By the Book (Meant to Be #2)(90)

She said if I didn’t know what to write I should write about how annoyed I am that she’s making me do this, so fine, that’s what I’ll do. I’m very annoyed about it. I’m also very annoyed about how much I like her.

I absolutely don’t want to do this. I thought when she said she’d help me with the book, we were going to start slow, but instead, boom, she set a timer and told me to go. And even worse, I can’t believe I got myself into this situation, living with this woman I’m wildly attracted to who has every reason to despise me, sitting across a table from her every single day for a month. This is going to be a nightmare. And it’s all my fault. Will I actually get a book out of this? Doubtful.

She’s just sitting there looking down at her phone as I write this. I looked up at her for a while, just now, but she didn’t even glance at me—she’s smiling away at something on her phone. I wonder what it was—a friend of hers? Someone she’s dating? I wish I knew how to make her smile like that. I’ve done it accidentally, but I have no idea how to replicate it. I used to be better at this. At least, I thought I was. But first my dad died and I was furious at the world, and then I was furious at myself, and then I locked myself away in this house for a year, and now I barely know how to talk to any other human beings, let alone a gorgeous, smart, slightly caustic woman.



That was from their first day in the library. He’d thought this way about her from the very beginning? He’d told her that, but she hadn’t really believed him.

Gorgeous, smart, slightly caustic. Wow, what a great description. No one else saw her like that.

She kept reading.

I guess I should be writing about why I’m so furious at myself. Yes, probably, but I can’t do that today. Baby steps. Maybe I’ll start with why I came here, to this house. Why I’ve been here since that night I found out everything. Oh God, writing about how annoyed I am that Isabelle made me do this led me to do exactly what she wanted me to do. So fine, Isabelle, you win this round.



She skimmed the rest of that entry—it was a much messier version of that first chapter he’d given her to read, weeks after that first day together in the library. She flipped to the next page.

I can’t believe I let her have this notebook. When I gave it to her, yesterday before we left the library, I kind of forgot what I’d written about her at the very beginning—on the very first page. But she promised she wouldn’t read it, and I think she kept her promise, because she isn’t acting weird to me today or anything.

Well, not weirder than usual, since, you know, she sort of thinks I’m a monster.

Not that she’s wrong about that, but still.

Can I trust her to take the notebook again? On the one hand, I am sort of terrified that if I keep it I’ll delete everything and that I’ll rip out those first pages I wrote. Not for the same reason as I did the first time. The first time I deleted everything, it was because what I wrote was terrible, untrue, dishonest. It made me hate myself when I read it later. Izzy says I shouldn’t have done it, that I should have saved it somewhere, but I needed to do it, to help myself get rid of the person who had written those words, who’d thought he had all the answers, who was so confident and wrong.

No, now I’m afraid I’ll rip out those pages because they’re too honest, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. So I guess that’s why I need to give them to her, for safekeeping. I guess I need to try to trust her.



Izzy remembered a few times that week, Beau had looked at her strangely as she’d pushed the notebook across the table to him. She hadn’t really thought anything of it at the time; he always looked at her kind of strangely back then. But now she realized why: He was trying to see if she’d read his notebook. If he could trust her.

She flipped to the next page. And then the next, and then the next. At the beginning of almost every entry, Beau had written about her.

We had dinner together again last night. Me and Isabelle. Izzy. We had a good day working together—at least, it seemed good to me. She seemed upset about something at dinner, and I asked her what was wrong. She seemed surprised that I knew something was wrong with her, and I don’t know how I could tell, but I could. Eventually, she told me it was some jerk she works with who made everything difficult for her today. I think talking to me about it made her feel better. I hope it did.

And it definitely made her feel better when she made fun of me for not washing my dishes. To be fair, I kind of deserved that.

Okay, more than kind of.



A different day.

I’m sure Izzy hasn’t opened this notebook once in the entire time she’s had it. I wonder if she has any idea how every night, when we sit on the couch together and watch TV, I have to fight to keep from leaning over to kiss her. I won’t do it—I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do it—but, God, I want to.

Every day I like her more. It’s not just that I’m more attracted to her—that, too, obviously, especially when she wears those little tank tops down to dinner—I just like her. Last night when we ate dinner, she went on this extended riff about how she was really sure the snack cabinet was talking to her one day, and I laughed harder than I’ve laughed in…over a year, actually.



Izzy remembered that night at dinner. That was a fun night.