because this is therealhouse that Lesley’s was based on. Through the windows I glimpse swaths of beige and neutral linens, not a trace of the worn-in jewel tones that were Lesley’s signature.
There’s a pang in my chest at the change, but I don’t let it reach my resolve. Grant’s not here? Fine. If I need to scour the city for him, I will.
I turn around and freeze. Across the street, on our bench in the garden—there he is.
He doesn’t see me. He’s deep in thought, a portrait framed by ivy-wrapped wrought iron and sprays of new greenery.
I hesitate for a moment. There’s no more story structure to hide behind. No plot clues to lean on. Just our own fumbling decisions and all their dangerous potential. One more step and it all changes.
But, looking at him, something tightly wound inside me releases just a little.
So I run down the steps. Even though there’s still a voice in my head hissing at me to change direction, I keep a path straight toward him, sprinting for the gate. And it won’t budge, becauseof course it won’t. This is a private garden, and I no longer have the key.
So I think, fine. If a fictional story can hold a real-life romance, then real life can manage a bit of rom-com.
In the spirit ofNotting Hill, I scale the fence, braving the iron and snarled branches in pursuit of what awaits on the other side. And in the spirit of Hugh Grant, I fumble awkwardly on the way and fall into the garden with an elegantwhoopsie-daisies, except that I pronounce it “OW, MOTHERFUCK.”
An elderly woman out for a stroll has witnessed my unlawful entry and is loudly reprimanding me from the other side of the gate, but her complaints fade away as I dust myself off and look up to lock eyes with Grant. He’s on his feet in front of the bench looking a little stunned, watching me with that perfect crease between his brows.
