✫✫✫

                   HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY TO ME.

                   Rory was turning twenty-three today. 

                   She hated January 1st—not just because it was her birthday, but because of what had happened on her birthday. First, her mother had left.

                   Second, Declan had died.

                  A skydiving accident in Mount Everest, Nepal. 

                  Why was Rory here now? She didn't know.

                  But she was sitting in a damp, dark bar at ten in the morning. Outside, the lush snowy scenery of South Asia awaited her. The Himalayas. 

                  She didn't know what she was doing here.

                  It had been two months since she had touched a drink.

                  Happy, happy fucking birthday to me, she thought. In the corner of the room, just above the mirrored wall of expensive wines, a news channel was playing.

                  Rory didn't know why she was here.

                  But she did have an expensive ticket. At two in the afternoon, four hours from now, she would be on a plane, skydiving over the snow-capped Himalayas.

                  "Ma'am?" said the bartender. 

                  Rory glanced up.

                  He gestured to the array of vintage bottles. "Are you going to have a drink?"

                  Sober—eight weeks sober.

                  Hadn't she promised Paris that she would keep trying, no matter what it took? Hadn't she made a vow, sworn to herself that she wouldn't succumb?

                  Too bad, she thought.

                   Her promises meant shit.

                  "I'll have a glass of vodka," Rory said, and her leg began to bounce.

                   This past week, she had been traveling around the world. Doing stupid, dangerous things to forget about everything that had happened.

                   Dhonielle's death.

                   Amanda, putting a gun to her head.

                   If the police hadn't arrived in time, Rory would have seen her kill herself. There would have been blood on her hands.

                   And Paris. 

                  Paris. 

                  Rory hadn't wanted to make the damage worse. The things she had said to Amanda—Shoot her. I don't care—had been false bravado.

                  If Amanda had shot Paris, Rory would have asked to go next.

                  But when Paris had confronted her in the ambulance . . . when Paris confronted her, she wasn't ready. Rory knew that having other people around her made her better, helped her heal, but . . . this time, she couldn't. 

                  She had sealed herself off, and she was regretting it.

                  Dhonielle's funeral was on January 3rd, two days from today, and Rory didn't know if she was going to go. She had written Dhonielle's family a cheque for ten million dollars, and they were donating it to the research of organ cancer.

                  But how could Rory show her face there, knowing . . . knowing Dhonielle's death was partially her fault? Wouldn't they have been able to save her if Amanda hadn't been there? 

                  My fault. The bartender slid her a drink.

                  Rory's fingers tightened over the glass.

                  Don't do it, said a voice inside her head, and it sounded a lot like Paris.

                  But what did it matter? There was so much hurt, so many jagged edges inside of her. What harm would it do to soften that sharpness? To take off the edge, just a little? 

                 Rory lifted the glass, and the television flickered.

                "Turn that down," someone said, as a child's voice began to speak.

                 Rory glanced at the TV, and she froze.

                 Was that . . . was that Tasha Tribeca?

                 Tasha was on the international news.

                 Her hair was soft and fuzzy, a silky, cocoa-dark brown. Natural. And her face, it was wide and bright and shining so, so hopeful.

                 "Dear Princess Rory," she began.

                  Rory's phone rang. Simon. She answered it instantly and he barked, "Turn on the news right now."

                  Numbly, Rory said, "I'm listening to it."

                 Tasha was standing in front of Mount Sinai General. There was snow falling all around her, dusting her scalp in silvery flecks of white.

                Her cheeks were pink with cold and distantly, Rory noticed she had two dimples that dented her soft, glowing skin.

              "Princess Rory Camille Preston," Tasha announced. 

               Rory forgot to breathe.

               "You're listening, right?" said Simon.

                "You taught me how to play It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year on the piano. I was in a dark place, and you . . . you taught me new songs for one entire night. You didn't let me give in to the demons. That night, I was really close to hurting myself. You probably didn't know it, but I needed you. I still need you. Because . . ." Tasha drew in a breath, her cheeks flushed. "You need to come home. I know she hurt you, I know you pushed her away, but love is worth fighting for. I probably wasn't supposed to be listening, but you said you would fight for her. And now she's fighting for you, too. She hasn't given up on you, so Rory?"

                  Rory held her breath. Her grip on the glass of vodka tightened.

                  "Rory, don't give up on her. That's all I'm asking. Don't give up just yet. Please." 

                  There were tears in Tasha's eyes, tears that were being broadcasted to the international news stations around the world.

                   This was crazy. This was insane. And it . . . it was really beautiful. 

                   Rory jumped to her feet, letting the glass crash to the counter.

                   "You can't just do that!" cried the bartender.

                   Rory yanked out a thick wad of money from her jacket and tossed it to him. 

                   She was going home.

                   Home—home always been Paris.

                   But first, she needed to finish one thing.

✫✫✫

                   AT AN ALTITUDE OF SIX THOUSAND FEET, RORY DUG HER FINGERS into the straps of her parachute.

                  The locket on her neck was warm. She had buried it in her palm as the plane rose, higher and higher, above Mount Everest.

                  Below, the snow-capped Himalayan mountains were veined with grey. Blue sky was bright around them, and the wind that whipped against Rory's face was cold, fierce.

                  "We're almost there," said the instructor.

                  The entrance was already open. Wind was whipping through. The world below looked so small, so fragile, like a delicate painting.

                  There were three other people, each geared with a parachute.

                 "Jesus fucking Christ, Rebecca!" said one man to his wife. "I can't believe we're doing this."

                 "Don't take the Lord's name in vain," said Rebecca, laughing. "Trust me, Dave. It'll be fun." 

                "I can't believe this," Dave muttered. He glanced at Rory. "Hey, you ever done this before?"

                 Rory grinned. The adrenaline was already kicking in.

                "Twelve times and counting," she said.

                 Declan had once risen above these mountains. He had once stood here, at an altitude close to six thousand feet, and he had looked down on the snowy valley below.

                 What had he felt, in the moment before he jumped?

                 What had he been thinking?

                 Rory would never forget that birthday. Now, on the anniversary of her brother's death, she was here again.

                 Doing what?  she asked herself. 

                Letting go. 

                Carefully, she nicked open the locket. She had spent this past week completing every destination on her list, spreading his ashes in every place he had visited.

                This was her last stop.

                The last of his ashes—they would fly free here, in the wind above Mount Everest.

                "This is terrifying!" Dave yelled, and with his wife in his arms, they jumped. 

                Now, left on the plane, there was only the instructor and an older woman in her sixties with her deep grey, wavy hair. As Rory prepared herself to jump, standing at the edge of the entrance, she breathed out.

                This was for Declan.

                The boy she had idolized her whole life. Her role model, her best friend, her brother. She missed him, and that was okay. He hadn't been a good person, but there had been a little bit of good in him. He had loved her as much as a brother could. And it had taught her something—there was a little bit of good in everyone. Nobody was completely bad.

                Rory had good in her, too. It had taken her a long time to realize that.

                But no matter how much good Declan had in him, he had still hurt many people. He had ruined the lives of people who had good in them, too. Amanda had done bad things as a result. It was a chain reaction, and Rory had a choice, too.

                It was time to let go.

                This time, as the ashes swirled into the cold wintry air, Rory held out her hand. Letting the locket plummet through the sky.

                "Are you ready?" said the instructor.

                With one last glance at him and the older woman, Rory nodded.

                This would probably hurt like hell, considering her leg wasn't done healing, but this was something she had to do.

                Except from down below, something was rising up towards them.

                "What is that?" Rory breathed.

                It was—another plane.

                "There isn't supposed to be anyone else here!" snapped the instructor. "It's a safety hazard for the jumpers."

                But before he could protest further, the plane was hovering side by side with them.

                And standing at the entrance was Paris.

                "What the hell are you doing here?" Rory gasped.

                Paris's burnished-gold hair whipped around her face. "You can't do this, Rory! I can't let you go through with this!"

                "It's skydiving," Rory said. "And you're not my doctor anymore!"

                It amazed her—the fact that Paris had chartered a plane right here, just to talk her out of a stupid stunt that she had already cleared with the royal physician. But even though Rory scowled, there was a gentle warmth spreading from her chest. Her fingertips began to tingle. 

               Paris. Just seeing Paris made her feel . . . light. Happy.

                "I can't let you kill yourself!" Paris shouted.

                Rory barked, "What?" 

                "I can't let you die like this!" Paris called out from across the gulf of sky. "I know you hate your birthday, and I know this is how Declan died, but you can't—"

               Paris thought that because this was the anniversary of Declan's death, and she was skydiving on Mount Everest—which was how he had died—she was trying to kill herself? It was logical, but so absurd to Rory that she wanted to laugh.

               "I have a parachute!" she shouted.

              "You . . . have a parachute?"

               "I'm not trying to kill myself!" Rory said over the wind. She heard the instructor praise God in another language, relieved.

                "You're . . . not?"

                "No!" said Rory. "I'll explain it to you later!"

                 And she would. She would tell Paris about the ashes, and the destinations, and she would talk about this. Letting go.

                  Paris's hair tangled over her warm brown skin. In the cold winter sunlight, she looked absolutely ethereal. There was a tentative smile on her full mouth. "Oh."

                  "What are you really doing here?" Rory shouted.

                  Paris opened her mouth, and it looked as though she might not say what she was thinking. Conflict warred in her eyes, and she glanced over to the instructor and the older woman on Rory's plane.

                 Over the wind, Paris hollered, "I love you!"

                 "What was that?" Rory said, smirking. "I couldn't hear you!"

                 Paris was grinning. "I said I love you, you royal idiot! You're an annoying, cocky asshole, and I—I love you. You've fought for me. You kept fighting for me, even when I probably didn't deserve it. And I don't think I could ever stop loving you, so I may as well spend the rest of my life with you."

                 "I would tell you I love you," Rory said, "but you already know it."

                  "I like hearing it!" Paris shouted.

                  Icy wind bit against Rory's face as she yelled, "I love you, Paris Alvarez Young! I love you as much as Romeo loved Juliet!"

                   "They both killed themselves in the end!"

                   "Fuck Shakespeare!" And Rory was suddenly laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. "Let's defy our fucking stars. Are you ready to jump?"

                    "Jump?" Paris shrieked. "I'm not jumping!"

                    Rory grinned. "You love me? Then I hope you're ready to skydive."

                    Paris looked down at the Himalayas beneath them, the stretch of grey-veined rock, and she looked back up at Rory. There was a furious, determined spark in her—the kind of fire that was echoed in Rory's blood, singing to each pump of her heartbeat.

                    That's my girl, Rory thought.

                    Paris clutched the straps of her parachute and jumped.

                    Rory watched her disappear into the clouds and the blue sky and the white mountains. She jumped. Paris had jumped for her, and she hadn't even hesitated. 

                    Damn, Rory thought. That . . . was kind of gay. 

                    From the back of the plane, Rory heard the older woman say, "What are you waiting for, girl? Go get your Juliet."

                   Rory grinned, and then she was free-falling, enveloped by the blue skies.

✫✫✫

                   FALLING IN LOVE IS A LITTLE LIKE SKYDIVING.

                   You panic with every touch, every whispered word, every slow smile. The plane is rising, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. 

                   All that's left now is holding on tight. Clutching that parachute like your life depends on it because—well, it does. 

                   It happens slowly, too. Every shared glance. Every soft laugh. Suddenly, you're at an altitude of six thousand feet wondering how the hell you got there. And there's nothing left for you but to jump.

                  Love is a little like falling.

                  They don't call it flying. That sensation of your stomach plummeting, your heart racing as your mind comes up with every single terrible possibility—that's what it feels like to fall. Love is dangerous. There should probably be a caution or a warning sign or a hazard label. 

                 They don't call it flying in love because falling is addictive.

                 The fear. The butterflies. The rush. 

                 Love is terrifying. 

                 But the moment you let go, the moment you jump off that plane and let yourself fall six thousand feet over the rocky Himalayan mountains in Nepal, South Asia, you can't stop it anymore. The blue sky is all around you and the clouds are at your fingertips and the world is way, way beneath you. 

                 It's scary, and it's beautiful.

                 And the moment you pull out your parachute, the moment you realize—This is it. This is the one—you're free. 

                Falling feels a lot like flying.

                But the moment you touch the ground, with the wind caressing you and the snow in your hair and the mountains all around you, it's probably the best feeling in the world. Because even though falling is fun, it's not the best part of love.

                It's the moment your feet hit the snow on Mount Everest, and the girl you love is already waiting, shaking the snow out of her hair. You think to yourself, in that moment, that she's so beautiful you can't imagine how you even come close to deserving her. 

                Falling isn't the best part of love.

                Because that moment when you touch the ground, when you collapse into the snow, the best part is only beginning.

               I don't think I could ever stop loving you, so I may as well spend the rest of my life with you.

               The rest of your life is waiting.

               And if the girl you love says, "I am never doing that again."

               Just smile to yourself.

               You have all the time in the world to convince her.

✫✫✫

How do we feel?

I have loved every minute of writing this book. I just wanted to say thank you all for being a part of this (even if you did, at one point, petition for a riot). I love all of you so, so much. Words can probably never really express it.

I'll see you soon - there's a little bit more left.

From the moon and back,
Sarai