The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(92)

I’m sad every time he doesn’t. And relieved.

A little pathetic.

My classes feel like a review, more than usual. Probably because I’ve done nothing but work ahead. I suppose my parents would be proud of my focus on academics. Of course, right now they’re kind of busy being shamed by my porn stint—however fabricated—so…

When my last class lets out in the late afternoon, I pass the library and pause at the steps, letting my backpack fall to my feet so I can lean forward on the railway and scan the expanse of windows. It’s the same every day. The same people every day. And it’s never him.

I usually come back later, but it’s Valentine’s Day, and I have a date with nobody—wouldn’t want to be late for that. I make my daily trip early. I won’t stay long. An hour. Maybe less. But if I don’t come, I’ll feel like I’ve missed him. It doesn’t matter that he was probably never here.

Slinging my bag over my arm, I throw my shoulders back and enter the library the same way I have the last four days—like I’m fine, like everything is fine. My heels are harsh on the concrete floors, and I notice a few girls look up from their books and scowling while I walk by. Lowering my eyes at them, I stare back, putting a little more force into each step.

Get over it; they’re shoes—and they make noise when I walk. Fuck, I’ll be on the carpet in a second.

I round the corner and move to the back, to the window desk I’ve now claimed as my own. As I come closer, I notice there’s something on the desk. It’s a book, and there’s a sticky note on it. I stop and look behind me, then peer down an aisle to see if someone is around. The desk really isn’t mine, but seriously, who would sit here on purpose if they didn’t have some crazy-ass ulterior motive like I did?

Nobody is around, and after I wait for a few seconds, I decide it must just be a book someone forgot to reshelf. It’s not like I need the desktop to study. I couldn’t possibly review another note. So I pull the seat back, then push the book to the edge of the desk, stopping when the words on the Post-It note catch my attention.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Princess.





I turn my head, my heart racing in my stomach. My throat is instantly dry. Leaving my bag at the foot of the desk, I pace up and down a few of the aisles in my lonely corner—again, my search coming up empty. I’m alone.

Nobody is here.

But he was here. Houston was here. The book he pulled is Grimm’s Fairytales. It’s one of the older copies from the lit section of the library. I flip through a few of the pages, noting the violent illustrations; the bleak look for every story—the way these fairytales were intended. Then, a spark of color in the middle catches my eye. It’s another note, with a lot more writing on it, taped to the opening page of Rapunzel.



This is the only one I know of that has a tower. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get this quite right, but you tell a better story than I do anyhow. Rapunzel…or let’s call her Princess P…is locked away in her tower, waiting for her prince to save her.

Tired of waiting, she learns to fight on her own.

When the evil witch comes to give her dinner one night, the princess has become so ripped she throws the witch out the window. The witch lands on the prince, who is really too late in coming to her rescue at this point, and seeing him as such a failure has completely turned Princess P off anyhow.

Having worked out so hard—and taken so many natural-growth hormones, which of course the bluebirds flew to her through her window—Princess P finds her hair has now grown long enough to reach the ground outside her window. She conveniently finds scissors in her tower room, cuts her hair, and braids it into a kick-ass ladder, upon which she climbs down, stepping on the bodies of the witch and the failed prince as she passes.

The end.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s nothing like the version you told. But the point is I miss you, and no one should go without feeling loved on Valentine’s Day; so consider this me loving you still. And if this isn’t who I think it is, the person I’ve seen here, by the window, every night this week, then feel free to pretend this was meant for you, because now I feel really bad telling you it’s not.

Sincerely,

The failed prince



I’m laughing. Out loud. There’s no one near me that would ever hear, so I let myself laugh, and maybe cry a little. I peel the sticky notes from the book and fold them to go along with my crooked heart in my wallet. I flip through a few more pages of the book and chuckle at the real, very sad ending of Rapunzel, which results in basically everyone’s death, then put the book on the return cart parked nearby along the wall.

Knowing there is no longer a reason for me to be here, I lift my bag and leave the library, my heart pulled in two directions—between selfish and selfless. For the first time, I have something I can talk to Rowe about, and I really think she might be the only one who will understand.

When I get back to our room, everyone is inside, so I look at my phone to check the time. It’s not quite five, and I know they weren’t planning on going out until late. But I am glad Rowe is here now. Maybe she’ll have some time to talk.

I walk in behind her, ready to tap her shoulder, but glance at our small television, which seems to have everyone completely captivated.

“What’s going on?” I ask, letting my hand fall to my side. Cass turns to me, her eyes wide and her lips caught in a shocked-type of smile.