Midnight Sun(9)

I’m still trying to play it cool. I don’t even know why. Clearly this letter was written by me. “I mean, if you think it’s a good one, I’ll read it,” I mumble. “If you really want me to. I guess.”

She smirks. “You’re not going to like how Dear Gabby totally, one hundred percent agrees with my advice to you. Oh, I mean, that other girl with XP who’s living a parallel life to yours. You have to… I mean she has to get back out there and try again with Charlie.”

“Dear Gabby didn’t say that!” I grab for Morgan’s phone. She lets me have it. I start to read.

Dear Sunless,

There’s a not-so-famous adage a New Jersey–born friend once passed on to me: Everyone has their shit sandwich. The only difference is some people aren’t willing to talk about it. Believe me when I tell you everyone comes into a relationship with baggage, and I mean everyone. Depression, dysfunction, debt, doubt, you name it. You just happen to have cells that can’t process the sun and force you to be nocturnal. So what? Is that so much worse than anyone else’s shit sandwich?

You might not be able to meet him for an afternoon of minigolf, but dating mostly goes on at night, anyway. Which means you’re not out of the running as a potential partner—not by a long shot, pumpkin.

Besides, it seems to me you’re putting the cart before the horse here. You’re already assuming this guy—who you’ve said appears to be full of great qualities—would surely reject you because of a circumstance beyond your control. Remember, while you may not be out and about during daylight hours, he most certainly goes out at night. So why not put yourself somewhere he’s apt to be and give him a chance to prove you wrong? Start a conversation. See where it leads. Be casual, cool, calm, collected. Allow yourself to be surprised.

I’m going to leave you with this thought. Actually, it’s a challenge. Do not let this one aspect of your life—which doesn’t define you, might I add—stop you from chasing your wildest dreams. Try putting a little more faith in yourself and your fellow humans, and our infinite capacity to love and forgive each other in spite of our shortcomings.

As for this boy, I say go for it. In fact, go for everything you want in this life. I hope you get everything you dream of and more.

Love,

Gabby

I ignore the part about not letting this one aspect of my life define me (because when you have a rare disease like XP, there’s no getting away from it—but Gabby couldn’t know about that) and try to let the solid advice sink in, but all I can think about is how vulnerable and exposed I feel. I pray Zoe Carmichael and her crew don’t follow Dear Gabby. I’d hate to think how much more they’d be able to torture me with this kind of knowledge.

“The needing to have more faith in yourself and other people part, and our infinite capacity to love and forgive each other’s shortcomings, is great, right?” Morgan says when I hand her back the phone. “I almost teared up, and you know how much it takes for me to get emotional.”

“Personally, I liked the poop sandwich analogy,” I say with a little smile. Dear Gabby really is the best. She’s smart and honest, and always tells it straight even when you might not exactly want to hear it. “And I still contend I didn’t write that.”

Morgan eye-rolls me into the next century. “Sure,” she says. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to talk to him again. You could, like, snap him a funny picture of one of your stuffed animals in a box and say you can hang out now that the funeral is over or something.”

I shake my head. “Not even a chance.”

“But he was so nice to you,” Morgan protests. “He liked your song. And your voice. And you.”

I think about that and come to the conclusion that Morgan’s not completely off base. Charlie was really nice to me, despite all my awkwardness. He listened to my song and seemed to really appreciate it. He still wanted to talk to me even after I started making up insane lies to get away from him. He’s pretty much the perfect guy… which is why he doesn’t need me and my problems in his life, I quickly conclude. “Charlie Reed and I are just not in the cards,” I tell her.

Morgan gets off my bed and grabs my guitar, then hands it to me. “You know what would be a great way to spend your time instead of being so stubborn? Write a song about last night. This is what Taylor Swift does! She has awkward interactions with boys and then writes amazing songs about them.”

So maybe there is a silver lining to this mortifying situation after all. Everyone knows heartbreak is a great source of artistic inspiration.

“Oh, you mean like this?” I take my guitar from Morgan and start improvising.

“I’m a crazy pathetic person, don’t know why,



couldn’t even look him in the eye,



I choked, I blew it, felt like I’m gonna hurl,



I’m the biggest dork in the whole wide world…”



“Hmmmm. I’d keep working on that,” Morgan tells me.

I walk over to my guitar case, a new idea for a song forming in my head. I’m totally going to write a country tune called “My Fake Dead Cat (Wants You to Come to His Funeral),” which I will dedicate to Charlie Reed and he will hear it on the radio and laugh and find my awkwardness adorable and we’ll start over. There’s only one problem, though: My lyrics book isn’t where it’s supposed to be.