When she walked outside into the brisk spring air, she finally let herself think about one of the most unexpected things Marta had told her. Beau had turned in his manuscript this morning.
He’d done it, the thing he thought he couldn’t do, the thing he’d told her, less than two months ago, that he knew he couldn’t do. He’d written the book. He’d fought and struggled and worked so hard on his writing and himself. And he’d done it. She wished she’d been there when he’d pressed send; she wished she could give him a big hug; she wished he knew how happy she was for him. How proud she was of him.
She missed him so much. She wanted to see him, congratulate him for this, ask him how he felt, tell him about the interview, ask if he’d known about that piece before he’d gotten Marta’s email about it, hug him again.
Then she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, causing someone walking behind her to yell at her, a curse she barely even heard.
Why couldn’t she do all of that? She’d convinced herself they were done, she’d never see him again, they couldn’t have a happy ending, that’s how it had to be.
Just because he hadn’t texted her for two days? She hadn’t texted him either.
And why had she thought he would be mad at her because of the article? Beau would never, for one second, think she had anything to do with that.
She’d convinced herself she couldn’t ask for more. That what she and Beau had wasn’t real. But that wasn’t how she felt. That wasn’t what she wanted. She’d fallen in love with him, as they’d worked together in the library, as they ate dinner on the couch, as they fought and made up in the kitchen, as they kissed on the beach. And she hadn’t told him that, any of it. She hadn’t even been able to admit it to herself.
Maybe he didn’t feel the same way about her as she did about him. But she’d been so careful over the past few days to hide her feelings from him, from herself—to prevent disappointment, to keep herself from getting hurt, to keep herself from getting her hopes up, that she hadn’t allowed herself to truly admit what she wanted. She hadn’t allowed herself to dream about how it would feel to get it.
She had to ask for what she wanted. And what she wanted was Beau.
She reached for her bag to grab her phone, and found neither. Right, her bag—and her phone—were at her desk, back in the office. She’d left the office so impulsively after talking to Marta she hadn’t stopped to get either.
She turned around. She had to go get her phone. She had to call Beau.
When Izzy got to her desk, there was a slim overnight package sitting on top. She pushed it aside to reach for her bag, but the strong, bold writing on the package caught her eye. And then she saw the Santa Barbara return address. She tore it open.
Inside was a thick black spiral notebook. When she picked it up, her eyes filled with tears. She traced the little marks on it with her finger, the stains, the dents, all of which she remembered so well. This was Beau’s notebook.
The one he’d written in almost every day for weeks, the notebook they’d passed back and forth across the table, like a ritual, at the beginning and end of every one of their sessions in the library. The notebook she’d returned to him, at the end of their last time in the library together. And now Beau’s notebook was here.
That splash of coffee, there in the corner, from when she’d gestured too enthusiastically and knocked over her coffee cup. That little orange smudge along the side, from that day they’d snacked on Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. That swelling on one side, from the day they’d worked by the pool and Beau had accidentally dripped water on it.
Read Me, said the Post-it note on top.
She flipped it open.
She said if I didn’t know what to write I should write about how annoyed I am that she’s making me do this, so fine, that’s what I’ll do. I’m very annoyed about it. I’m also very annoyed about how much I like her.
Beau wrote about her? She closed the notebook. She couldn’t read this here.
She glanced at Marta’s open office door. Just then, Priya’s boss, Holly, walked into Marta’s office, a grim look on her face, and closed it behind her. Perfect timing.
Izzy grabbed the notebook and raced for the elevators.
She walked to the tiny park a few blocks away, where she and Priya often met to eat lunch and gossip on nice days. Thank God the weather was with her today.
She sat down on her favorite bench, took a deep breath, and opened the notebook.
She said if I didn’t know what to write I should write about how annoyed I am that she’s making me do this, so fine, that’s what I’ll do. I’m very annoyed about it. I’m also very annoyed about how much I like her.