|EPILOGUE|

Present Day

The streets of New York City are swarming with people. Always. It's one of the many things that drew me to the area after living in Ashwood Creek. The constant buzz of police sirens and the instant gift of invisibility in a place as intimidating as the city had me packing my bags.

Past the flash and the glamor and the concrete jungle mayhem, there is something perfectly simple about life here. The stress of having to be perfect seems to vanish in a world as chaotic as this. And, while most people heave in anxiety, I sink back and relax into a world so unlike the small town I grew up in. I get the bigger picture, somehow.

I walk everywhere here the same way I biked everywhere in Ashwood Creek. I've never lived in a place that required any other sorts of transportation, and it's the kind of thing that keeps me thinking about home.

Home, where Meredith and Henry are. There's a note on my fridge reminding me to call Meredith and another telling me that Quinn's baby is due this month. If someone would have told me six years ago that these are the kind of things that would be important to me, I wouldn't have believed you for a second.

But, the reality of this life is that if you don't hold onto the people who love you, it's going to be a lonely journey. After breaking up with Bash all those years ago, I felt that loneliness. And, to help me cope, I filled the pages of that journal I requested as a birthday gift from Quinn. I filled those pages with the story of Bash and I. The ups, the downs, an explanation for the decisions I made and why, the fondest memories, my favorite words. And then, because I had snooped into his journals and read all of the personal entries he would let me, I sent my journal to Bash to return the favor.

He replied with a short letter that read:

Jovie,

You cannot possibly understand how grateful I am for your journal. You have given me a key with which to unlock the world. Thank you.

-Bash

I still don't understand just what he meant by his letter, but I was glad he got it. It was therapeutic to me, writing that journal, and by doing it I realized just how Bash remained as composed and cheerful as he did.

The mind is a cluttered place, and straightening everything out through writing offers serenity.

Despite the many detours and accidents it took to get where I am, I'm happy. Even as the sun bakes the pavement and the humid waves of heat cook me as I walk past a row of darkly painted buildings, I'm not disappointed with the way things turned out for me.

Well, at least, that's what I tell myself as I push past an oddly dense crowd of people on Crosby Street. When your bobby pins are falling out of place and you're trying not to sweat through your white blouse, being swarmed by this many people as though it's Times Square is the last thing you want to deal with. And, trust me, I've dealt with a a lot of bullshit today.

"Hey, Miss, what do you think you're doing?"

I blow a frizzy strand of hair from my face and turn toward the older gentleman with as much patience as I can gather.

"Excuse me?"

"You're breaking up the whole line."

I blink in confusion. "What line?"

"Didn't you see the sign back there?" the man asks hoarsely. "This side of the street is closed. The Bookstore Café is holding a signing."

I look back down the crowded street with furrowed brows and then glance up at the bookstore. Who the hell attracts a crowd like this? I just want to get home and call Meredith and check in on Quinn. Is that too much to ask for?

"A signing?" I ask, not quite believing him. "Is JK Rowling here?"

"No." A woman whom I assume is the man's wife by the color coordinated attire holds up a book for me to see. "Sebastian Daley."

The name causes my scowl to melt into a look of stunned paralysis. "S-Sebastian who?" I stammer.

The woman gives me a funny look, but hands me the book she's holding so that I can look at it. And, there it is, all in gold, cursive calligraphy: Sebastian Daley. But, that has to be a coincidence, so I flip the back cover open to get a look at the author. And, sure enough, there is a resemblance in this man and the man I knew six years ago. If I stare long enough at the photo, I can see his eyes sparkle and the blush bloom across his cheeks.

I turn the book back to the cover.

At the Corner of I Love You and Goodbye

I can't take my eyes off the cover, it feels like they'll be stuck there forever. "What's the name of the love interest?"

"Uhm..." The woman hesitates. She must think I'm crazy. "Joslyn."

Joslyn, I think. Of course it's Joslyn. I feel a little lightheaded standing here, but also like I've been shocked. I don't care about getting home anymore, I don't care that the heat has turned my hair into a bird's nest or that my day was less than wonderful. All I can think is that Bash is here-and not just here, but that the only thing between myself and seeing him again are all of these people.

The last I heard from him was that letter, but I still think about him every day. I fall out of relationships, I put all of my energy into my work, I read an old novel when I get homesick for the first person that made me feel anything real at all. And...here he is.

It makes me think of something Quinn said a long time ago.

And, like tunnel vision, the only thing on my mind is seeing him.

"Thank you," I mutter to the couple as I hand back the book. But, that's where my manners find their end.

I push through the line, ignoring the cussing and protesting of those waiting in it. And, when I reach the stairs, my heart nearly gives out when I notice the sign in the window.

Book Signing with New York Times #1 Best-Selling Novelist Sebastian Daley

Then, it's all elbows and ducking around limbs-something you become a professional at when you've lived in a big city long enough-until I'm standing in a crowded room of buzzing conversation and massive shelves of books.

That's when I see him again for the first time.

He sits behind a low table, lips turned up in a grin as he listens to the request of a reader before signing across the title page of his book. I barely recognize the young man I fell in love with all of those years ago. He's a real grown-up now with a squarer jaw that complements all of the angles of his face. His hair is cropped short and he has more than just a bit of morning stubble. The button-down shirts are no longer dress-code. He suits twenty-six more than twenty.  

And, maybe it's a horrible cliché, but as I continue to make my way towards him, the whole world seems to slow around me-like the rest of the world has faded into the background and there's nothing and no one but him and me.

Then, he glances up, and for a moment he sees me and then he turns to the next waiting person in the line. But, then he pauses and finds me again, standing just a few feet away all flustered and a little unsightly from the humidity. The genuine surprise on his face causes a shy smile to form on mine.

"Hi," I say.

He just stares.

We look at each other for another hard moment, contemplating one another, looking for some kind of message in the other person's eyes that says "I've moved on" or "I'm not the same person I used to be."

No such message comes or goes, but I still find myself holding my breath.

Bash looks to the young girl who is waiting for his signature, and she looks over her shoulder at me curiously, wondering who I am and why I'm holding up the line.

"Can you excuse me for a moment?" he asks her. She shrugs.

Bash meets my eyes, again. My legs might give out I'm so nervous.

"Do you believe in fate, yet?"

●════════●♥●════════●

It wasn't until the sun started to go down that the line dwindled into nothing and Bash was finally able to leave the book store. He insisted I stay and wait for him to finish, and there was no arguments on my end. While I waited I started to read his book. It was honest, and heartbreaking, and raw right from the start. But, the most intriguing thing for me was seeing our relationship from his perspective. Not even in the name of fiction did he ever anger with me-he always tried to understand things from my perspective, but you could read the heartbreak between the lines. That was, perhaps, the most addictive thing about the book.

"I can't believe you wrote a book." My voice seems to be stuck in the permanent tone of awe.

We walk side-by-side over the bumps and cracks of the broken sidewalk, unsure of where we are headed or even if we have a destination. It seems as though we're content to wander as long as we can be together.

I haven't felt this way since Ashwood Creek. Every single teenage flurry of admiration I once held for him seems to swirl, and tumble, and dance within me all at once. And, it's not overwhelming, it's comfortable. It's new and familiar all at once. Everything from his voice to the smell on his clothes brings me back to a time when forever was a fantasy.

He shrugs off what I said in the modest way that he did six years ago whenever I tried to compliment him. Even to this day he can't understand his own brilliance, or is too flustered to acknowledge it.

"I remembered what my grandad said about not wanting to be forgotten," he tells me. "And looking back through our journals made me realize that I couldn't bear that, either. So, I decided to put it in print."

"You made our love immortal," I say into the sticky air between us, eyes on the pinks and oranges of the sky unblocked by tall buildings.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to be creepy," he says quickly, blushing and stuttering in a way that makes my lips turn up. "It's just that writers are at their best when they work with something meaningful. It's art. I needed the closure."

I know his cheeks are red, but I don't look at him. I keep my eyes to the sky and continue to ask him questions, eager to hear him talk more-to focus on the first thing I fell in love with. "So, why Sebastian Daley? Why not Bash?"

He takes the opportunity to recover and clears his throat. "In honor of the first Sebastian, my grandad. He's the one who inspired me first. I thought we could share a name on the cover."

"That's beautiful," I say, softly.

He shook his head. "Alright, I'll let that one go."

"What?"

"Beautiful."

"Oh, no. Really?" I laugh.  "You still don't like that word? What would you prefer I said?

"You know I don't like that word," he banters back. "It's so unoriginal. How about...charming, stunning, enchanting....anything else."

"That's just ridiculous," I tell him and roll my eyes. But, I'm smiling widely, and we're walking so close our arms brush despite the wide sidewalk.

We look at each other like we're standing in the library that first day and we're both unsure yet oddly intrigued. Six years is a long time, and we don't quite know what's going to happen next. But, that's no different than how our first story started, and I wonder if there's any room for a sequel.

End