me about the food. I already knew he liked to cook but I had no idea how much passion he had for it. I guess because he doesn’t have a stove or a kitchen, so other than the cookies he baked me, he’s never really talked about cooking before.
He told me about the harbor and how, before his mother remarried, she used to take him fishing out there. “I mean, Boston isn’t any different from any other big city, I guess,” he said. “There’s not a lot that makes it stand out. It’s just . . . I don’t know. There’s a vibe. A really good energy. When people say they live in Boston, they’re proud of it. I miss that sometimes.”
I ran my fingers through his hair and said, “Well, you make it sound like the best place in the world. Like everything is better in Boston.”
He looked at me and his eyes were sad when he said. “Everything is almost better in Boston. Except the girls. Boston doesn’t have you.”
That made me blush. He kissed me real sweet and then I said to him, “Boston doesn’t have me yet. Someday I’ll move there and I’ll find you.”
He made me promise. Said if I moved to Boston, everything really would be better there and it would be the best city in the world.
We kissed some more. And did other things that I won’t bore you with. Although, that’s not to say they were boring.
They were not.
But then this morning I had to tell him goodbye. And he held me and kissed me so much, I thought I might die if he let go.
But I didn’t die. Because he let go and here I am. Still living. Still breathing.
Just barely.
—Lily
I flip to the next page, but then slam the book shut. There’s only one more entry and I don’t know that I really feel like reading it right now. Or ever. I put the journal back in my closet, knowing that my chapter with Atlas is over. He’s happy now.
I’m happy now.
Time can definitely heal all wounds.
Or at least most of them.
I turn off my lamp and then pick up my phone to plug it in. I have two missed text messages from Ryle and one from my mother.
Ryle: Hey. Naked Truth commencing in 3 . . . 2 . . .
Ryle: I was worried that being in a relationship would add to my responsibilities. That’s why I’ve avoided them my whole life. I already have enough on my plate, and seeing the stress my parents’ marriage seemed to cause them, and the failed marriages of some of my friends, I wanted no part in something like that. But after tonight, I realized that maybe a lot of people are just doing it wrong. Because what’s happening between us doesn’t feel like a responsibility. It feels like a reward. And I’ll fall asleep wondering what I did to deserve it.
I pull my phone to my chest and smile. Then I screen-shot the text because I’m keeping it forever. I open up the third text message.
Mom: A doctor, Lily? AND your own business? I want to be you when I grow up.
I screen-shot that one, too.
Chapter Twelve
“What are you doing to those poor flowers?” Allysa asks from behind me.
I clamp another silver washer closed and slide it down the stem. “Steampunk.”
We both stand back and admire the bouquet. At least . . . I hope she’s looking at it with admiration. It turned out better than I thought it would. I used florist dip dye to turn some white roses a deep purple. Then I decorated the stems with different steampunk elements, like tiny metal washers and gears, and even super-glued a small clock to the brown leather strap that’s holding the bouquet together.
“Steampunk?”
“It’s a trend. Kind of a subgenre of fiction, but it’s catching on in other areas. Art. Music.” I turn around and smile, holding up the bouquet. “And now . . . flowers.”
Allysa takes the flowers from me and holds them up in front of her. “They’re so . . . weird. I love them so much.” She hugs them. “Can I have them?”
I pull them away from her. “No, they’re our grand opening display. Not for sale.” I take the flowers from her and grab the vase I made yesterday. I found a pair of old button-up women’s boots at a flea market last week. They reminded me of the steampunk style, and the