seen me all along. Who didn’t need me to prove anything to him.
I was so blinded by the spotlight shining on Tristan, I couldn’t see what was right in front of me. Tristan’s music was turned up so loud, it drowned out everything else. It was the only thing I could hear. The only thing I wanted to hear.
But it was never my kind of music.
It was a temporary soundtrack. A placeholder until I could find the real song.
I gently push against Tristan’s chest, tearing my lips away from him. Tears are streaming down my face.
“What’s wrong?” The concern in his voice is raw and real.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I blurt out.
“What? The Ferris wheel?”
“No. I mean, us.”
“What?”
The ride shudders back into motion and we start our descent toward the ground.
“It took me an entire week to show you the real me,” I tell him, “because I was afraid. I didn’t think I could be myself around you. I didn’t think you’d like who that was.”
“And you were wrong,” Tristan argues. “I do.”
“I know.” I let out a tiny sob. “But it’s too late.”
“Too late?” he asks. “I don’t understand.”
“You and me. We don’t work.”
Comprehension floods his features. “Wait. Are you breaking up with me?”
Our bucket reaches the ground and the ride stops to let us off. I turn to take in Tristan’s baffled, distraught face. “I’m sorry,” I say with genuine sympathy, “but I have to stay true to how I feel.”
I lift the bar and hop off. It feels good to be on solid ground again.
I start running. I don’t stop until I get to my car. I start the engine and turn on the radio. The “Top of the World” playlist is still streaming from my phone.
It’s Owen’s favorite.
I turn up the volume. “Ruby Tuesday” by the Rolling Stones blasts through the speakers. It gives me the courage I need.
The Stones always do.
“She would never say where she came from,” I sing along as I put the car in Drive and pull out of the parking lot. “Yesterday don’t matter if it’s gone.”
As I drive away, I catch a glimpse of the fairgrounds disappearing in my rearview mirror.
I think I’m done with carnival rides for a while. I need something a little more stable.
Build Me Up Buttercup
9:15 p.m.
Seven minutes later, I pull into the Reitzmans’ driveway and throw the car in Park. I run up the walkway and bang on the door. Owen’s mother answers a moment later.
“Where’s Owen?”
“He went to the carnival,” his mother says, confused. “I thought he was with you.”
“He was. I mean, he is. I mean, I hope he will be.”
Owen’s mom gives me an odd look.
“I mean, I’ll go find him,” I say, backing away. She watches me curiously from the doorway as I stumble to my car.
I get in and close the door.
Where could he be?
Did he really stay at the carnival?
I pull out my phone and send him a text message.
Me: Where are you?
There’s no answer. Well, I guess I’ll wait here. I mean, he has to come home eventually, right?
I turn on the engine and listen to three more songs from my playlist. But with each song, I’m feeling less and less like I’m on top of the world and more and more like I’ve made a huge mistake.
I can’t stop thinking about Owen’s injured face when I ditched him at the carnival. When I told him I’d text him later and then ran off with Tristan.
The memory of it now is like a punch in the chest.
What if that was my last chance?
What if the universe only gave me one more day to get it right and I failed?
What if I wake up tomorrow and it’s Tuesday and Owen wants nothing to do with me anymore?
What if—
My phone beeps. I fumble to pick it up and swipe it on, my fingers trembling.
Owen: I’m in your room. Where are you?
I don’t even take the time to tap out a response. I throw the phone onto the passenger seat and peel out of the driveway. I get to my house in a record fifty-three seconds. I park at the curb, scramble out of the car and up the tree in our front yard.
Of course, I could use the door.
It’s my own stupid house.
But I don’t want to risk bumping into anyone. I don’t want to talk to anyone.
The tree is a lot harder to climb than I’ve ever given Owen credit for. It takes core muscles that I just don’t have and balance that I never thought I needed. I look across to the window. It’s already open. Apparently this is how Owen got inside as well. Holding on to the trunk for as long as possible, I shimmy along the branch that connects with the house, trying not to look down for fear of losing my nerve. That’s when I realize the branch I’m standing on is a lot lower than the windowsill. I peer beneath my feet, my vision blurring when I see how far above the ground I am.
Why didn’t my parents build a one-story house?
I suck in a breath, rest my hands on the windowsill, and jump, using all my strength to hoist myself up and scramble inside. I tumble onto the floor of my bedroom with an oomph.
Owen jumps up from my bed and runs over to me, helping me up. “Are you okay? What on earth are you doing? Why didn’t you use the door?”
“All we ever really get is today,” I say breathlessly.
His forehead furrows. “What?”
“That was my fortune. It said, ‘All we ever really get is today.’”
“Your fortune cookie was empty. So was mine.”
I shake my head, still trying to catch my breath. “No, it wasn’t. I mean, yes, today it was, but yesterday, it wasn’t. And the day before that it wasn’t. But none of those other days matter, because all we ever really get is today.”
“Objection,” Owen says playfully. “Witness is acting irrational.”
“Objection,” I counter. “Irrelevant.”
“Objection. Absolutely relevant.”
“Permission to approach the bench?” I ask.
Owen scowls. “Huh?”
But I’m already moving. The gap between us is already closing. My arms are already wrapping around his neck, pulling him down to me. My lips already know exactly where to go.
It doesn’t take long before he’s kissing me back. Before his hands are on my waist, lifting me off the ground.
We topple backward, landing on the bed. It’s clumsy and uncoordinated and us.
Owen pulls back and looks at me.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” he whispers, stroking my face.
I smile. “No.”
“A bloody long time.”
He dives for my lips again, kissing me hard.
And it’s good.
And it’s like falling.
And I hear music. The kind you can dance to. The kind that drowns out the rest of the world. Because when you find what you’re looking for—when you finally get it right—everything else is just noise.
Epilogue
7:04 a.m.
Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!
Bleary and disoriented, I pull my heavy eyes open and stare at my phone. It’s sitting on my nightstand, the screen lit up from an incoming text.
My hands are shaking with anticipation as I reach for it and swipe it on.
When I see the message waiting for me, a heavy weight drops into the pit of my stomach, making me want to throw up.
I can’t stop thinking about last night.
No. It can’t be. This isn’t happening. It’s a dream. It’s just a bad dream.
I slap my cheeks, trying to wake myself up.
Please, I beg silently, then I say it aloud, “Please!”
I shut my eyes tight, then open them again. The screen slowly comes back into focus. That’s when I first notice the sender’s name.
Owen.
I bolt upright.
Owen?
I blink three times and look at it again, certain I must have misread it.
But the name doesn’t change.
Owen is the one texting me? Not Tristan?
I glance around my room, searching for evidence, but everything looks the same. I paw at the screen of my phone, scrambling to get to my calendar. I need to see the date. I need to be one hundred percent sure. But before I can open it, another text arrives.
Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!
With my heart in my throat, I click the message. It’s from Owen. And it says:
Happy Tuesday.