She told me to write it down, everything I told her tonight, and I’m going to do that, in just a second, but I just had to write this first.
I promised Izzy I’d never do that to her again. I don’t know if she believed me, but I swear, I’ll keep that promise.
He’d kept that promise.
Izzy told me about her own writing. The unbelievable part is that when I encouraged her to start again, to write again, she listened to me. I’m sure it wasn’t just me, she said she’d already sort of started while she was here, I think she just needed a tiny push to get her to really do it, but I’m glad I could be the one to give her that push. So now she’s sitting across from me, writing, too.
Izzy was glad he was the one who gave her that push to write again, too.
I texted that therapist, the one I used to see. I’m going to talk to him tomorrow morning. I’m nervous as hell about it.
She hadn’t known that.
Izzy is supposed to leave at the end of this week. I really want her to stay longer. I think I might ask her if she will, if I get the courage. Wish me luck.
The next day.
She’s staying. An extra three weeks.
Marta said that for Izzy to be able to stay, I had to send her some pages—to prove, I guess, that I’ve gotten work done. She said that it was nonnegotiable.
Now another thing made sense. She’d known Marta had said something else to him at the end of that call.
I didn’t tell Izzy that part—she knows how terrified I am for anyone but her to read what I’ve written. I thought if I told her, she’d realize how important it was to me for her to stay. And that she’d realize how I felt about her.
At first I thought I was just attracted to Izzy in the same way that I’ve been attracted to lots of women. I thought it was just that this one felt different, because I knew I couldn’t do anything about it. Then, as she stayed longer, as we talked more, as we got closer, I thought it was because we were friends now, and her friendship was important to me.
But now I know I’m really starting to fall for her. Does she think about me in any way other than a friend—sort of—or a work project? I have no idea.
All I know for sure is it’s getting harder and harder not to let her know how I feel.
Izzy remembered how she felt, back then. At that point, she’d been trying to pretend her feelings for Beau away. At least he’d admitted his feelings to himself.
We kissed yesterday, on the beach. She kissed me first, and then I kissed her back, and then we just kissed each other, for a really long time. My mom still knows me so well, after all that time—she could tell, just from how I talked about her, that I’m falling for Izzy. She told me to go for it—I can’t believe I’m getting woman advice from my mom, but she was right, wasn’t she?
Izzy and I didn’t talk about much. I told her that I’ve been wanting to kiss her since the beginning, and she seemed surprised, almost like she didn’t believe me at first. I almost told her to just flip open this notebook and she’d know for sure, but then I caught myself.
And then, a week later, just a few lines.
Izzy woke up in my bed this morning. I think, for the first time in a long time, I’m actually happy. I think she is, too. She’s smiling, across from me, as she writes. I just realized I’m smiling, too.
God, she missed him.
She’s leaving. I knew it was coming—we both knew it was coming—but we thought we had more time. She’s leaving the day after tomorrow.
This morning she pulled me in here and told me she has an interview for another job, a job I know she really wants. I’m thrilled for her, of course I am, she tries not to talk about it too much, but I know she’s really struggled at her job for a while. She needs this. I wanted to tell her that I don’t want her to go, to please not go, but I stopped myself. I don’t want her to feel guilty. I can’t hold her back.
I did tell her I’m going to miss her, though. I couldn’t help it. Because my God, I’m going to miss her, so much.
It wasn’t until her tears dropped down onto the notebook that Izzy realized she was crying. She turned the page.
It’s our last time, here in the library. The last time, with her sitting across from me like this, pressing her lips together when she’s concentrating, taking her hair down and putting it back up and then taking it down again every five minutes, smiling at me when she looks up from my laptop like she’s proud of me, grinning at me when I grab her as soon as we walk out of this room. Fuck. I hate this. I’m going to miss her so much.