Between the Pages: A Novel (23 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Finley

Three Months Later

New York City and my heart have one major thing in common: we’re both starting to thaw out from the frost. For the first time in a long time, I feel inspired to write. I cut down my hours at Diptyque and hole up for most of February and March. By April, I have a real, live manuscript. Ninety thousand words of angst, unrequited love, and torture.

One delightfully sunny afternoon, I’m walking home from work when I pass St. Mark’s. I haven’t been inside for a while, but that’s not what catches my eye. Instead, I’m captivated by the new release sitting in the front window. My eyes pop out of my head a bit when I see his name on one of the books in the window.

I can feel myself rush inside, but nothing registers until I’m standing before the New Releases table and picking up a hardcover copy of
Between the Pages
, by Emerson fucking Whittaker. The breath catches in my throat as my eyes adjust to the darkness of the bookshop. The cover is stunning and unlike all of his other books. It’s a smattering of red, black, and white. A large, paint-smeared red and orange heart filled with hand-written notes takes up most of the front cover, along with the bold font. I flip it over and my eyes skim the synopsis.

Love of my life . . . Writing . . . Sorrow . . .
I close my eyes and hug the book to my chest. Looking around, I furtively walk to the register to pay for the damn book. It costs $24.99. That’s almost my weekly grocery bill.

I reach down to pet Teddy quickly as Emily finishes up my sale. It isn’t often that I actually buy books in here, given my lack of cash and all, but Emily has never complained. Perhaps she likes that I adore Teddy.

“I love his books,” she says. I stare at her for a beat before responding.

“Uh, yeah. Me too.” Teddy meows at my feet, and a stabbing pain fills my chest when I think of Ralph and Waldo. Honestly, the thing that hurts the most about this whole ordeal is that I can’t see them. They weren’t just my cats; they were
our
cats.

“This was a special release. None of the shops knew about it. Usually we get press releases from the publisher months in advance. Nuh-uh, not with this one. It’s so different than his last three books. It reminds me of
Underground Love.
” She smiles. “Would you like a bag?” she adds, her voice perky. She has a funny smile on her face today. Odd.

My mouth is hanging open. “No, thanks.” I try to smile back, but I have a feeling it’s more like a grimace.

I take the book and walk out in a daze. The sun beats down on me, and I slowly walk home. A special release? What does that mean? Also, how does this book even exist if I never finished writing it for him? The questions swirl around in my head until I’m opening my front door and stumbling in.

Hannah, back from San Francisco, is watching TV on the couch. She turns to look at me and instantly turns the sound off.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to hurl.”

I don’t look at her as I go sit down on the other couch. “I
feel
like I’m going to hurl,” I say quietly. I hold the book up, and Hannah’s eyes go wide as she takes in the cover.

“Oh, Jesus,” she moans. She gestures for me to hand it over, so I do. She takes it and slowly flips through it.

“I can’t read it,” I state, but it comes out more like a question.

She’s quiet as she skims the interior. “My God,” she breathes.

My curiosity is piqued. “What? What is it?”

Her head snaps up, and her eyes are watery. “It’s about you.” The room begins to spin. Confusion fills my mind.
Me?
She opens the flap and begins to read the author bio. “Emerson Whittaker lives in New York City and South Hampton. He lives with his girlfriend who was the inspiration for this book and their two cats.” She closes the book. “Whoa.”

I snort. “Well,
that’s
presumptuous.” I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat and blink back the tears threatening to pour down my face. I don’t want Hannah to know how much his words are already staring to affect me. Hannah knows better, because she raises her eyebrows and watches me with a disbelieving expression.

I shake my head and reach for the book. I quickly open it, reading the dedication.

For F—You’re in my bones and my blood and my heart. I’d have to tear myself open to ever let you go. So I’ll continue trying to win you back with books. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll move on to movies. I will never stop loving you.

I stare at Hannah before eyeing the first few sentences of chapter one. It’s not my writing.

“He wrote it,” I confirm, closing the book.

“Well, no shit,” she sighs. She watches me carefully before continuing. “The guy wrote a fucking book for you, Finn. I think you should call him.”

I take in her words as I fidget with the zipper on my jacket. “It still hurts,” I whisper. When I look up at her, a tear trickles down my face. I think back to the morning after I was mugged.

“I miss you. I miss your laugh. I miss your smile. I miss the way your hair smells like coconut. I miss your lips. I miss that house. I haven’t been back since you left. It’s not the same. I miss making your coffee creamer every morning. I miss making love to you. I miss the way you taste—everywhere.”
And the look on his face when I asked him to stop. As I walked away.
Again.

“I can’t watch you walk away twice.”
It just fucking hurts so much.

“I know.” She gets up and comes over to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “But only he can erase the hurt. He’s still in love with you.”

I nod and sniff. “I don’t doubt that he loves me. I just don’t know if I can trust him again.”

She sighs and runs her hand through her hair. “I didn’t want to say anything before, but I think you should know how I really feel about all of this.” She looks at me square in the eye. “You’re being an idiot.”

A laugh bubbles out of my throat. “What?” I croak.

She laughs and shakes her head. “I’d never seen you so happy. He was unlike any other guy you’d ever dated. You could talk to him about things you couldn’t even talk to me about, and you knew as well as I that he would never judge you. He got you to go in the fucking ocean,” she exclaims. I cry and laugh at the same time. “He’s your soul mate, Finley. And I don’t think you should let him go so easily.” Her eyes are insistent and kind, all at the same time.

“When did you get so wise?” I ask, swatting her arm and then pulling her into a tight hug.

“I dunno. I guess it just takes meeting the right person to realize why it never worked out with all of the others.” She gives me a coy smile.

I stare at her. “Is this about Theo?”

Hannah and Theo met in San Francisco. They went on a few dates, but Hannah has been pretty mum on the subject. Needless to say, they’re constantly texting, and she definitely has a new spring in her step.

“Maybe.” She smiles. “I’ll tell you everything another time. Back to what I was saying . . . please don’t let him go. He’s obviously sorry. This is the best kind of love letter. You get an entire book of love.” She nods to the book in my lap.

I wipe the tears off my cheeks. “I know. But I can’t help but wonder—”

“Wonder
what
?” Hannah asks incredulously. “He loves you. It’s simple. He’s waiting for you to make the next move.” I open my mouth to retort but I come up short. “Read the book. Take in his wordy message. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She pushes up off the couch.

“Where are you going?” I whine.

“I’m meeting someone.” She winks and retreats to her bedroom.
Who
is she meeting?

“Is it Theo?” I yell, smiling.

Silence greets me from the hallway. And then a timid response. “Maybe.”

Well, at least one of us seems to be on the right path to a successful relationship. I grab a glass of wine and head into my bedroom, Emerson’s book in hand. I get through the first two paragraphs before I come back out into the kitchen for the whole bottle.

Between the Pages

By Emerson Whittaker

Chapter One

It started with a story. Four blue-book pages had me hooked from the get go. I won’t go into specifics, because that’s not what this book is about, but let’s just say I knew her before I ever really
knew
her.

I can’t say for sure when it happened. I can’t explain how every time I put my arms around her, I felt like I was home. Or how I struggle to breathe when she’s not around. That’s a true fact, by the way. I breathe easier when she’s around.

I guess we should go back to day one. It started on a sunny, December day back in 2008. I think a part of me knew—a deep, hidden part inside me felt pulled to her. And when she walked away, I didn’t want her to leave. Although a horrible thing happened later that day, I’ve never been able to forget the way my body reacted to her when I spotted her from afar.

My life changed forever that day, and I didn’t know at the time that my destiny lay with her. Because, dear readers, she is the very reason you are reading these words.

I don’t make it past the first chapter before I’m gathering my purse and rushing out of the door. I text Hannah quickly so she doesn’t worry.

Me: Gone. Making the next move.

Hannah: Yay! Go, go, go! Wear a condom. ;)

I laugh as I round the corner to his apartment. I can’t believe he’s lived here all along. Hannah and I have passed this building hundreds of times. In fact, Hannah used to sit on his stoop and drink beer in college—the tree out front hid us from the street and potential police intervention well. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pass it more often since learning where he lives. I make every excuse to go west on 3
rd
whenever the chance arises.

I buzz apartment 512.
Whittaker
. No one answers. I buzz again. Silence.

I sigh and look around. And then I pull my phone out because the answer is fairly obvious. I walk to the coffee shop on the corner and connect to Wi-Fi. I open the Facebook app and of course, there it is: a friend request from Emerson. I smile as I click over to his profile.

Emerson Whittaker checked into Ace Bar at 12:47 p.m.

Someone named Fran commented. I wonder if it’s the Fran who raised him—his foster mother?
Since when do you check yourself into places?
His response?
So if anyone wanted to find me, they could. Except stalkers. I will only tolerate lightweight stalking.

I smile as I jog the two blocks north to Ace Bar. It’s 5:14 p.m., so if he’s still here, he’s been here for over four hours. I enter the bar quickly, ducking into the near-dark dive. My eyes scan the patrons. It’s unusually busy for a Thursday afternoon.

I don’t see Emerson, so I walk up to the bartender.

“Hi,” I say sweetly. “Have you seen a man around here? Brown hair, brown eyes, probably brooding and drinking a gin martini?”

The bartender’s eyes light up. “Oh, yeah. He actually just left.”

I curse under my breath. “Okay, thank you.”

I connect to Wi-Fi and check his Facebook again.

Emerson Whittaker checked into Remedy Diner at 5:22 p.m.

Fran comments again.
Wow, two in one day?

He comments back:
;)

I hightail it to Remedy. When I get there, Randy quickly walks up to me. He’s since moved out but lives nearby, and we’re still really close.

“You just missed him,” he says glumly. “He wasn’t here for long.”

I groan. “He’s making me chase him all over East Village.” I look outside. “It’s getting dark, and I’m cold.”

Randy purses his lips. “Girl, the man wrote a book for you. You can borrow my coat. Or really, it’s your coat. I stole it from you when we lived together.” Of course
he
knows Emerson wrote a book for me. He skips into the back room and comes out with the wool jacket I’ve had for years.

“Hey,” I say accusingly. I tug it on one arm at a time. It’s huge on me. “I love this coat. I did not give you permission to steal it.”

He smirks. “It fits me perfectly. And it’s Burberry.”

I roll my eyes and whip my phone out. “It’s my dad’s. I think.”

“Mmm. Papa Matthews has good style.”

I laugh but don’t look up. I check Facebook.

Emerson Whittaker checked into Washington Square Park at 5:47 p.m.

I laugh when I see Fran’s comment.
Are you planning on getting mugged? It’s almost dark!

His reply pops up right underneath hers in live time.
She’s worth it.

My heart stops, and I can’t wipe the smile off.

“You’re so smitten,” Randy squeals. “I’ll call a cab for you.” He produces a twenty and ushers me outside, where he proceeds to whistle the loudest whistle I’ve ever heard.

“I’m not taking your money,” I say, shoving his hand away.

“You think this is my money?” He laughs like a hyena. “He wanted to make sure you didn’t miss him.”

I’m stunned. A yellow cab pulls up. He knows I don’t have Wi-Fi, so I can’t request an Uber. How is it possible that one person can be so thoughtful? Only Emerson would think of something like that.

“Go get him,” Randy whispers into my ear as he helps me in.

I give the cabbie the location and cut across Manhattan in record time. I could’ve walked the eleven or so blocks, but I can’t chance missing him again.

The cab lets me out across the street from the park near the red, main NYU building. I hand him the twenty and slam the door, running across the street and almost dying in the process—two cars narrowly miss hitting me. I glance at the bench Chloe and I used to meet at—the one at the edge of the square. I suck in a breath when I see him sitting with one leg crossed over the other.

His socks are highlighter green, and the Vans he’s wearing are old and dingy. As I get closer, I take in more of his appearance all thanks to the lamp overhead. He’s grown his beard out since the last time I saw him in January, and his hair is a disheveled mess. I love that he made so much effort to get my attention, but he couldn’t run a comb through his hair.

I love him just the way he is, though—rumpled hair and all. I walk up slowly, and he doesn’t notice me at first. And then he does.

The effect I have on him is evident in the way his eyes go wide and the way he inhales a sharp breath. He squints and doesn’t remove his gaze from me; he scans me up and down slowly, drinking me in. My pulse quickens. Neither of us says anything. We just watch each other. The moment is overwhelming.

“You’re wearing my jacket,” he says matter-of-factly.

I look down. “No. This is my dad’s,” I say, uncertain. I slide the jacket off. “Burberry. See?”

He smirks. “I bought the coat in London in 2007.” He reaches out for it. “It looks better on you.”

I shake my head and stare at him. “How could this possibly be your coat?”

He steps forward and eases it back onto my shoulders. “I was at Chloe’s funeral. You were there after everyone else left. You looked cold, so I put my jacket over your shoulders. You must’ve thought your dad did it, because you didn’t turn around.”

My stupid heart lurches against my chest. Emerson extends his hand and places his thumb on my cheek.

“I missed you,” he whispers. I close my eyes. The words and the contact are too much after so much time apart.

“Why did you want to meet here?” I ask, looking around.

“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s where I first saw you? Because of Chloe?” He shrugs.

The last part stings. “Because of Chloe?” I elaborate.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Even though it’s painful to think about, I’m forever grateful to Chloe. She’s the reason we’re here now. It all happened for a reason. Don’t you think?” His words are soft and tender.

My eyes water. “I do. She’s watching out for me.” I choke back the last word as it disappears into a sob.

Emerson steps closer and grabs me, pulling me into him gently. I inhale his cologne and close my eyes as the firm warmth underneath his jacket envelops me.

“I know we both wish she was still here, for different reasons. I’m not going to lie to you and say that her love didn’t matter, because it did. It shaped me into the person I am today. And I’d like to believe she helped shape you too. She brought us together. I think I began falling in love with you while I read your story in her words. I don’t think I watched after you simply because she asked me to. Please don’t let her be the reason we get pulled apart. Perhaps she was my beacon that led me to you.”

I look up at him. There are so many words to process in what he’s just said, but at this point, my heart has already decided I love him too much to consider their merit or their flaws. He stayed. He pursued me. He pursued me
for me
. He. Turned. Up. He wrote his story and deliberately chose me to be a part of it, as if he truly did
need
me. But not just for writing. For
me
.

His copper eyes are watery and intense, and he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek nervously. It accentuates his stubble.

“You wrote a book,” I say proudly, gripping the back of his flannel.

“I was inspired.” He gives me his famous lopsided smile.

I feel a blush creep up my neck. “I only read the first chapter,” I admit sheepishly.

“The first chapter is the best part,” he says, smiling. His eyes are vivacious and blazing. “You’ll probably want to read the last chapter though,” he says quietly.

I laugh. “What’s the last chapter?”

He shakes his head. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”