Love is an Open Book

One

Gavin

Nine Years Ago

Past midnight, and all I want to do is take off my backpack and fall into bed, but my apartment is blocked by a woman with

her cheek pressed to the door, palm cupped around her ear like she’s listening. The stairwell door closes behind me with a

hollow thud, and the stranger jerks upright, meeting my gaze with wide eyes. She swipes her sleeve across her cheek.

Even from this distance, it’s clear she’s been crying. Is still crying, from the loud sniff that cuts through the silence.

“You okay?” My eyes shift from her tear-streaked face to the latched door. I moved in a month ago, at the start of the spring

semester, and my roommate seems like a decent dude, but if he’s abandoning crying women in the hallway at midnight—or anytime—we’re

going to have a problem.

Instinct propels me forward, closing the space between us to where I can talk without raising my voice, but far enough not

to crowd her. “Did he lock you out?”

“Forgot something inside.” Her gaze is steady, head high, though her brown eyes are blurry with unshed tears, thick lashes clumped with moisture. “I can come back later.” But she glances at the door again, like she’s not ready to leave without whatever she left behind.

Shifting the grocery bag to my left hand, I stick my hand in my pocket for my keys, ready to let her in, but hesitate. What

if I’ve got it wrong? Could she be a vindictive ex trying to get revenge? Granted, Ted doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to

inspire violence—or passion—but you never know.

Then again, what damage could she possibly do? She’s a head shorter than me, and about my age, I’m guessing. Her dark brown

hair, parted at an angle, falls in a smooth curve to the collar of her puffer coat. Salt clings to the toes of her boots,

probably from the sludgy sidewalks around campus. My own shoes are soaked after trudging through snowdrifts, but this stranger

at my door has pushed aside my desire to hurry inside and warm up.

She’s taking me in, too, not bothering to hide her evaluation. “You’re Ted’s new roommate?”

I nod. “And you are?”

“Ted and I...” She sniffs and blinks rapidly. “We, uh...” A tear slips down her cheek and she swipes it away with the

heel of her hand, like she’s frustrated with herself.

Enough of this. I hoist up the shopping bag, holding it open so she can see the paper products I picked up at the corner store.

“Butts or spills?”

Her arched brows tug together in a frown, but she steps closer and peers at the paper towels and package of toilet paper.

“Butts or spills,” she repeats, deadpan. Eyes lifting to mine, she gives me a wry grin. “Let me guess. Marketing major?”

Faking dejection, I sigh. “Just know that if you tell me to find a new dream, you’re not the first.”

She breathes out a laugh. Progress. But her nose is still running, so I raise the bag higher, prompting her to pick one.

She grabs the toilet paper. “Butts it is.” Her eyes cut toward the door, a frown tightening her brows. “Assholes, more like.” Tearing open the package, she takes out a roll and unwinds it, dabbing at her face.

I found my roommate through an online post and don’t know him well, but I’m guessing she does. And if she says he’s an asshole...

“Want to talk about it?”

Her dark brows arrow inward. “With the stranger who caught me lurking at his door?”

“With your boyfriend’s roommate.” A guess, but not a stretch.

She blows her nose. “Ted’s not really an asshole. We’ve been friends since freshman orientation. And he’s not my boyfriend,

either. Not anymore.”

That explains the tears. “Breakups suck. How long were you together?” I go home most weekends to help out my dad with our

family’s tree nursery, so even though I’ve never met her, for all I know, they’ve been together awhile.

“Long enough for him to realize he chose the wrong sister.”

“What?” I lose my grip on the toilet paper I was jamming back into the bag, and it bounces to the carpet by our feet.

She stoops to retrieve it. “Wish I was kidding. I told him I was falling for him, but he told me he’d made a mistake.”

“Unless she’s your identical twin, that’s messed up.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I wish I could yank them back.

Humor is my coping mechanism, but I’m actually appalled on her behalf.

To my relief, she laughs, an incredulous squeak. “This isn’t a romance novel.”

“That happens in romance novels?”

“Mistaken identity, falling for a twin, yeah.” She shrugs, like that’s not a wild idea. “But in this case, he wasn’t confused,

just too unsure of his feelings to speak up sooner.”

I can’t imagine a world where someone thinks telling their girlfriend they prefer her sister is remotely okay. “Does your sister know?”

Impossible to imagine how my brother would react if one of my exes told him she liked him instead of me, since Scott and I

are pretty much opposites.

“According to him, no,” she says.

“She won’t go for it.” Then again, what do I know? I just want to make her feel better.

Confirming my doubts, she says, “She might. He’s hot, and smart.”

I disagree with the last one. “He was also your boyfriend.”

“My friend, first.” She crumples the piece of toilet paper she’d used to wipe her tears. “Dating was a new development. And

according to what he told me tonight, the worst mistake of his life.”

“You’re not a mistake.” That’s not what she said. But somehow I can tell that’s how she interpreted his words.

Dating someone when you have feelings for their sibling? A mistake, for sure. But his mistake. One he didn’t own, not if he waited to tell her until now.

Tears gleam in her eyes again, and she tips her head up, blinking toward the ceiling. A drop slides down her cheek and catches

in her gold hoop earring. Another quiet sniff, like she’s doing her best to hold it together, has me wrecked.

I’m sure she doesn’t want a hug from a stranger, but I don’t want to just leave her out here when she’s having a rough time.

I shrug off my coat and lay it in a folded heap on the carpet. “Want to take a minute?” I ask, wondering if she’ll take me

up on the offer or bolt.

She must be really wrung out, because she lowers herself down and tucks her knees to her chest. I follow suit, shifting my

backpack to my lap.

“Got any food in there?” Her voice sounds steadier. Resigned, not fragile.

“Wish I did.” I skipped dinner to study. “Just a project for class.” I unzip my backpack and ease out the potted Monstera deliciosa , its deep green leaves glossy.

“Did you just casually pull a houseplant out of your bag?” She might think I’m weird, but she’s grinning, tears nowhere to

be seen, so I’m calling it a win.

“My lab partner didn’t have room for another one at her place, so this little guy is mine now.” Adopting stray plants has

been a surprise bonus of studying horticulture.

“Better you than me,” she says. “I can’t even make bouquets last more than a day.”

“Not your fault,” I say. “Those are dead already.”

She frowns. “Morbid.”

“Just saying, have you ever owned a live plant?” She still looks skeptical, so I add, “They’re easier to take care of than

a pet, and they’re not judgmental like cats.”

“Cats are not judgmental.”

“Next you’ll tell me they’re cuddly.” The barn cats around the tree farm never let me within twenty yards of them.

“They are, and if you try to convince me plants are cuddly,” she says, “I’m out.”

“Cuddly, no,” I admit. “But they are good listeners.”

“Let me guess, you name your plants, too.”

“That would be weird.” I pull a face. “They pick their own names.”

Shaking her head, she says, “It’s nice to joke around after the day I’ve had.”

“Who says I’m joking?”

She laughs, and I join in, feeling the tension leave my shoulders. I just listened to a voicemail from my dad, asking if I’ll

be able to visit on the long weekend, even though I was there last week. He’s an awesome father, but he’s relied on me a lot

in the past few years.

“You’re weird, but I like you.”

“Should I be offended?” I’m not; I like her, too.

Her lips curve into a smile. “Weird is good.”

“Are you lumping Ted in with us?” I drop my voice, even though there’s no way he can hear us from inside the apartment, and

fake a whisper. “Because he bought a doormat to put in front of the bathtub, and I think that’s super weird.”

“Not that kind of weird,” she says, laughing. “The comfy kind.”

“Weird has a feeling?”

She opens her fist, the balled-up paper unfurling in her grasp like a gardenia blossom. “Everything does, if you sit with

it long enough.”

If that’s true, then talking with her feels like homemade lemonade on the first day of summer. Sweet and refreshing and everything

you didn’t know you’d been missing.

“For the record, I told him the doormat was an awful idea,” she says. “But he insisted it was designed to withstand—” She

starts giggling before she can finish the sentence, and I prod her with my elbow, forgetting we barely know each other like

that, but she doesn’t seem to mind, just holds up her hand to signal she needs a minute.

Finally, she squeaks out, “Built to handle all kinds of weather.”

Now I’m shaking with laughter, too, but also horrified. “What exactly is going on in our bathroom?”

“You tell me,” she says, eyes sparkling. But then she sobers up. “Not like I’ll be hanging around the apartment after this.

What Ted did sucks, but I think I’m most upset to lose a friend.”

From where I’m sitting, he never deserved her. “Doesn’t sound like he was a good friend to begin with.”