“I’m not a—” I squeak, and then stop myself. I guess I can be a handful sometimes.
Jason’s smiling at me. His eyes are so blue I can hardly stand to look at him.
“So you let me chase some made-up guy all over London like a fool?” I ask, burying my face in the hydrangeas.
“You weren’t a fool,” he says. He reaches out and brushes my arm with his hand. I stare at the spot on my arm that’s now pulsing with electricity. He reaches back up and places his hand on my arm, firmly this time, then looks right into my eyes. “You were determined. I like that about you. You’re so fearless.”
I blush at the compliments, even if they aren’t entirely true. If he knew all my fears and self-doubts, he really would jump into the Thames.
“Look, I thought once you knew, you’d be pissed,” he says. “I thought you’d think it was another one of my stupid pranks, and then I wouldn’t get to spend time with you helping you find your mystery guy. And with as much as you care about love and MTB or whatever, I didn’t think you’d ever forgive me for messing with your idea of perfect romance. When all along … well, what I was hoping you’d realize was …”
“My mystery guy was you,” I finish in a whisper.
“Well, yeah,” he says. He reaches out and touches my chin—once, gently. “I really like you, Julia. A lot. I—I want to be with you.”
A huge smile breaks across my face, so big my cheeks feel like they’re going to detach from my jaw. I bite my lip. My whole body feels like it has been stuck inside an oven, and this time I let myself remember, really remember, our kiss in the field. “So the kiss … it was for real?”
“Yeah,” he says, and this time it’s his turn to blush. “Of course.”
“But you told Sarah it was a mistake,” I say, looking hard into his eyes. He jerks back a bit, looking shocked.
“How did you know about that?”
“I saw your note,” I reply sheepishly. “You left it on the bus. I took it when I was getting off.”
“The kiss wasn’t a mistake … lying to you was the mistake. Kissing you made me realize how much I liked you, but also that now there was no way out of this without you finding out that I’m a liar. I thought I’d ruined it forever.”
“Wow.” I exhale heavily, feeling like a balloon letting out all the air. I can’t tell if I want to happy dance through the streets or curl up under the bar and take a nap.
“So I guess I just have one question,” he says.
“What’s that?” I ask, and Jason grabs my hand and squeezes it tight.
“Do you care that I’m an obnoxious brat who thinks yellow Starbursts taste like lemon Pledge, doesn’t believe in ‘meant to be,’ and doesn’t fit any of the qualities you’re looking for in your mythical Mr. Right? Even though I call it soccer and not football, no matter how many times you correct me? Even though I’ll be a pen user until the day I die?”
“Well,” I say, pulling him closer and rising up out of my seat, “someone once told me love isn’t perfect—or predictable.”
This time when we kiss, I’m ready. I want it, and I sink into him immediately. His arms wrap tightly around my waist, his hands on my back, pulling me close. He bends his head to meet my lips and I kiss him with all the urgency of a week of running around London looking for something that’s been in front of me all along. It’s not MTB.
It’s better.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, thanks to Lauren Oliver and Lexa Hillyer, who took a chance on me and then whipped me into shape over many months of drafts. I was but a wee babe of an author before you two taught me that my characters should, you know, do stuff, and slapped that -ing construction out of me. Thanks to everyone at Paper Lantern Lit: Angela and Rhoda and Beth, for line edits, roller derby cheering sections, and always being sassy at parties. Thanks to Stephen Barbara, agent extraordinaire. Thanks to my editor, Wendy Loggia, and everyone else at Random House. I couldn’t ask for a better home.
Thanks to Mom, who always has sensible advice (and supports me even when I don’t take it!) and who never lets me get away with poor grammar (even on my blog). Thanks to Dad, who said from time to time, “What about writing? You were really good at that.” He has always known better than anyone that I’d someday find my way back to it (even if I did ditch the journalism major). Thanks to my entire family, who have cheered me on since the moment I entered this world. I’m a very lucky girl to have you all in my life.
Thanks to Alana and Meg, who encouraged me when I wanted to ditch my career in education and become a writer. I couldn’t have done it without those Facebook messages of support. Thanks to John Hayward Williams, the first non—publishing person to read any of Meant to Be, who let me use his name in my book. Buy his music; it’s pretty awesome (haywardwilliams.com). And thanks to all my friends who said, “I’m totally going to buy your book!” Um, now’s the time, folks! And if you said it, and now you’re reading this, I like you very, very much.
I was also lucky enough to have some really great teachers in my life: Professor Glenn Gass, who wouldn’t remember me because I was one of a billion students in giant lectures, made quite the impression on me with his zest and passion for music. You can thank him and his Z401: Music of the Beatles class at Indiana University for all the references. Also, Mrs. Sarah Williams, who taught me my first lesson on “show, not tell” and got me excited about creative writing; Mr. Mark White and Mrs. Penny Piper, who showed me that history is really about the story; and Mrs. Cynthia Freeman, who inspires every student she teaches, and I’m so thankful to have been one of them. Every time I think about walking the halls at Maryville High, I’m reminded of Cher Horowitz: “Oh, well, this is a really good school.”
Thanks to everyone on Twitter and Facebook and in the blogging world who’s followed me and beamed out messages of love and support. The Internet is a pretty cool place if you’re a YA author.
And finally, thanks to Adam, who let me quit my job to become a writer and asked in return only that I use some of my newfound free time to walk the dog and do some dishes.
Sorry about the dishes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lauren Morrill grew up in Maryville, Tennessee, where she was a short-term Girl Scout, a (not-so) proud member of the marching band, and a troublemaking editor for the school newspaper. She graduated from Indiana University with a major in history and a minor in rock and roll and now lives in Boston with her husband and their dog, Lucy. When she’s not writing, she spends a lot of hours getting knocked around as a member of the Boston Derby Dames, a roller derby league. Meant to Be is her first novel. Visit her at laurenmorrill.com.
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