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Uh oh. Brooke didn’t stop at the Donut Depot, which is on the way over here. She made a trip all the way out to Dexter’s. They spell out the word doughnuts. They take their product too seriously for shortcuts. Which means Brooke has an agenda.
Today’s Emi is the queen of carbohydrates. I live in a kingdom that’s magically delicious!”
Plus doughnuts—with an extra ugh—are ironically better.
“Fine. Good. Cool.” When he shrugs, I know he’s none of those things.
But he’s my move-a-body friend, so I decided I could grin and wear a tuxedo for one day.
Mac and Brooke already eloped in Vegas.
I thought they got married at Apple valley courthouse
Emi grew up to be punch-the-air-out-of-both-lungs gorgeous.
She smells like sugar now, by the way. Sweet but with a hint of spice. She’s cinnamon on French toast.
he smells so good he steals my breath. His scent is clean laundry and … is that bergamot?
She’s pretty enough, but my focus keeps shifting to Emi. She’s like the moon working some kind of gravitational pull,
the space is packed with specimens of health. They probably didn’t hydrate with Mountain Dew.
You can do this, Emi. Even with wedgie shorts and flop sweat.
That’s pretty strong stuff for someone in pig pajamas.
So bad. Adorably bad.
But like some fish caught on a line, I follow Emi instead. I’m being dragged by some invisible thread, straight out of the class, into the wide, bright hallway.
being the most right was my safest source of joy.
Books rule. Love is for suckers … No offense.”
“Wait.” Brooke crinkles her forehead. “Didn’t you just say you ate Lucky Charms?” “That was breakfast. Brunch is brunch. Cake is cake. What’s your point?” “Cake is Cake would make a good T-shirt.” I grin. “And this is why we’re friends.”
Moe is my mother—short for Maureen—and my father is Leslie, named after my great-grandpa. Dad introduces her as More and himself as Les.
According to my mother, we were both born pretty. She’d say it as an objective fact, right before telling us that pretty doesn’t matter. It’s how you treat people. What you do. Who you are.
My third thought: Say something, Emi. “HI, THERE!” I blurt with my volume set to weird.
I’m a guy who’s spent most his life aiming for an even keel. She makes my keel decidedly uneven.
“Save ten percent of your paychecks, and thank me when you’re thirty.”
Or maybe I’m just nauseated because I had Lucky Charms and Mountain Dew for breakfast.
Brooke and I have lived on a friendship island all our own. On second thought, maybe it was more of an archipelago than an island. Or an isthmus? I’ll have to look that up later.
But I’m too afraid of how she makes me feel. Emi doesn’t just get under my skin. She is crawling all over my insides.
It’s possible none of them were thinking about me at all. Maybe Nash is right, and other people don’t waste time having negative feelings about me.
I’ve replaced every element in this house. Each strip of molding and old baseboard. All the floors and cabinets and countertops. But that’s all surface stuff. Layers of paint to hide the past. The structure underneath remains the same. I could take this place down to the studs and the ghosts would still live here.
But I still can’t get Emi out of my head. All these years I’ve been busy protecting myself, shutting down my feelings,
refusing to take risks. Meanwhile, Emi Jones steps right up to the edge of a precipice. Knowing that she keeps trying—even when she’s afraid to jump—makes me want to take her hand and leap off the cliff with her. Me and Emi. Together.
know all these things about her without having to think twice. Everything about the woman sticks with me. Sticks to me. She’s five and a half feet of super glue.
“That thing with the Lucky Charms. Separating the marshmallows from the oats.” “Oh, yes. Every night for a snack. Did you know there are 287 marshmallows in every box?
She’s kind to little old ladies who might be a few crayons short of a box. She
tells little girls who want to be princesses to shoot for being strong. She picks a gecko to be her pet. She trips and falls and stands up again. Emi brushes herself off. Keeps going. Keeps smiling. She’s a total original. Who wouldn’t want to be with a woman like that?
my I-got-dumped-by-Travis tears. I sometimes think of that as my puddle phase.
would shrink me by our wedding day. As if shrinking is a woman’s ultimate goal.
be clear, I’m not suggesting Emi Jones isn’t capable of taking care of herself. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to vanquish her enemies.
these mannequins in wedding dresses. They’re fake people draped in the trappings of forever. Pretend love on a showroom floor.
The truth of Nash’s mouth against mine.
can’t forget Nash’s face when he saw me in this dress. For the rest of my life, I’ll remember his eyes on fire.
“Try to think about some of the good that’s come from your past instead.” She splays her hands. “So you had to bring your own lunch and eat alone in the library every day. Your whole career is based on your days in the library as a kid. Now you help kids in the library!”
There’s no retract button and no way to edit my regrets. Why hasn’t someone invented regret editing? Regrediting needs to be a thing.
selfish man who puts himself before others. He’s never satisfied,
asked for my help, even though I suspect needing me isn’t easy for her. For my part, I liked being needed, being the calm in Emi’s storm. She might have all the facts and words, but I had the action to back it up. We needed each other that day, which felt part terrifying and part thrilling.
No, I’ve got to wade through all this pain, dive under the waves until I’m in over my head. Soak up the feelings, Emi. Do not fight them. The only way to push off the bottom is to sink down deep, right? That’s when I’ll finally be able to haul myself up on the shore. Dry land is waiting for me, and I can get there. I have to.
I suppose I’m allergic to happiness. I’ve always wrecked good things first before they can wreck me.
Sometimes the hardest lessons are the ones you end up having to teach yourself.
the giant bowl of tiny marshmallows in the middle of the table. Rainbows. Clovers. Stars. Moons. Hearts. “Ha!” I gasp. “Are those—” “7,300 marshmallows. One for every day of the twenty years we’ve known each other.”
