I sit down on the bed. “You can talk to me, you know.”
Jules, in classic Jules mode, snorts. “Thanks, Dr. Phil.”
“You can be as snarky as you want,” I tell her. “I know how crappy you feel right now. I’ve been there. Twice.”
Jules jerks her chin up. “I’m fine. You just worry about Prince Charming. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I know I don’t have to worry about you. But I do. And I know you can talk to me…but you’d rather talk to someone else.” Reaching past her, I take the fairy tale from the nightstand and place it in her hands. “I believe this is yours now.”
I stand up. “I’m going to take Maureen downstairs and have her say goodbye to my mom. Preferably without ever speaking in her British accent. How about I meet you at the car?”
Jules looks at me and then traces her fingers over the lettering on the book’s cover. Then, unexpectedly, she throws her arms around me in a tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispers.
As I walk out of the room, she is just cracking open the story.
I find Oliver standing guard at the front door, thanking people as they leave. Raj fist-bumps him. “Great party, bro,” Raj says, and Oliver grins.
“Glad you liked it.”
Allie and Chris are the last to go. “See you Monday, dude,” Chris says, putting his hand on the small of her back. Oliver looks up at me, shocked.
“I’ll fill you in later,” I murmur.
When it’s finally quiet, my mother walks out of the kitchen holding a dish towel. “That went well!” she says brightly. “I’m thinking we should have Thanksgiving during a full-on tornado!”
I laugh. “Thanks for your help, Mom.”
“I’d better be getting my mother back home,” Oliver says. “Thank you so much for letting us use your house, Mrs. McPhee.”
“Anytime.” My mother gives Oliver a hug first, then Queen Maureen. “I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thank you,” Maureen replies, sounding only faintly British.
Just then, Jules comes running down the stairs, her cheeks pink. “Sorry,” she calls. “I’m here.” Her car keys jingle in her hand. “Ready to go, you two?”
She escorts Maureen out the door. Oliver lingers behind, his hand on my waist. “See you…tomorrow,” he says.
Just hearing that word makes me smile.
He leans down and brushes his lips over mine, the way you say goodbye to someone you know you’re going to have many more goodbyes with.
When the door closes, I turn around to find my mother shaking out a giant black trash bag. “No, Mom, I’ll take care of it. You did so much already. Just go to bed and let me clean up.”
“I’m not going to say no to that.” My mother yawns. “You think Edgar liked his party?”
“I’m pretty sure this was his best birthday ever.”
Her footsteps fade as she climbs the stairs, and I begin to sweep the debris of the party into the trash bag. I dump paper plates and cups and gather crumbs and frosting off the table with a sponge.
“Well, Delilah,” I say out loud, pretty proud of myself for pulling this off. “What can’t you do?”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of a voice behind me. Oliver stands in the doorway, watching me clean up. “You scared me to death!” I say, but I’m smiling. I can’t not smile. “Why did you come back?”
He walks toward me. “I told Jules to take Maureen home alone. It occurred to me that I had forgotten something.” He plucks the trash bag out of my hand and sets it aside.
“What?” I ask.
“You never gave me my present.” Oliver’s hands settle on my hips. “So? What did you get me?”
I wrap my arms around his neck and slowly lean toward him. “Forever,” I whisper.
Oliver dips his head, just a breath away from me. “Well, look at that,” he says, dropping a kiss onto my lips. “It fits perfectly.”
There’s a difference between a house and a home.
Why don’t you walk into your neighbor’s apartment or your best friend’s mudroom and think it’s where you live? Obviously the surroundings are different. There will be odd bits of furniture, and walls that are the wrong color, and pets that don’t belong to you.
But even if every house looked identical—if all the furnishings were the same—it still wouldn’t feel like yours.
That’s because home isn’t where you are. It’s who you’re with.
OLIVER
TWO MONTHS LATER
Every day, I wake up to the smell of vanilla.
Maureen is up before dawn, frosting the cupcakes that have become the most sought-after sweets in New England. Her home-based business, the Queen of Tarts, has been featured in newspapers, in magazines, and even on television. Once she figured out the concept of basic economics—namely, the fact that one could sell cupcakes for a profit rather than just giving them away for free—and once she realized that the refrigerator would not restock itself every night, her career as a master pastry chef really took flight. People who taste her pies and cakes beg to know the secret ingredient, and she always answers, “A little dash of magic.”
I take a quick shower, towel my hair, and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Then, proudly, I grab my car keys from my desk. After several weeks of Delilah’s Driving Boot Camp, she has deemed me worthy of Edgar’s driver’s license. Given that neither Maureen nor I knew how to drive when we first arrived, this was quite a necessity. Jessamyn’s van is now officially my valiant steed.
From what Jules tells us, Jessamyn’s career is blossoming too. She’s writing again, for the first time since she penned Between the Lines, and at a rapid rate. The kingdom has been captivated by her books, which have a special sort of twist: she somehow is able to create a story that is exactly what the reader needs at the moment he or she is reading. What one person takes away from a book might be very different from what the next person takes away—almost as if the story is altered depending on who’s reading, where, and when. But then, maybe all books are like that—a little different each time they are opened. The real question is who’s doing the changing: the story, or the reader.
The best news of all is that Jessamyn is healthy once again, and is being courted by Captain Crabbe, who took her on a moonlight sail and learned how to use a knife and fork while eating, just for her.
And Edgar? Unbelievably, he’s gotten to do some space travel after all, inside the book. It may not be the plot, but it makes a great hobby. His rocket ship is Pyro, and he navigates galaxies from the dragon’s back. Even more unbelievably, he’s not the only budding astronaut. Seraphima, who formerly couldn’t hold a single thought in her pretty little head, now talks nonstop about black holes and pulsars and quasars.
When he’s not flying missions, though, I hear Edgar spends a lot of time on page 43, talking to Jules.
I glance at the clock and hurry downstairs. I want to get to Delilah’s house as early as possible. I have something I can’t wait to show her.
Maureen glances up over a tiered cake. The fondant is already setting; she’s piped pink petals along the edge, decorated with silver sugar pearls. Right now she’s inscribing a message across the top. “Good morning, dear,” she says. “How did you sleep?”
“Quite well, thanks,” I answer, automatically reaching a finger into the bowl of frosting for a taste.
She swats me with a spatula. “I need that,” she scolds. With her piping bag, she loops the word HAPPY across the cake.
I watch her work for a few moments, until she notices me staring. “What?” she asks.
“Are you?” I ask. “Happy?”
She smiles. “I don’t think I really knew what happy was until I came here. I didn’t know how much bigger the world could be, how much more there was to offer.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. It’s good to know that for once, we all seem to be satisfied with
where we are.
“If you wait two minutes,” Maureen says, “you can have a fresh muffin before you go.”
“Can’t.” I give her a peck on the cheek and head out of the kitchen. “Don’t work too hard.”
“It’s only work if you don’t like it,” she calls back.
In the van, I turn on the radio and drive the ten minutes to Delilah’s house. When I get there, her mother is just coming outside, holding a travel mug of coffee, on her way to work. “You’re here early,” Mrs. McPhee says. “Delilah’s still asleep.”
“That’s all right. I just had some good news I wanted to share.”
“Be my guest. I’m sure she’ll be happier waking up to see you, instead of me.” She waves as she ducks into her car, and pulls out of the driveway.
By now, Delilah’s house is as comfortable to me as my own. I climb the stairs and gently creak open her bedroom door.
She’s lying on her back, covers at her feet, arms splayed, her hair knotted across the pillow. She’s wearing a giant T-shirt that reads BUBBA’S BBQ: YOU DON’T NEED NO TEEF TO EAT OUR BEEF! and a lone striped sock. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so beautiful.
I kneel beside the bed, lean down, and kiss her until she wakes up. “Good morning, princess,” I say.
“Mmmphrrm,” she answers, eyelids at half-mast. “How,” she mutters.
“How what?”
“How do you look like that this early in the morning?”
“It’s a gift.” I laugh and sit down beside her on the bed. “I have something to show you. I couldn’t wait.”
She rises to her elbows, yawning. “This better be good.”
I take the letter I printed off the computer last night and place it in her hands. She unfolds it, and her eyes skim the first line:
CONGRATULATIONS. YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED TO THE DARTMOUTH COLLEGE CLASS OF 2019.
Delilah’s eyes widen, and she throws her arms around me. “Oliver, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you.”
“The best part is I’m only two towns away from you.”
She grins. “I can’t believe I’m dating a college guy.” Then, just as suddenly, her face falls. “I can’t believe you’re going to be around college girls.”
I sigh. “Delilah—”
“Don’t tell me I’m being stupid. You don’t know what it’s going to be like until you get there. You might meet the girl of your dreams the minute you step on campus.”
“I already met the girl of my dreams,” I point out. “Might I remind you, I didn’t fall in love with you because you were pretty or smart or popular….”
“Aw, thanks.” Delilah smirks.
“I fell in love with you because you had your nose stuck in a book. If you hadn’t been, well…you…we never would have met,” I say. “You have a lot more to worry about than some random girl I don’t even know yet. You and I, we’re going to argue, and make up, and go to prom, and suffer through exams, and give each other the flu, and exchange valentines, and every single day I’m going to make you remember why we fell in love.”
Delilah looks down. “But, you know, in this world…it’s not always a perfect happily-ever-after.”
I lift her chin so that our eyes meet. “I would give up a thousand happily-ever-afters for right here, right now, with you.”
She kisses me, pulling me back down with her so that we’re curled together on top of her covers. Then, suddenly, she sits up. “I just remembered. I have a congratulations present for you.”
“But you couldn’t have known I’d be accepted—”
“I’m an optimist,” Delilah says, smiling. She reaches into the drawer of her nightstand. “It’s not wrapped, but still….”
She hands me a leather-bound book. I open it, but the first page is empty. So is the one after that, and the next. In fact, there’s nothing at all written on the pages. Confused, I look at her.
“It’s called a diary,” Delilah explains. “It’s for you to fill out. I thought it was about time you wrote your own story.”
I take her into my arms and think: This is exactly where I’ll start.
Everyone has a story.
You might think it’s not worth telling, but then again, it’s a story no one has ever heard. What you do, what you say, how you carry the plot, just might leave a mark on someone.
Because that’s what stories do. They help you escape, and they give you the chance to do things you never imagined you would or could. They let you feel heartbreak you’ve never had and experience adventures from the safety of your own room. They are dreams for those who are still awake. They can be as comfortable as an old pair of slippers and as unnerving as the blade of a knife. They possess the power to change you, to inspire you, to open your mind.
Stories are all around us, caught in the throats of the strangers you walk past and scrawled on the pages of locked diaries. They’re in love letters that were never sent and between the lines of every conversation ever spoken. Just because your story’s not written down doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
Perhaps someone’s reading your story right now, in fact—imagining your eyes skimming over this page, your hands clutching the binding as you hurry to get to the last line.
You’d best get going. Your Reader is eagerly awaiting the next chapter.
Sincerely,
Jessamyn
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We’d like to thank Peter Antelyes, associate professor of English at Vassar College, for his insight and encouragement while writing this novel. We are also indebted to Abigail Baird, associate professor of psychology at Vassar College, for inspiring various characters and for researching brain tumors for us. Thanks too to Ryan Eykholt for coining the term “triple-tearing,” and to Kevin Ferreira, who let us borrow his Instagram joke. Thanks to Kathy Reichs and Lisa Genova—fantastic authors in their own right—whose expertise helped us fill in factual gaps in our story. To Will Henderson—we appreciate your coming up with this title long before we even began to think about a sequel. Thanks to Barbara Marcus, Beverly Horowitz, Dominique Cimina, John Adamo, Kim Lauber, Stephanie O’Cain, and the entire Delacorte Press family at Random House Children’s Books, who prove that fairy tales do come true. Finally, thanks to Tim/Dad for making us laugh and occasionally scaring us to death by creeping up the office stairs, and to Dudley, Alvin, Oliver, and Harvey, who provided much-needed moral support and puppy breaks.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JODI PICOULT is the author of twenty-three novels, including the #1 New York Times bestsellers Leaving Time, The Storyteller, Lone Wolf, Sing You Home, House Rules, Handle with Care, Change of Heart, Nineteen Minutes, and My Sister’s Keeper. She also cowrote the #1 New York Times bestseller Between the Lines, the companion to Off the Page, with her daughter, Samantha van Leer. Jodi lives in New Hampshire with her husband and three children. Visit her online at jodipicoult.com.
SAMANTHA VAN LEER is a sophomore at Vassar College majoring in psychology with a minor in human development. She cowrote the #1 New York Times bestseller Between the Lines, the companion to Off the Page, with her mother, Jodi Picoult.
Jodi and Samantha have four dogs: Alvin, Harvey, Dudley, and Oliver, for whom the prince in this story is named.
Jodi Picoult, Off the Page
(Series: Between the Lines # 2)
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