Page 87 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I open the door and can’t help the sound that escapes my lips.

We have been crammed into pint-sized bunk beds when Amelia’s room has been this?

Wall-to-wall windows surround a king-sized bed. At least a dozen pillows are strewn all along the bed, swimming in the sea of duvets and waffle blankets and soft, welcoming white sheets. A white leather couch rests against one wall, covered in clothes. A kitchenette sits on the other side of the room, also, miraculously, covered in clothes.

And—I gasp as I peer into the cracked door of what I had assumed was one of the many, many closets—she has her own bathroom. Her. Own. Bathroom.

Curling irons and straighteners and motivational Post-it notes stuck along the mirror and, again, clothes covering the bathroom so thoroughly it looks impossible to step in. It’s like . . . it’s like she’d rather just leave the mess she made and take over the feeble one we use than deal with the hassle of putting her things on a hanger.

Which, for the record, we didn’t even have the option of.

I unzip my dress and quickly work on changing into the holey jeans and loose graphic T-shirt I’ve owned for so long I can’t remember. It all slips on like a glove, a welcome, cozy glove that wraps around me and is the first reminder of home. My cozy little world I left behind.

I look at myself in the mirror as I unpin my hair and let the pins drop to the floor. Amelia will never notice in this mess, is my first thought. And then, of course, comes the second: Who cares?

Who CARES?

I need to stop caring.

I flick the pin on top of a heap and a large strand of brown curls drops to my shoulder.

Penny did up my hair this afternoon. It was a sisterly moment between the two of us. I will miss her.

Eventually I take a look at myself in the mirror, finished.

My hair is still all curly at the bottom of my strands. Dandelions, peonies, roses, and lilies curl up out of little pots on my T-shirt, each flower labeled in dainty little cursive below the pot. My jeans sag a little lower on my hips—unsurprising given the number of calories I’ve burned in stress and anxiety over the course of the trip.

I look at my frowning, weary face in the mirror, all surrounded by Post-it notes declaring, THIS IS YOUR MOMENT! and FUTURE #1 NYT BESTSELLER and REESE WITHERSPOON BOOK PICK and an eerie large X over the name ANNE SANDERWORTH replaced by AMELIA BENEDICT.

It’s pathetic, really.

These are her goals.

The messages on these Post-its are her life aspirations, the “manifestations” she speaks over herself.

This, this longing to take the glory for words she didn’t produce is the best thing she can come up with to hope for in life.

Honestly, it makes me wonder what her childhood was like.

Bryony, please call me.

I see Jack’s text on the bathroom countertop. Consider ignoring it, but the question burns.

I snatch it up. Text like my fingers are on fire. Did you ever email Florence Peters?

There’s a long pause.

The longest pause in eternity as I watch the text bubble go. Then stop. Then go again.

At last the phone vibrates.

No.

Followed swiftly by, But there’s so much more to this. Please call me. Let me explain.

I stare at the chain of texts. Read the sentences again slowly. Slower still.

Jack has just confirmed that he has lied to me. For a year now. Lied straight to my face.