And then just one more page.
She left yesterday. I’m sitting in the window seat in the library—I couldn’t bear to sit in my regular chair and look across the table and not see her, but I also couldn’t bear to not work here in the library, where it’s like I can feel her here with me.
I’ve been sitting here for hours, writing. I’m almost done with the book. I think I can send it to Marta soon, even tomorrow. I wrote all night, mostly just to give myself something to do. I didn’t want to go to bed, I knew I would miss her too much.
I didn’t tell her how I feel about her, before she left. I wanted to, the words were on my lips, but I stopped myself. At first I told myself it was for her, that I didn’t want to hold her back, that I didn’t want to distract her from the interview, that I didn’t want her to think I wanted her to stay with me instead of following her dream.
But now I realize that was just an excuse. I was scared to tell her how I feel about her, scared she doesn’t feel the same way, scared she was relieved and happy to go back to New York and her old life there and leave me behind.
And maybe it’s true. Maybe she does feel that way.
But I have to know for sure.
I’m going to make myself send this notebook to her. I realized when she gave it back to me before she left that I’d always thought of it as hers. That I’ve always been writing all of this to her.
I’ve always been writing this to you, Izzy, if you’re reading this, if you’ve gotten this far. This has all always been for you.
Izzy closed the notebook and wiped her eyes, even though it didn’t do any good. The tears just kept coming.
She looked around for her phone. She had to call Beau.
Oh God. She’d left her phone at her desk again? She’d gotten so used to not taking her bag—or her phone—everywhere with her when she’d been in Santa Barbara. She was out of practice. She had to get back to her desk to get it.
She walked the few blocks back to the office as words, phrases, sentences from the notebook ran through her brain. She couldn’t believe he’d been writing about her since the beginning. All this time, when she hadn’t known how she’d felt, he’d known how he felt. All this time, when she hadn’t been sure of him, he’d been right there.
He hadn’t told her he wanted her to stay, because he didn’t want to hold her back. That might be the most romantic thing she’d ever heard.
As she reached her desk, Gavin disappeared into Marta’s office and the door closed again. Marta was having a whole lot of closed-door meetings today.
Well, that was convenient, since whether Marta’s door was open or closed, she was just going to leave again. There was no way she could make this call from her desk.
As she walked away, she heard raised voices from Marta’s office. At any other time, she would have lingered to see what was going on, but not now.
She went outside. She couldn’t go back to the park, that was too far away; she couldn’t wait that long. She walked around the corner, just to get some distance from the building, and finally called Beau.
The phone rang, and anticipation built up in her chest. Where was he? she wondered. In his bedroom? In the kitchen? In the library? She hoped he was in the library.
The phone rang again and again. And then it went to voicemail.
Voicemail? Was he kidding her with this? He’d sent her this emotional grenade of a notebook with just a Post-it note on top and then let her call go to voicemail? He probably hadn’t even turned his ringer on that day, or he’d left his phone on the other side of the house, or something.
She couldn’t wait to yell at him for this.
“Hi, Beau, it’s Izzy. I got the notebook. I read it. Call me. As soon as you get this.”
She hung up and then stared at her phone for a few minutes, willing him to call her back. Now, right away. But five minutes went by, and her phone was still silent.
She’d pushed her luck as much as she could on her first day back. She had to get to her desk.
She walked into the TAOAT building and toward the elevators, her mind in a daze. How could she possibly get any work done today until she’d talked to him?
She was almost at the elevator when she heard her name. She turned and stared at the security desk, as if in a dream.
“Yes, Isabelle Marlowe. No, I don’t have an appointment. I know you said she’s not answering her phone, can you try it again? She should be there.”
“She’s here,” Izzy said. And Beau turned to face her.