Chapter 22

I blinked my eyes at the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand in my old bedroom. Well, sort of my old bedroom. The dimensions were the same; the closet and adjoining bathroom were still in the same place, but otherwise you’d never know the space had ever been mine. The second I’d left for Berkeley, Mom had redecorated, creating what she called a “tasteful, functional guest room.” I didn’t really care. I’d probably be mortified to sleep among my BOYBAND 2.0 posters with my boyfriend on the next floor anyway. No. My pretend boyfriend. I sighed. For a brief, happy moment, I’d forgotten how complicated my love life presently was.

The clock read 8:43 a.m. It was late. Later than I should have slept on a Sunday morning. But then I remembered the snow. It had started just after we’d arrived home from the Biltmore the night before. It wasn’t much—only a few inches—but three inches in North Carolina was enough for everything to shut down. Even church. I could vaguely recall John sticking his head into my bedroom just past seven and letting me know. It had been blissful settling back into the covers knowing I had nowhere to be. I hadn’t expected to doze back off or stay asleep so long. It felt so indulgent. And . . . amazing.

I stretched and stood, wondering if Simon was already awake. On the foot of my bed, there was a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with thick twine. My name was written on the front. I reached for it, sitting back down on the corner of my bed.

When I pulled off the last of the paper, I gasped. It was an original-print Spanish edition of Cien Años de Soledad, One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez. An exact copy of my father’s book—the one I had lost. My heart started pounding. There was only one person who knew just how much the book meant to me. But what was he trying to say with the gift? What did it mean?

I opened the front cover and read the inscription there, which was written in a light, loose script. It is enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment. It wasn’t signed or dated. It could have been Simon who wrote it, but it was a used copy of the book. It just as easily could have come with the inscription.

I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and shrugged into my sweater before hurrying down the stairs, my new book clutched closely to my chest. I needed answers. And quick.

Simon didn’t strike me as a guy who could sleep in—he was too pragmatic for that—so I was surprised when I didn’t see him in the kitchen having breakfast with everyone else.

“Good morning, mija,” Abuela said. “Are you hungry?”

“Not yet. Have you seen Simon this morning?”

“I don’t think he’s up yet,” Dad said.

“I’ll go see.” I hurried to the basement steps just off the kitchen. If there was ever a place one might sleep later than expected, my parents’ basement was it. It was fully finished and was a nice space, but it was a true basement. No windows anywhere. Dad had set up a projector and turned it into a giant movie room when we were kids, and we’d used it well. More than once, we’d stumbled up the steps, bleary-eyed from hours-long movie marathons, surprised to see sunlight shining through the kitchen windows.

The overstuffed sectional in the center of the room had served as Simon’s bed for the weekend. It wasn’t particularly glamorous, but he’d had his own bathroom and more privacy than he would have enjoyed had he stayed upstairs and shared a bedroom with John. As I neared the bottom of the steps, I could hear Simon talking. I stopped, unnerved by the tone and urgency in his voice.

“If you don’t tell her, I will. It doesn’t feel right, you taking this next step under false pretenses.”

False pretenses? What on earth?

“It shouldn’t make a difference at all,” Simon continued. “If Lane loves you, none of that stuff will matter. But you do have to tell her.”

My heart started to pound. He was talking about me, but what stuff? What wouldn’t matter?

“I never said you lied,” Simon said, his voice sharp. “But you did pretend to be something you’re not. And Lane deserves to know what’s really you and what isn’t. Think about it this way. The concert tickets. The poetry. Talking about books. That’s the Jamie Lane is used to. It’s what she expects because that’s what you’ve shown her. But I’m not going to be around to funnel information to you forever. What happens when you’re on your own and Lane is disappointed when she figures out you don’t actually know who Billy Collins is? It’s time to start being you, man. And you need to come clean about what’s happened so far.”

I sank to the steps, the reality of Simon’s words buzzing like angry bees in my brain.

The concert tickets.

The poetry.

The books.

None of it had really been Jamie.

The most frustrating part? Everything suddenly made so much sense.

I’d said I felt like I was dating two different versions of the same man, and I was right. Jamie on his own, and Jamie listening to Simon. All those things that came out of left field—it was Simon all the time.

“I need to go,” I heard Simon say. “Just think about it, all right?”

I stayed there, sitting on the stairs. Thinking. Processing. Anger building as each second passed. They’d lied to me. Both of them. Like it was all some sort of game.

“Oh, hey.” Simon stopped at the foot of the stairs. “What are you . . .”

I wiped a tear off my face and shook my head. I wasn’t ready for words.

“Oh no,” Simon said. He cursed under his breath and turned around, pushing his head into his hands. He came back to the stairs, almost frantic. “Lane, please let me explain.”

“So.” I swallowed. “Was this weekend like field research? Jamie couldn’t make it so he sent his research guy to dig up some dirt, maybe get some ideas for Christmas presents?”

“No. Of course not.” He sat down a few steps below me.

“I feel so stupid,” I said, more to myself than to Simon. “Like I’ve fallen for one giant prank.”

“It was never meant to be a prank,” Simon said. “Jamie wanted to impress you. He wanted you to think he was the kind of guy you could connect with.”

“But it wasn’t real. Was it? Was anything he did or said ever just him?”

“Of course it was. He’s a good man, Lane. You know the real Jamie. The competitive, impetuous, dynamic, charming Jamie. That’s him.” I did know that Jamie. And he was adorable and talented and fun to be around. But the Jamie who kept me hanging on, who kept me pushing my doubts aside wasn’t that Jamie. It was the thoughtful, observant Jamie who would talk to me about books and poetry and notice things like what kind of hot chocolate I liked. That Jamie? It was Simon. Which made the sting of betrayal even worse. All the time Simon had spent with me, the interest he’d shown, the easy way he’d talked to me. Not even that could feel real anymore. Our entire friendship felt counterfeit—like I was nothing but a project.

“Jamie never read Fountainhead,” I said—a statement, not a question.

“No. He didn’t,” Simon said.

“He doesn’t know Billy Collins, and he didn’t pick out Ariana Franklin.”

Simon sighed and nodded.

“Nikki Giovanni. And the concert tickets. Both ideas that came from you.”

“Yes.”

“Is there more?”

“Those are the big things,” he said. “The rest were small. Observations. Stuff I noticed about what you like to drink and what kind of desserts you like. It wasn’t anything significant.”

I stood and walked into the basement. I needed movement. Distance. Space. “Everything is significant, Simon. Do you know how many times I doubted, wondered if my relationship with Jamie had the depth I wanted, when all of a sudden he would swoop in and do something or say something that pushed my doubts aside? That side of Jamie was the side that kept me hanging on. And it was never really him.” I thought of mine and Simon’s conversation in the car on the ride to Asheville four days before. “I . . . I even told you how I was feeling! In the car on the way here, I told you I felt like Jamie was two different people, and you didn’t say anything. You let me puzzle it out, knowing full well I actually was dating two men the entire time.”

“It wasn’t that blatant,” he said. “It was always Jamie. I gave him advice every once in a while. That’s it.”

“But you said it yourself. He was pretending to be something he wasn’t. To like stuff he didn’t like.”

“I know. You’re right. That’s why I told him he needed to be honest with you.”

“What about you? You didn’t feel like you needed to be honest with me?” I unfolded my arms and pulled out the book I’d been hiding inside my sweater. “Did you give this to me?”

He sighed. “Oh, Lane, I—”

“What were you trying to say? Was it from you? Or was it supposed to be from Jamie? Another one of your tricks to make me think he actually knows who I am?” Thoughts were tumbling through my brain at lightning speed, but rather than overwhelm or confuse me, it felt more like things were finally clicking into place—giving me the whole picture that had been eluding me for weeks.

“It wasn’t supposed to be from Jamie.”

“Simon, all the stuff that I liked the most about Jamie was the stuff that came from you. When I combine that with the way you’ve been treating me this weekend, looking at me, talking about me. When I think about that kiss, how am I supposed to feel? It’s felt real, but now I’m not so sure. And with this”—I held up the book—“I have no idea what you want me to feel.”

He ran a hand through his hair and forced out a heavy sigh. “Lane, the book was a mistake.”

I looked up, pain piercing all the way to my gut. “What?”

“Wait. I need to tell you something first. I need you to understand. Every single second I was with you, it was me. I asked you things because I wanted to know, expressed interest because I really was interested. It was all real for me, okay? I hated funneling information to Jamie. I never thought it was a good idea.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I shouldn’t have. I definitely see that now. But he’s my brother. He asked for my help, so . . . I helped.”

“And neither of you stopped to think about what this might do to me?”

“A thousand times I thought about it. I was actually planning on telling you everything. And the book was the start of that. You were going to find it when you woke up and then come find me, and I was going to tell you. But then—” He paused and closed his eyes, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Then what?” I prodded, wanting him to finish his sentence.

He moved his hands to his hips, his head hanging low on his shoulders. He finally looked up to meet my gaze, his eyes full of resignation. “Then Jamie told me he’s going to propose, Lane. He wants to marry you. He texted this morning to let me know.”

I took a step backward.

Marriage.

California.

Marriage.

It was too much to wrap my head around. “So you changed your mind.”

He nodded. “I tried to convince myself I could do it, but it wouldn’t . . . He’s my brother, Lane. It wouldn’t be right.”

I wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Where does that leave me, Simon? I feel like I’ve been toyed with in the worst kind of way, and what am I left with? I can’t be with Jamie, not after this. But I can’t be with you either.” I looked at the book he’d given me, then handed it back. “I think you need to take this back. I’m ready to go home.”

* * *

Another upside to North Carolina snow? It never stuck around long. By three on Sunday afternoon, most of it had already melted. Enough, at least, that the highways taking us back to Chapel Hill wouldn’t be a problem.

Simon and I kept our smiles on while we said good-bye to my family. It was possible, even likely they’d heard fragments of our argument floating up the stairs to where they’d been sitting in the kitchen. Thankfully, no one had brought it up.

Only John mentioned something when he gave me a hug good-bye. “You owe me a phone call,” he’d whispered.

I nodded. “Soon,” I told him.

Simon offered to drive on the way home. I agreed without a word, just tossed him the keys and moved to the passenger side of the car.

I leaned into the seat, staring out at the side mirror as the mountains grew smaller, their muted winter blues and grays blending into the matte November sky.

“Lane, please talk to me,” Simon said after nearly an hour of silence.

“No,” I said simply. “I don’t have anything I want to say.”

Dave: Yo. Where is everyone? This thread has never been dead this long.

Jamie: I’m flying in tomorrow. How was Thanksgiving with the in-laws?

Dave: Good. Did you get the specs I sent over on the new app?

Jamie: Yep. Sorry I didn’t respond. Was caught up with Byron when they came through. They look great though.

Dave: You popped the question yet?

Jamie: Not yet. Seeing her tomorrow night. Simon, you still good to get me from the airport?

Simon: Yeah. I’m planning on it.