Chapter 39
MY INDECISION ONLY lasts a second before I snatch up the package, tear through the layers of sticky tape, and collapse on the couch with a bottle of wine and a dedication page that left my throat thick with impending tears.
For Sabrina, who brought me to life. And for the Fogertys, who made me want to live that life.
I stare at the title, Untitled Romantic Comedy, for a moment, then pour a glass of merlot and turn to chapter one.
I read all night, pausing only to exchange messages with my family as they devour the book too.
We laugh and cry and laugh some more. Aunt Carol is thrilled that her T-shirts got page time and she thinks they’ll become a craze and is already taking credit for starting it all.
Dad is making notes on the trees Adam got wrong.
Gabi cries when she reads the hurtful things she said to me.
And Mum loves every single word. Even the ones that clearly show her manipulating behaviour.
She texted that she’s happy he painted her true character as the nurturing matriarch.
No one in my family got a bad run. Not even Natalia, whose flirtations with him came across as innocent interactions. And even though Gabi’s jibes at me made it to the page, he gave her a redemption arc that was eerily similar to the conversation she and I had had at the lake.
Seeing our romance from his point of view is strange.
Eyeopening. A million different things. While I was agonising over my growing attraction to him, he battled his own feelings.
Fighting desperately to keep me at arm’s length—I apparently made that impossible with my skimpy pyjamas, lily of the valley perfume, and the way I could argue about the most nonsensical things.
It was a battle he lost when we danced together and he knew what it felt like to hold me in his arms. In his words, it was at that moment that he knew he wanted to dance forever with Sabrina Fogerty.
Adam Whittaker sure does have a way with words.
I wake up on the couch, Adam’s bound pages wedged between my back and the cushion. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and notice messages have been added to the Fogerty Holiday chat that until now only had messages from Mum and Aunt Carol as they kept us in the know with every detail of the trip.
Dianne: I spoke to Adam and gave him my blessing to go ahead with the book.
Carol: I gave him my blessing too. I sent him a message on Instagram.
Carol: It says he’s seen it.
Carol: He responded.
Carol: It says thank you.
Max: I have notes for him. He got some facts wrong. I’ll send him a book on the history of the United Kingdom.
Gabi: I won’t sue him
Reese: Neither will I
Tommy: I didn’t get much page time. Do you think he’ll flesh me out in the next draft and give me more of a personality?
Natalia: I loved it! Imagine the read-along we can do for this one. We can all get involved and host weekly live chats to talk about our characters
Ten GIFs follow from Dad. Looks like he’s just figured out how they work.
Dianne: Paul’s on board with the book.
Dianne: Sabrina, you haven’t said anything.
Dianne: Sabrina?
Dianne: I can see you reading these messages.
My phone rings. It’s Mum. Ignoring her, I peel myself off the couch and stumble into the bathroom, head swimming as I try to sort through everything. There’s a lot to sort through. And yet…Is there really? Yes, he kept things from me. He apologised and the book he wrote bared his soul.
Only willpower forged from the thickest steel could withstand a declaration like that. My willpower? Well, that’s moulded out of jelly and right now it’s as wobbly as heck.
Showered, dressed and with a head that is the clearest it’s been in weeks, I know what I need to do.
I was disappointed when he walked away from me without burning down the world to get me back.
I’d thought he was like every other man who’d let me down.
But Adam’s not like them. He did fight for me and he did it in the most Adam Whittaker way.
I didn’t need the world burned down. I just needed his words, honest and straight from the heart.
I wince at the five missed calls from Mum and the many others from the family members she looks to have enlisted to bombard me until I respond. I type out a quick message to the group chat saying I’ll call them soon and charge out my door to the one across the hallway.
My pounding is met by silence so I race down the hallway and jab the down arrow for the elevator. It takes an eternity to arrive and then even longer to get to the ground floor. Finally, the doors open and I run out as thunder rumbles above me.
I’m not sure where exactly I think I’m going to find him so I race across the road, narrowly missing a bell-ringing cyclist, for the one place that makes sense, hoping with everything I have that he’s there. But all I find when I get to A Cup of Joy is Hattie scowling at me.
‘You’re supposed to be at home finishing your final assessment,’ Hattie says.
‘Has Adam been in here?’
Her eyes dart down to the coffee she’s making. ‘No.’
‘You’re a terrible liar. And I know you’ve been sneaking him coffees,’ I say. ‘I’m not angry,’ I add when she opens her mouth. ‘Has he been in here this morning?’
‘You just missed him.’
I fly out of the cafe, Hattie’s voice drowned out by the beating of my heart.
If I’ve learned anything from my Instagram stalking these past few weeks, it’s that he takes his coffee back to his apartment.
I run across the road, getting waylaid by a passing tram as the dark clouds break open.
By the time I reach our building, I am soaked.
Pushing against the heavy doors I see a figure ahead of me. Adam. He’s here.
The elevator doors open for him right as I burst into the lobby. He steps in and I quicken my pace, my wet shoes slipping over the tiles.
‘Hold the elevator.’
The doors begin to slide.
‘Hold the elevator!’ I call out again, breaking into a run. ‘Shit,’ I mutter.
And then his arm shoots out and the doors pause before opening again. Heart pounding, I step in and am immediately swept up in the familiar scent of him. Breathing it in, my insides melt.
How did I ever think I could be okay with never seeing him again?
He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he studies me with his ocean-coloured eyes. Eyes so beautiful they make me want to burst into tears.
How on earth did I ever think he was anything except wonderful?
His mouth opens, words sitting on his tongue, and I know they’ll be the right words. I want to hear them. And one day I’ll ask him to speak them, but right now, in this very moment, I don’t need them because for the first time I have the right words.
‘You stole my heart, Adam Whittaker.’
I’m not sure who acts first. I launch. He drops his coffee and muffin and pulls me to him. Or it’s a perfectly synchronised single move that ends in our lips meeting in the most perfect kiss as the elevator climbs to the fourth floor.
How did I ever think I could stop myself falling in love with him?
The bell pings and the door opens.
‘You’re soaked,’ he murmurs, gentle fingers brushing a strand of wet hair from my forehead.
‘You dropped your coffee.’
He guides me from the elevator with an arm around my waist. His lips are back on mine as he fumbles for his key and fails to get it in the lock.
‘Need a hand?’ I ask, smiling when he objects to the break in our kiss.
He bats away my attempts to help and eventually the door opens and then his mouth is back on mine. He spins me through his doorway, his side table clattering as we stumble against it.
Something falls and he curses, pulling away with a frown as he bends to retrieve the framed photo of an older couple: his grandparents.
Then he takes my hand and holds me close as we walk down the hallway.
Shoes sit neatly on a bamboo rack, his dining table is free of clutter and unopened mail, and his books are arranged in height order on his bookcase—except for one sitting on his coffee table.
I reach for it. ‘I really did ruin your books,’ I murmur, running a finger over the water-stained cover.
‘You thought I was lying?’
‘More like exaggerating.’
‘I forgive you.’
‘Considering you refused to hold the elevator for me, you deserved a few ruined books.’
He laughs. ‘I held it open when it counted the most.’
Exhaling slowly, I glance around his living room.
It’s very neat. Very Adam. Severely missing the flair of Sabrina.
And by that, I mean a pair of shoes that I’ve kicked off.
Or a wine glass. Or a piece of rich, decadent chocolate cake.
I trail my fingers along his forearm as my attention settles on a painting.
‘Adam,’ I say and then fall silent as his arms tighten around me and the painting on his wall blurs through my tears.
‘I wanted to remember that week with you,’ Adam says.
I wipe my eyes and look at the picture of me sitting on the bed, wine glass in hand with Adam, long legs crossed at the ankles, laptop at the ready, wine glass on the bedside table, looking at me. It’s the perfect reminder, but it’s not the only one.
‘I read your book. The whole family read it. They have notes for you.’
‘And what about you?’ he asks softly. ‘Do you have notes for me?’
‘Just two.’ I tilt my chin up, finding his eyes.
‘During the conversation about our perfect partners can you add to my character’s answer that her perfect boyfriend does things for her that seem small and that she doesn’t notice at the time but are actually incredibly sweet.
Like leaving his jacket on her chair when he sees she’s cold.
And bringing her a hat when they go hiking because she forgot to bring one herself.
Or leaving a chocolate bar on her pillow. ’
A blush settles on his cheeks.
‘And for my second note: it wasn’t clear when exactly the Adam character decided to bring those condoms. Is he someone that always has them on hand in case he gets lucky or did he have a particular plan for this occasion?’
He laughs. ‘You’re never going to let that go, are you?
’ He presses a kiss to the tip of my nose.
‘Right after that dinner with your parents when I couldn’t deny any more that you were getting under my skin.
That’s when I decided to live in hope. Even though you were painfully annoying that night.
’ His lips find mine and he holds them there, unmoving like he has all the time in the world.
‘You were more annoying than I was,’ I murmur. ‘And I have one more note.’
Adam pulls away, brows rising.
‘A lot of rom-coms do a little jump so we can see where the couple is six months down the road. Or a year. Five years. Whatever. I think your story needs that.’
His mouth pulls to the side as he mulls over my suggestion. ‘I guess I can add another chapter. I might need your help writing it, though.’
‘Do I seem like someone who would just do you a favour? If you want my help, I want something in return.’
‘Anything.’
‘I want my parking spot back.’
‘Anything but that,’ he says. And he smothers my protest with a kiss.