He looks away and smiles at my brother. “It’s just a car. I’m not worried about it.”
“I am.” I grab Cube’s shoulder and turn him toward the front door. “Go inside, Cube.”
Cube digs in his feet, the grass going flat. He narrows his eyes at Gabe. “Are you the boy that made my sister cry?”
Gabe’s mouth falls open. “I—”
“Nobody makes my sister cry.” Cube holds up his little fist in threat.
“Oh my gosh. Go. Inside.” I give my brother a shove.
He huffs but jogs up the stairs and lets the screen door slam after him. From inside I hear him yell, “Mom! There’s a boy here to see Maddie and he drives a Ferrari! I think it’s the one who made her cry.”
It lifts the weight in my stomach for a moment before it crashes down again. My life is embarrassing enough without my kid brother threatening an international soccer star.
“I’m sorry. He’s …” I don’t have enough words to describe Cube. I take off my helmet and try to smooth down hair, but it’s a lost cause. Why am I even trying? Also, why do I care what Gabe thinks about my appearance? I shouldn’t. Because we are not and never were a thing. “Why are you here?”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“I have a phone.”
“Mine’s only charged half the time.”
“Is that why you never called me back? Or responded to my texts after the gala?” I try to keep my face emotionless, afraid he’ll see just how much it hurts to stand this close to him.
He runs his hands through his hair, more frustrated than I’ve ever seen him. “I didn’t … I just … Look, I talked to Mara.”
So much for emotionless. “What? Mara?”
“Yeah. She called and said you’d been fired and—” wanted to gloat, my irrational mind suggests before he finishes his sentence. “She felt really bad about how things went down. She said your aunt had her switch the table assignments so that Geoff and Scott were sitting at our table.”
Emma. That traitor. A wave of anger hits me so hard that I actually see black. “Then at least you know that I didn’t set you up. And … and I’m sorry.” I set my helmet on the front porch and curl my shaking fingers into my palms. “So, if you drove all the way out here hoping for an apology, then there you go.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” He steps closer to me. “She said you knew Geoff would be at the gala—”
“And I thought we could avoid him. Or make our appearance and leave. I didn’t expect him to be right there.”
“I know.” His eyes are wide and earnest, more green than hazel. His usually perfect hair is mussed, and I’m pretty sure he’s wearing his workout clothes. Did he come straight here after practice? That’s a three-hour drive. I don’t let myself imagine him finishing his training, hopping straight in his car, and speeding to get to me as fast as he can. I can’t let that information touch my heart.
“Great.” There’s the chill I was hoping to muster. “I’m glad that’s all cleared up. Please go.”
I see the frost land on his skin, the cold registering, but he’s Gabriel Fortunato. He’s not accustomed to being iced out.
“Fine, but let me explain one thing to you first.”
“Gabe—”
“I saw the pictures.”
“Which pictures? The ones of you storming off?”
He makes an expression like he swallowed something sharp. “Those too, but I’m talking about earlier. The ones on the WAGs account? The one of us at the game? At your hotel?”
The ones with the horrible comments. “What about them?”
“It made me …” He clenches his hands like he wants to strangle something. “It made me livid. No one should talk about you like that.”
“It’s a free country.” I shrug like it doesn’t bother me, even though it ate at me like battery acid—right up until Em fired me. Then there were bigger issues to be upset about.
“Fine. Freedom of speech. But that doesn’t make it okay. I’m tired of my fans threatening the people I care about. After the World Cup, people said horrible things to me. To my family. And then after my car crash, hundreds of people commented that they’d wished I’d died.”
Hearing him say it out loud makes me cringe.
“I never wanted anyone to make you feel like those trolls—Trolls is the right word, yes?”
It makes me smile, in spite of myself. “Yes.”
“I didn’t want those trolls to have access to you. It was easier for me to pretend that you meant nothing when really …” He steps even closer and touches my arm. “When really you mean too much.”
Who knew that such a simple touch could set off a chain reaction of sensation? It starts where his thumb lands on the crease of my elbow, racing up my arm like a lit fuse, and ignites in my chest. “Too much?”
“After what I said on Good Morning America, I thought it would be easier to let you go.” He studies me, lips soft and sad. “I was wrong.”
I must have been holding my shoulders by my ears, in a constant protective hunch for days, but his words relax those muscles. “But you were so quiet in the car and—”
“And it hurt.” A flicker of pain crosses his face. “I’m so sorry. I was upset and I wasn’t thinking clearly and … maybe this will help.” Gabe reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a slightly crumpled envelope. “I stopped by your office, and that stronzo who calls you Coffee—”
“William?”
“Yes, William.” Gabe shakes his head. “I talked to him, and he said he was sorry for the way things worked out and sent you this.”
I feel like I’m back at the top of the stairs, barely balanced on the bike, waiting, waiting, waiting for the drop to come. I open the envelope and pull out a one-page letter on Velocity-branded paper.
“Dear Board of Admissions:
I’ve had the privilege of working as Madeline McPherson’s internship adviser for the summer, and I’m happy to recommend her to your program.”
William lays out my skills, the traits he found most valuable, and that he looks forward to working with me in the future.
“You talked to William about me?”
“I knew this mattered to you.” He smooths a strand of sweaty hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear. “And you matter to me.”
“But why?” I give a sad-sounding laugh. “I’m not rich or famous. I’m not a model. I’m just normal.”
He smiles his real smile—the one that’s sweet and vulnerable that he saves for private moments when I’m the only one watching. “No. You’re a girl from Normal who is so far from normal.”
I’m dangling over the drop-off, and my breathing speeds up in response to what’s sure to come.
His palms are on my waist, fingers sliding through my belt loops, easing me closer. I wind an arm around his neck and pull his mouth down to mine. He tastes like Gatorade and salt, and it’s the best combination I could ever imagine. My heart slams against my ribs exactly the way it did as I crashed down the stairs at the beach. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he asks against my lips.
“Not yet. Kiss me again.” He does. And again. And again, until I’m plummeting headlong into a fall I don’t want to stop.
EPILOGUE
I SWING OPEN THE DOOR TO A NARROW ROOM WITH BUFF painted walls, basic wood furniture—two raised beds and two desks—and magenta-and-white-zebra-striped curtains framing a window looking out onto a snow-filled quad.
The wall to my left is covered in magenta-colored gingham boards with pictures stuffed haphazardly through the ribbons. Hair products and two jewelry stands fill one desk, but otherwise the room is clean.
“Yikes. Whoa,” Mom says, shouldering me out of the way to drop the plastic tote on the room’s right side. “Your roommate seems to like pink.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I went with something neutral.” I set down the gray-and-white bed-in-a-bag we picked up on clearance at Target.
“Mm-hmm.” She’s n
ot really listening, busy squinting at my roommate’s pictures, probably trying to deduce which one she is.
Starting school in January instead of in August means that I have some catching up to do. Friends to make. Routines to learn. Classes to find. I hope my roommate—Zaria—will make the transition a little easier. If her personality is anything like her decor, I feel like I’m in good shape.
And if it’s not, I’m only an hour from home.
“Should we go back for another load?” I ask, opening the tote Mom carried in, itching to make my own mark on this room. “Let the boys handle it.”
By the time we’ve slid the bed out from the wall, my dad’s in the doorway, huffing and puffing with the majority of my wardrobe hung from fingertips. Gabe’s right behind him, boxes stacked high in his arms.
He smiles at me over my dad’s shoulder, and I melt like the icicles hanging off the roof outside. In the almost six months we’ve been together, his real grins haven’t stopped being potent, but he has started sharing them with a few more people—specifically Mom and Cube. They’ve sort of adopted him into our family. It’s been good for everyone, except maybe Max, who’s convinced he’s been replaced.
That’s what happens when you go to school across the country, Bro.
Mom, Dad, Gabe, and I work well together, and in less than twenty minutes, the entirety of my life is slipped into drawers and closets. Max and Cube gifted me a bunch of stickable frames for Christmas, and I put up pictures of all the people that matter to me.
There’s one of me and Katie in my cubicle. She’s the only one of the interns I keep in contact with. Then a row of me and Gabe—all pictures the media will never get their hands on.
The last one I stick to the wall is from Christmas. Gabe is posed between me and Max with Cube peeking over his shoulder like a baby koala. Iliana’s face is smooshed in next to Cube’s, while Mom and Dad flank the group. Our legs blur together in a smear of matching snowman pajamas. Watford stands in the front wearing a Santa hat and two long strings of drool.
Iliana came with Gabe for all our major holiday celebrations, which gave Cube enough time to develop an adorably ridiculous crush on her. He was heartbroken when she went back to Italy the day after Christmas. Apparently Italians celebrate until January sixth, and the lure of a good party was enough to make her go home.
The only person missing is Emma. It’s the first Christmas I can remember her not spending with us, but I hope she’s happy in London, where she’s opening Velocity’s first international office. Watford is staying with my family until she gets settled. Arman and Mara will be joining Em next spring.
I’m thrilled for Arman, but less so for Mara. At the end of the summer Katie found my missing footage. It had been moved to a Tabloid folder, and the last user was MC—Mara Cruz. Maybe she thought I’d find it. Maybe it was just a joke. I’ve talked to my mom about it, and we’ve decided that Mara is one of those gray villains—someone you can relate to even though you know their actions are wrong. It was okay for her to make me look bad, but she never intended for me to lose my job. Calling Gabe must have been an attempt at redemption. I still wish I would have taken Katie’s advice and filed a complaint. Someone needs to tell Mara that the way she treated me was not okay.
Mom thinks it’s great fodder for a romance novel. I told her to go for it.
Em and I talked before she left for the UK. It wasn’t an easy conversation, and at least half of that was my fault. I idolized Emma for so long that I couldn’t see her faults. She’s always seemed to have it all together—the style, the wit, the charisma—that it never occurred to me that her outward persona was very similar to Gabe’s camera-ready smile. It’s a facade, a really good one, that covers up the flawed person underneath. She was so desperate to succeed that she sacrificed my dreams so she could keep pursuing hers.
I understand it for the most part. Emma needs a job to live, and my future is still fluid. I have people to fall back on and she doesn’t. But that also made me realize that I don’t have to follow in every one of her footsteps. In fact, I’ll probably be happier if I blaze a path of my own.
She did send me a really nice card for my eighteenth birthday and a fat check marked “For College.” Even though I didn’t get into her alma mater, I did get early admission to the University of Illinois. And the thing is, I’m not even disappointed. It is close to home, but not that close. It is cheaper—my parents were thrilled that I’ll only be taking out loans for in-state tuition. It isn’t UNC, but it has an even better sports administration program.
“Well …” Mom spins around in a circle, taking in my finished room. “I guess that’s everything.”
Then she bursts into tears.
“I wasn’t ready,” she says, watering my shoulder. “I thought I’d have at least another year. What am I going to do without you?”
We’ve had this discussion at least a hundred times. Even though I’m close, it doesn’t change the fact that some things are going to be different.
But a good different.
Dad manages to extract me from Mom’s grip and gives me a long hug of his own before kissing me on the forehead. “You got this, Mads.”
He always knows how to make an impact. His four words have my eyes burning hotter than they did with any of Mom’s hundreds.
We walk out to their car, and Gabe and I give my parents each one more hug before they get in their car and drive away.
My heart twists in my chest, hurting and happy all at the same time. Goodbyes are hard. And I know I’ve got a harder one coming up in a few weeks.
I shiver and Gabe instantly pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to the side of my head. His body is literally hotter than mine—he puts off heat like the radiator in my grandma’s kitchen—and I tuck myself under his chin, wondering how many more chances I’ll get to do this before he’s gone.
The transfer window is open until January 31. I don’t understand all the ins and outs of international soccer, but his new agent has a deal in the works. In the next few days, we’ll have a clearer picture of which country Gabe will be playing in. None of the options are on this continent.
And it doesn’t really matter. We’ve decided to keep following the fortune cookie’s advice and just “go for it” one day, one breath, one heartbeat at a time.
“Do you want to go check out the cafeteria?” He takes my hand, holding me close as we inch across the ice-encrusted parking lot.
“Sure. But it’s college food. It’s not going to be like Moretti’s.”
He shrugs, but his feet slide, free arm windmilling. I keep my grip and yank him toward me, but he’s heavy and smashes into me hard enough to make the breath whoosh out of my lungs.
“Did I just rescue you?” I loop my arms tight around his waist, keeping his toasty warmth pressed against me.
“It was on purpose,” he says, dropping a kiss to my lips.
I don’t argue because as he kisses me again, I realize that sometimes the best things are the ones you crash into.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ARE ALWAYS HARD FOR ME TO WRITE, but this one is especially difficult. I finished revising this book during my first round of chemotherapy, and there are so many people who helped me survive this process and get this story finished. They all deserve a very heartfelt thanks.
Far From Normal wouldn’t be a book without the insight of my editor, Ashley Hearn. She’s pretty freaking awesome. I’m so grateful for her sense of story and the way she helps me flesh out characters and plot points. Big smooshy hugs and a thousand thanks, Ashley!
I’m so grateful to the rest of the staff at Page Street for all their hard work on my behalf. I haven’t met Will Kiester, Lauren Knowles, Marissa Giambelluca, Hayley Gundlach, Sabrina Kleckner, Tamara Grasty, Juliann Barbato, or the Macmillan sales team so my hugs might not be appreciated. But if a line in the back of this book isn’t enough to convey my thanks, I’m always good for a care package.;) It’s crazy how much effort goes into
publishing a book, and I’m amazed and humbled by the slew of talented people who get my work onto shelves. Including—and never to be forgotten—my cover designer, Rosie Stewart. It’s thanks to her that my book hops off those shelves into readers’ hands.
I have met my publicist, Lauren Cepero, and our Marketing Director, Lizzy Mason, so they’ll probably accept a squishy gratitude hug and maybe some Cherry Sours. Thank you for getting my work in front of booksellers, librarians, teachers, Instagrammers, reviewers, bloggers, and book lovers. And I’m so grateful to that long list of people for liking my stories and sharing them with other readers. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
A special thanks to Viktoria and Emanuele Magnasco for Italian translations. Who knew this was where a couple of dance lessons would lead?
Garrett Alwert and Mandy Hubbard champion my stories and have faith in my work. Thanks for believing in me.
I couldn’t have finished this book without early readers/authorly friends: Diana Warmer, Lynne Matson, Lindsay Currie, Jessica Lawson, Lindsay Mealing, and Katie Stout. Thanks for coming on this adventure with me. Sorry for all the ugly versions you read before we figured out how to make it a good story. And to my authorly cheer squad—Kristin Rae, Sara Larson, Katie Purdie, Erin Summerill, Emily King, Lisa Maxwell, Breeana Shields, and Cheyanne Young—I’m so grateful for the positive texts and phone calls. Thanks for keeping me rolling and making me laugh, sometimes with bad karaoke.
My non-writerly friends deserve so much thanks, too! Stacy Sorensen is always the first person who listens to my crazy story ideas. This book is as much hers as it is mine. Jen Wegner read an early version and told me it was the best thing I’d ever written, and it pushed me to make it better. Kara McCoy, Caroline Lund, Jen Mortensen, and so many other women encourage me to keep writing even when it gets hard. Thanks, Ladies. I couldn’t do it without you.
Now for my family, who always come last in the acknowledgments because they’re the most important. My kids are wonderful little humans—Gavin, Laynie, Audrey, and Ady—and are willing to share me so I have time to write. I’m always proud of them, but it’s pretty amazing that they’re proud of their “Author Mom.” I love you punks. To my parents and siblings, y’all got a couple of paragraphs dedicated to you in my last book. You know exactly how grateful I am. And if you don’t, it’s a lot.
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