Off the Page Read online

  I wish I’d never met Oliver. Because then I wouldn’t know how much I’m missing now.

  There’s a chime from the laptop on my desk, and the screen glows to life. A graphic of a ringing phone appears, and a name beneath it: PRINCE CHARMING.

  I’m the one who gave him that Skype name.

  Rolling onto my side, I reach for the keyboard and decline the call. I doubt there’s anything Oliver can say that will make me feel better. And I don’t know what I would say to him right now. It seems like the more miserable I get, the more I lash out at him, and that certainly isn’t going to make him want to stay with me any longer.

  In fact, knowing me, I’ve probably screwed this up so badly that it’s already over.

  I may be mad at Oliver, but I’m even angrier at myself.

  I curl into a ball, hugging my knees close to my chest, sobbing. It’s not a pretty cry; I’m practically triple-tearing, secreting from my eyes, nose, and mouth all at once. Not to be outdone, Humphrey howls too.

  The door bursts open, and my mother rushes to my side, grasping my shoulders. “What’s the matter?” Her voice feels like a rush of cold water. “Are you sick? Does something hurt?”

  I curl into her arms, like I did when I was little and thought a thunderstorm was a monster running toward my bedroom, snapping trees with every step. My face is hot and swollen. “I think I messed up.”

  “Do you need help hiding the body?” my mother asks.

  I pull away from her and look at her face. “What? No.”

  “Then it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.” She smooths my hair. “Does this have something to do with a certain guy who’s been hanging around here a lot?”

  “We got in a huge fight. And then he tried to make things better and I basically blew him off because I’m the world’s biggest idiot and now I’m going to be the world’s biggest single idiot.”

  My mom’s arms tighten around me. “Being single isn’t a fatal disaster.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You have Greg.”

  “For a lot of years, I didn’t. I just had you. And that was enough.”

  “That is so sad,” I wail, throwing myself face-forward into a pillow. “I’m going to be that kid who takes her own mother to prom.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” my mother says. “There are going to be plenty of other guys in your life before you find The One.”

  “I don’t want any other guys. I want Ol—” I catch myself. “I want Edgar.”

  My mother draws away from me, serious. “Delilah,” she asks, “do you love him?”

  Is love really this hard?

  Is it needing to be with someone so much that you can’t breathe when you’re not? Is it wanting to kill someone for making you feel like dying when he looks at another girl? Is it wishing to be with him every minute, but knowing it’s too much to ask?

  Is it handing someone your heart to hold, knowing you’re also giving him the power to crush it?

  A fresh wash of tears flows over my cheeks. “What difference does it make? I’m probably never going to see him again.”

  “You know,” my mother says, glancing past me, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  She gets up from the bed, calling Humphrey to her side, and I roll over to see Oliver standing in the doorway. “I knocked, but no one answered . . . so I let myself in,” Oliver says. “Is this a bad time?”

  “It’s the perfect time,” my mother says, and she leaves my room. After a tiny hesitation, she grabs the doorknob and pulls the door shut.

  I sit up and open my mouth, but Oliver raises his hand to stop me. “Don’t speak,” he says. He walks toward the bed, stopping a foot away. “You’ve been trying to turn me into a high school student, but when I act like one, everything falls apart. That’s because I’m not a high school student. I’m a prince. It’s what I’ve always been, and no matter what world I’m living in, it’s what I’ll always be. I understand things feel wrong between us right now. But you and I, we’re not broken.”

  He takes one small step toward me. “I know what this is. This is where I slay the dragon so I can climb the tower, kill the villain, and risk my life to be with you. This is the tough spot. This is the bit that keeps you on the edge of your seat so you can get to the good part, where you can finally let go of the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.” A muscle works in his throat as he swallows, but he doesn’t move an inch. “This isn’t the end for us. This isn’t how fairy tales finish.”

  “If it’s not the end,” I ask, “then what is it?”

  He reaches for my hands and tugs me to my feet. “This is the part where I look you in the eyes,” Oliver says, his gaze locked on me, “take you in my arms . . .” He pulls me against his chest. “. . . and say: Delilah McPhee, I love you.”

  His mouth closes over mine, stealing my breath and all of my doubt. His hands tangle in my hair and anchor my lips against his. I sink into him, as if the heat from his body is melting mine.

  This isn’t just any kiss. This is the shooting-star, fireworks-finale, earth-shattering kiss that makes time stand still, so that we are spinning inside a universe made for two.

  This is what love is: never wanting to give up.

  I pull away just far enough for a promise to fit between us. “Oliver,” I say, “I love you too.”

  How come love sounds so violent?

  You fall head over heels.

  You’re struck by Cupid’s arrow.

  You take the risk of having your heart broken.

  From an outside perspective, it sounds impossibly painful, not worth the trouble. And yet we do it every day. We keep coming back for more.

  Why?

  If it weren’t so perilous, maybe we wouldn’t crave it so much.

  Maybe it has to be brutal, in order to work. People come in so many shapes and sizes that it takes a bit of force in order to fit together perfectly.

  But you know what they say about a break that heals: it’s always stronger than before.

  EDGAR

  I didn’t notice the first time I saw it, but now I realize Orville’s cottage is familiar.

  It’s almost an exact replica of a cabin my mom and I rented one summer in Maine. There was no electricity, and a spider the size of my fist lived in the shower with us the entire week we were there because neither one of us wanted to touch it. The splintered wood of Orville’s door has a knot in the middle that kind of resembles Gandhi, just like the door in Maine. And like the roof of that cabin, Orville’s roof sags a little on the left side, possibly about to fall right in.

  I think of them as déjà vus, these hidden details of my mom’s life that she’s sprinkled through the fairy tale. I have to admit—I kind of like seeing them. It’s like when she used to put notes in my lunch box, just to let me know she was still thinking of me when she wasn’t there.

  I’m just leaving the page with Orville’s home and crossing onto the beach, when suddenly Socks gallops into sight and comes to a halt in front of me.

  “This is a disaster!” he wails. “This is catastrophic. The world might as well be ending.”

  Without even glancing at him, I say, “You look fine, Socks.” I’m used to these dramatic displays of low self-esteem from the horse, when he is reduced to Jell-O by the appearance of a nonexistent wrinkle or a dimple of cellulite.

  “I’m not talking about me,” Socks scoffs. “Jeez, do you really think I’d be so self-centered?” He pauses. “Wait—are people saying that about me?”

  “I don’t have time for this,” I tell him. “Where’s Frump? Everyone’s here waiting for him.”

  Everyone is gathered on the beach once again for our morning run-down—except our ringleader is a no-show.

  Socks rolls his eyes. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. Frump won’t leave his doghouse. I suppose I may know a thing or two about locking yourself in your barn stall because of an issue with your appearance . . .”

  Captain Crabbe