Send Me a Sign(92)

When he didn’t continue, I snuggled closer and pouted. He kissed me on the nose. “Your necklace. You told me you’d lost it, and the jewelers were closed.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t lose my necklace in your backyard.”

Gyver studied our entwined hands. “I was looking for four-leaf clovers.”

“What? You’re not serious. In the dark?”

“I had a flashlight.”

I tried not to laugh and failed. “Why? Why in the world?”

“I thought maybe if I found one for you, you’d cheer up and feel less hopeless.”

“Gyver Russo! I believe someone’s always telling me I put too much faith in superstitions. And”—I deepened my voice in a poor imitation—“I make my own luck.”

His grin was full of mischief. “I can’t wait to get lucky with you.”

“Gyver.” I groaned. “You’re ridiculous!”

He started to retort, but I cut him off with a finger to his lips. A finger I began to trace around his mouth with a feather-light touch.

His puzzled look turned to concern as I began to lean in. He put a hand on either side of my face and warred with impulses to pull me close and push me away. “Mi, we can’t.”

I smiled and leaned still closer, fitting myself into the space between his arms, the space that felt like sanctuary. These were the words I’d been waiting all day to tell him. “I asked. My counts are good.”

This time there were no ice cream accidents and no fevers. If I had been attached to a heart monitor, I’m sure it would have set off every racing-pulse alarm.

But I wasn’t.

There was nothing to interrupt, nothing to interfere, and nothing between Gyver’s and my lips but a few inches of empty air.

And then there wasn’t even that.

There were Gyver’s hands sliding up my neck, his thumb caressing my jawline and his fingers sliding around the back of my head, tilting up my chin and lowering his mouth to mine.

We didn’t bump noses, or grind teeth, or mash lips. There wasn’t that period of awkward learning—because it was Gyver and it was me, and there was no one who knew me better, no one I’d ever know so well.

It was sweet and fierce and many things my mind and body couldn’t name. The type of kissing that eclipsed all prior kisses—the type of kissing I hoped to be doing for a very long time.

And when Gyver and I finally pulled apart, his face was flushed and we were both the best kind of breathless. I knew exactly how he felt and what he was thinking: more. We both leaned in for a second kiss at the same instant—and this, I decided, was the very best sign.





Acknowledgments

I’ve always daydreamed of writing an acknowledgments page, much in the way that actors dream of giving Oscar acceptance speeches. And now here’s my chance! Even better, I get to type this while wearing pajamas instead of an uncomfortable gown and heels. Lucky for me there’s neither a live audience nor aren’t-you-done-yet? music because I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for the many, many people who have helped me reach this stage, and it’s making me a little teary eyed.

Huge, from-the-bottom-of-my-heart-accompanied-by-hugs-and-baked-goods thank-yous to the following people:

My team at Walker—Emily Easton, Mary Kate Castellani, Laura Whitaker, Patricia McHugh, Jill Amack, and everyone else there who worked to bring Mia’s story to the shelves.

The dreamiest of dream agents, Joe Monti, as well as Barry Goldblatt, Tricia Ready, and the rest of the BG Literary family. Regina Forever.

Jenny Southard, my go-to person for all things medical, and Kari Olson, whose patience with my radiology questions was truly impressive. Any mistakes are my fault. All medical brilliance is theirs.

My friends who forgave me when I canceled plans to stay in and write and were waiting to hang out when I needed to get away from my computer. And my fellow writers who read these pages and pushed me to be my best: Jonathan Maberry, Nancy Keim Comley, Kerry Gans, Katie Foucart, Leah Clifford, Tiffany Emerick, and Stacey Yiengst.

Team Sparkle—a.k.a. Scott Tracey, Courtney Summers, Victoria Schwab, Emily Hainsworth, Linda Grimes, and Susan Adrian—I owe them my sanity. Especially Emily, who read this manuscript more times than I can count and never lost her enthusiasm for Mia, Gyver, and co—have I told you how pretty you are?

The Apocalypsies—I couldn’t imagine sharing this publication adventure with a better group.

Andrew McMahon—for being an inspiration with his music and his leukemia survivorship and for permission to use his lyrics—as well as to Ellie Waite for doing all the permissions paperwork! For those who are interested in more information on Andrew’s story and his work promoting awareness about cancer in young adults, please look into his charity, the Dear Jack Foundation. (www.DearJackFoundation.com) The Mysza family. You are my superheroes. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you, miss Morgan, and send you all love.

And, finally, for my family. To my parents and siblings for putting up with my endless princess and puppy stories as a child. To my Schmidtlets, who were nappers when I needed to revise and snugglers when I needed to pace and brainstorm. And St. Matt, thank you for being so … saintly and putting up with me through this whole crazy process. I love you.