Oliver
TWO MONTHS LATER
Every day, I wake up to the smell of vanilla.
Maureen is up before dawn, frosting the cupcakes that have become the most sought-after sweets in New England.
Her home-based business, the Queen of Tarts, has been featured in newspapers, in magazines, and even on television.
Once she figured out the concept of basic economics—namely, the fact that one could sell cupcakes for a profit rather than just giving them away for free—and once she realized that the refrigerator would not restock itself every night, her career as a master pastry chef really took flight.
People who taste her pies and cakes beg to know the secret ingredient, and she always answers, “A little dash of magic.”
I take a quick shower, towel my hair, and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater.
Then, proudly, I grab my car keys from my desk.
After several weeks of Delilah’s Driving Boot Camp, she has deemed me worthy of Edgar’s driver’s license.
Given that neither Maureen nor I knew how to drive when we first arrived, this was quite a necessity.
Jessamyn’s van is now officially my valiant steed.
From what Jules tells us, Jessamyn’s career is blossoming too.
She’s writing again, for the first time since she penned Between the Lines, and at a rapid rate.
The kingdom has been captivated by her books, which have a special sort of twist: she somehow is able to create a story that is exactly what the reader needs at the moment he or she is reading.
What one person takes away from a book might be very different from what the next person takes away—almost as if the story is altered depending on who’s reading, where, and when.
But then, maybe all books are like that—a little different each time they are opened.
The real question is who’s doing the changing: the story, or the reader.
The best news of all is that Jessamyn is healthy once again, and is being courted by Captain Crabbe, who took her on a moonlight sail and learned how to use a knife and fork while eating, just for her.
And Edgar? Unbelievably, he’s gotten to do some space travel after all, inside the book.
It may not be the plot, but it makes a great hobby.
His rocket ship is Pyro, and he navigates galaxies from the dragon’s back.
Even more unbelievably, he’s not the only budding astronaut.
Seraphima, who formerly couldn’t hold a single thought in her pretty little head, now talks nonstop about black holes and pulsars and quasars.
When he’s not flying missions, though, I hear Edgar spends a lot of time on page 43, talking to Jules.
I glance at the clock and hurry downstairs. I want to get to Delilah’s house as early as possible. I have something I can’t wait to show her.
Maureen glances up over a tiered cake. The fondant is already setting; she’s piped pink petals along the edge, decorated with silver sugar pearls. Right now she’s inscribing a message across the top. “Good morning, dear,” she says. “How did you sleep?”
“Quite well, thanks,” I answer, automatically reaching a finger into the bowl of frosting for a taste.
She swats me with a spatula. “I need that,” she scolds. With her piping bag, she loops the word HAPPY across the cake.
I watch her work for a few moments, until she notices me staring. “What?” she asks.
“Are you?” I ask. “Happy?”
She smiles. “I don’t think I really knew what happy was until I came here. I didn’t know how much bigger the world could be, how much more there was to offer.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. It’s good to know that for once, we all seem to be satisfied with where we are.
“If you wait two minutes,” Maureen says, “you can have a fresh muffin before you go.”
“Can’t.” I give her a peck on the cheek and head out of the kitchen. “Don’t work too hard.”
“It’s only work if you don’t like it,” she calls back.
In the van, I turn on the radio and drive the ten minutes to Delilah’s house. When I get there, her mother is just coming outside, holding a travel mug of coffee, on her way to work. “You’re here early,” Mrs. McPhee says. “Delilah’s still asleep.”
“That’s all right. I just had some good news I wanted to share.”
“Be my guest. I’m sure she’ll be happier waking up to see you, instead of me.” She waves as she ducks into her car, and pulls out of the driveway.
By now, Delilah’s house is as comfortable to me as my own. I climb the stairs and gently creak open her bedroom door.
She’s lying on her back, covers at her feet, arms splayed, her hair knotted across the pillow. She’s wearing a giant T-shirt that reads BUBBA’S BBQ: YOU DON’T NEED NO TEEF TO EAT OUR BEEF! and a lone striped sock. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so beautiful.
I kneel beside the bed, lean down, and kiss her until she wakes up. “Good morning, princess,” I say.
“Mmmphrrm,” she answers, eyelids at half-mast. “How,” she mutters.
“How what?”
“How do you look like that this early in the morning?”
“It’s a gift.” I laugh and sit down beside her on the bed. “I have something to show you. I couldn’t wait.”
She rises to her elbows, yawning. “This better be good.”
I take the letter I printed off the computer last night and place it in her hands. She unfolds it, and her eyes skim the first line:
CONGRATULATIONS. YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED TO THE DARTMOUTH COLLEGE CLASS OF 2019.
Delilah’s eyes widen, and she throws her arms around me. “Oliver, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you.”
“The best part is I’m only two towns away from you.”
She grins. “I can’t believe I’m dating a college guy.” Then, just as suddenly, her face falls. “I can’t believe you’re going to be around college girls.”
I sigh. “Delilah—”
“Don’t tell me I’m being stupid. You don’t know what it’s going to be like until you get there. You might meet the girl of your dreams the minute you step on campus.”
“I already met the girl of my dreams,” I point out. “Might I remind you, I didn’t fall in love with you because you were pretty or smart or popular….”
“Aw, thanks.” Delilah smirks.
“I fell in love with you because you had your nose stuck in a book. If you hadn’t been, well…
you…we never would have met,” I say. “You have a lot more to worry about than some random girl I don’t even know yet.
You and I, we’re going to argue, and make up, and go to prom, and suffer through exams, and give each other the flu, and exchange valentines, and every single day I’m going to make you remember why we fell in love. ”
Delilah looks down. “But, you know, in this world…it’s not always a perfect happily-ever-after.”
I lift her chin so that our eyes meet. “I would give up a thousand happily-ever-afters for right here, right now, with you.”
She kisses me, pulling me back down with her so that we’re curled together on top of her covers. Then, suddenly, she sits up. “I just remembered. I have a congratulations present for you.”
“But you couldn’t have known I’d be accepted—”
“I’m an optimist,” Delilah says, smiling. She reaches into the drawer of her nightstand. “It’s not wrapped, but still….”
She hands me a leather-bound book. I open it, but the first page is empty. So is the one after that, and the next. In fact, there’s nothing at all written on the pages. Confused, I look at her.
“It’s called a diary,” Delilah explains. “It’s for you to fill out. I thought it was about time you wrote your own story.”
I take her into my arms and think: This is exactly where I’ll start.