Maybe love shouldn’t be built on a foundation of compromises, but maybe it can’t exist without them either. Not the kind that forces two people into shapes they don’t fit in, but the kind that loosens their grips, always leaves room to grow. Compromises that say, there will be a you-shaped space in my heart, and if your shape changes, I will adapt.

I’m mad at him. I’m mad at me. I’m just generally, irrationally mad.

“You know what?” Libby whispers. “Probably,” I say, “but try me.”

I think about schlepping off the train, sticky with heat, paperbacks and towels tucked into a bag, or freshly printed manuscripts and brand-new Pilot G2s.

Life with Mom, life in New York, was like being in a giant bookstore: all these trillions of paths and possibilities drawing dreamers into the city’s beating heart, saying, I make no promises but I offer many doors.

My face jerks sideways. Shepherd stops short, his mouth hovering an inch shy of my cheek. “I should be getting back to my sister!” It comes out unplanned and roughly sixty times louder than I meant for it to.

“You’re going to ‘sleep under the stars’? Offer yourself to the mosquitoes?” “There are body sprays for that.”

“What the hell,” Libby whispers, laughing. “Are you crying?” “Shut up!” I toss a pillow at her. “You broke my eye muscles. I can’t stop it now.” “You’re crying because you love Brendan so much,” she teases. “Admit it.” “I love Brendan so much,” I say, laughing through the tears. “He’s nice!” Libby’s laughter escalates. “Dude, I know.”

“Anything for you,” I tell her. Over her shoulder, I lock eyes with Charlie. Thank you, I mouth. His chin dips as he smiles. Anything for you, he mouths. In my chest, something heavy turns over.