Rose closed her eyes, and Audrey watched the way Olivia looked at her, full of adoration. “Only that I love you all,” Rose said, “and I wouldn’t trade any of you ever.”
“Ditto,” Audrey said, and her voice was too quiet in the din, but she smiled anyway, not caring that no one was listening.
No one but Julian, apparently, stealthy as always. “I wouldn’t trade you,” his voice came in her ear, making her jump in the best way. “Not even for a pristine ninety-six Rickenbacker with gold fret inlays.”
“I’m flattered,” Audrey said, and she twisted around so she could tap him on his chin and press a kiss to his lips. “Really.”
A whooping cheer erupted, and Rose banged the table so hard that everything on it jumped. “Let’s do some shots!”
FORTY-SEVEN
The party wound down, and they fell out onto the street, Audrey ready to do her chauffeur duty. She dropped the others home—allowing Rose extra time to kiss Olivia good-bye; wasn’t she nice?—until it was just her and Julian in the car.
She drove to his house with Julian holding her hand, lifting her fingers to his mouth every so often to press a kiss there. And every time he did it, she got chills racing up and down her spine.
“How bad do you think Rose’s hangover’s going to be?” Julian said as they cruised through the snow-and-slush-covered streets. “She was going hard on those tequila shots.”
“Oh, she’s a big girl,” Audrey said, smiling. “She can handle it.”
“I like her and Olivia together. They’re good.”
Audrey slowed at a particularly icy corner. “I know. God—you can practically see little cartoon love-hearts floating around their heads. Were we like that when we first started dating?”
“Yes,” Julian said. “I mean, we were worse. PDA everywhere.”
“We did not!”
“Aud, we so did.”
They talked the rest of the way to his house, about everything and nothing. They were different now—who wouldn’t be? And Audrey wasn’t sure how it was going to work out, their new way. But if there was one thing she hadn’t been certain of before that she was now, it was this: she wouldn’t have wanted anyone but Julian by her side during the past few difficult months. He wasn’t perfect, no one was, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t everything Audrey needed.
She walked him to his door, waiting on the front porch under the light. “I love you,” she said. “Julian Kitsch, I do love you.”
“I love you,” he said back, linking his hands in the small of her back. “Audrey Spencer, I do love you.”
“You’re the best,” Audrey said, allowing herself to kiss him slow and hot in the cold winter air.
When they came up for breath, Julian said, “Yeah, I am the best,” and then kissed Audrey again before she could elbow him the way she wanted to.
“I take it back,” she said when they broke apart this time. “On account of your ego getting in your way.”
“Whatever,” he said. “There are no take-backs allowed.”
“Where does it say that? The Book of Relationships, chapter two, verse ten?” Audrey pinched his cheek. “Charming.”
She reached for him again, kissing him with a fierce intensity. Audrey hadn’t forgotten all the doctor’s instructions about sex, and she and Julian had agreed that they wouldn’t rush getting back there, either, that they’d go slow and not put any more pressure on the situation. Every time they touched, it was harder for Audrey to stop, though—when he kissed her so good, when she felt his warm skin while running her hands under his shirt. But it all made her feel that when the time finally came and they did do it again, it would be good.
He was the one to pull away first, laughing low. “What are you trying to do to me?”
“Me?” Audrey said, all innocence. “I’m just kissing my boyfriend.”
“Yeah, you’re doing something to your boyfriend,” Julian said. “Now I have to go take a cold shower.”
“Not for much longer,” Audrey said, and she spun away from him, laughing at the expression on his face. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
At home she found her mom and Adam in the kitchen eating heaping bowls of ice cream in their pajamas like mischievous little kids. Audrey couldn’t resist when her mom placed a bowl of the goodness in front of her, and so she stayed with them awhile, telling stories from dinner and none from Cooper’s. Eventually her mom and Adam went up to bed, yawning and rubbing their eyes, and Audrey followed. In her room she took her time wiping off her makeup and weaving her hair into two long braids before changing and getting into bed.
Lately she’d been falling asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but not tonight. She lay there for a long time, reciting poems in her head, counting upward in Spanish, trying to fall into dreamland.
But it was no good, because she wasn’t in the least bit tired.
Audrey scratched at the waist of her sweatpants. Something that Rose had said had stuck with her, the thought bouncing around her head keeping her awake.
You actually did choose your family!
Not exactly right—it was more that her family was chosen for her. But the outcome was the same: her perfectly imperfect, mixed-up life, the one she wouldn’t change for anything.
Audrey closed her eyes and tried counting again, in English this time. One. Two. Three. Fou—
Wait. Yes. She knew exactly what to do.
Throwing back the covers, she rolled out of bed. She padded over to her desk, found a pen and then a clean notepad.
Audrey woke up her computer and put on some music, low enough so it wouldn’t travel down through the floorboards.
Her hand holding the pen shook, but as soon as she touched the paper, it stopped. The words flowed easily, like they’d been there all along, waiting to be let out.
Dear Amanda, she began.
You wrote me a letter a long time ago. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read it. And now you’ve given me another one. I honestly don’t know what to say.
I think I’ll start with: thank you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve dreamed of having a Real Book Written by Me out in the world for so many years, and now that it’s here, I almost can’t believe it. (I really almost can’t believe that my story about a mixed-race girl who has an abortion, and is okay with it, is the one that made it through every obstacle to become Real.)
Biggest, truest, most heartfelt thanks to my wonderful agent, Jennifer Johnson-Blalock, and my amazing editor, Elizabeth Lynch, who are my Dream Team. Who support me even when I’m being overly neurotic and overthinking everything and tell me how much they believe in me, and this book, at every turn. Jennifer: I am so grateful for that out-of-the-blue email and that you understand everything I’m trying to say so clearly. Elizabeth: thank you for championing this book and always being on my side. I do not know what I would do without either of you. (And all the Ariana Grande gifs and Center Stage discussions.)
Everybody at Harper who made this Real Book real: Renée Cafiero, Andrea Curley, Sarah Creech, who gave me such a beautiful cover, Steph Hoover, Christine Cox, and Sabrina Abballe. Everybody at Liza Dawson Associates, my wonderful agency home.
Those who read this story in its various early incarnations and helped me make it (so, so much) better: Jaime Morrow, Sara Biren, Stephanie Allen, Melanie Stanford, and Emily Lloyd-Jones.
I couldn’t get by without the wit and warmth of so many badass ladies on the internet, most of whom I’ve never met in real life but who continually brighten my world, probably without even knowing it. If I were to name you all, this book would never end, but I trust that you all know who you are and that you all put a smile on my face.
Authors whose books I have loved, wept and raged over, and been so inspired by: Nina LaCour, Brandy Colbert, Courtney Summers, Sara Zarr, Stephanie Kuehn, Nova Ren Suma, Sarah Dessen, Laurie Halse Anderson, Corey Ann Haydu, and Emery Lord.
The teachers who always, always encouraged me to kee
p writing: Christine Martin, Ali Knowles, Toni Cain, and Joanna Price.
Emily Letts, whose video of her own abortion informed the scene of Audrey’s. Thank you for sharing your experience and bringing light to the reality of abortion.
Diane Warburton, for all your help and always reminding me to take ownership of my accomplishments.
To all my friends and family. To my mum, for never saying no to books and always finding me reflections of myself. To my dad, for always believing I knew what I was doing even when I didn’t.
To you, for reading.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Courtesy Rebecca Barrow
REBECCA BARROW writes stories about girls and all the wonders they can be. A lipstick obsessive with the ability to quote the entirety of Mean Girls, she lives in England, where it rains a considerable amount more than in the fictional worlds of her characters. She collects tattoos, cats, and more books than she could ever possibly read. You Don’t Know Me but I Know You is her first novel. You can visit her online at www.rebecca-barrow.com.
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BOOKS BY REBECCA BARROW
You Don’t Know Me but I Know You
CREDITS
Cover photo © 2017 by Stephen Carroll/Trevillion Images
Cover design by Sarah Creech
Cover lettering by Michelle Taormina
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
YOU DON’T KNOW ME BUT I KNOW YOU. Copyright © 2017 by Rebecca Barrow. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN 978-0-06-249419-1 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © July 2017 ISBN 9780062494214
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