By the Book (Meant to Be #2)(91)

A few days later.

We went surfing yesterday. I needed a break from writing. It was sort of an impulsive decision, but a really good one. It seemed like she needed a break, too, because I expected her to argue with me about where we were going and what we were doing, but she didn’t, at all, and came along to the beach, and even let me start to teach her how to surf. It was a lot of fun—for me, but I’m pretty sure for her, too. I mean sure, she fell off a million times, but we laughed about that a lot. I think we both trust each other more after yesterday, even though that wasn’t my goal.

I think we both like each other more after yesterday, too.

The problem is I almost kissed her last night. It was after dinner; we were together in the kitchen, cleaning up; we’d each had enough wine to be not quite drunk, but somewhere on the way. She was kind of giggly; it was cute. Anyway, she slipped, and I caught her. And then I didn’t let go. And she just relaxed against me. And we stood there like that for a while. And my God, it felt so good. And then suddenly, I knew that if I stayed like that with her for one more second, I would kiss her, so I made myself drop my hands and take a step back.

I can’t stop thinking about the way she smelled, still faintly of the ocean, but with that floral scent in her hair.



She could still feel that first embrace, in the kitchen. How solid, comforting, warm he felt. How she didn’t want to let go either.

The next week.

I showed her my writing for the first time yesterday. She even liked it—I know she did, because she seemed surprised at first when she told me it was good, so I know she was telling the truth. I didn’t really tell her this, but part of the reason it was so hard for me to start this memoir—or, this version of it, anyway—was that the idea of other people reading it terrified me. I’m really glad that Izzy is the first person to read any of this.



And then, later that week.

Izzy’s friend is in town. She came over yesterday—Izzy said she wanted to see the house and asked if she could come. She seemed kind of nervous to ask me that, which irritated me, that she’s still nervous around me, but whatever. Anyway, when they were here, her friend said something about how Izzy’s going back to New York in just over a week. I sort of forgot she’s leaving so soon.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter.



Later that day. She almost didn’t want to read this.

Well, shit. I fucked everything up now, didn’t I? I was such an asshole to her today. Yes, a bigger asshole than the first day, if anyone can believe that, which I don’t know if anyone can, but it’s true. I was such an asshole that she walked out of the library, took the car, and drove away. I’m sitting in the kitchen now, writing in this thing because I don’t know what else to do, while I wait for her to come back. Though I don’t blame her if she doesn’t.

I said really shitty things to her. I don’t even want to write them down. If she comes back—and who knows if she will—she’ll probably just go straight up to her room, pack, and leave. I guess I’m just sitting here because I want to be able to apologize to her before she does that.

I thought writing all this, thinking about all this, was making me less of an asshole. I guess not.

I should wait outside for her.



That was the worst day.

She came back. She’s still here.

I didn’t think she’d come back. I didn’t even try to convince her to stay, I didn’t think it would do any good. Even though it’s what I wanted, more than anything.

I apologized, and she blew me off, and I did it again, and she listened, only sort of, at first. And then she told me that I hurt her, and even though I knew it was true, hearing her say the words felt like a punch in the face. It made me realize how much I care about her, how important our…friendship, I guess, is to me, because now I know that I never want to do anything to hurt her ever again.

I told her everything. About my dad, my mom, me. What I did to my mom. The stuff I haven’t been writing about, not even in here. The stuff I’ve skipped over. And she listened. And she’s still here.

She told me to write it down, everything I told her tonight, and I’m going to do that, in just a second, but I just had to write this first.

I promised Izzy I’d never do that to her again. I don’t know if she believed me, but I swear, I’ll keep that promise.



He’d kept that promise.

Izzy told me about her own writing. The unbelievable part is that when I encouraged her to start again, to write again, she listened to me. I’m sure it wasn’t just me, she said she’d already sort of started while she was here, I think she just needed a tiny push to get her to really do it, but I’m glad I could be the one to give her that push. So now she’s sitting across from me, writing, too.



Izzy was glad he was the one who gave her that push to write again, too.

I texted that therapist, the one I used to see. I’m going to talk to him tomorrow morning. I’m nervous as hell about it.



She hadn’t known that.

Izzy is supposed to leave at the end of this week. I really want her to stay longer. I think I might ask her if she will, if I get the courage. Wish me luck.



The next day.

She’s staying. An extra three weeks.

Marta said that for Izzy to be able to stay, I had to send her some pages—to prove, I guess, that I’ve gotten work done. She said that it was nonnegotiable.