When You Were Mine

by Serle, Rebecca

  “I just didn’t think it would happen like this.”

  “I know, baby,” she says, “but this is life. We can’t plan it; it just happens. The only thing we get to choose is how we react to it.”

  I think about Charlie and what she told me. We can choose to be happy. You can choose not to blame yourself. Then I get it. And there’s one more thing I think we can choose too.

  I take out my phone and text her back. Dinner at my house? Love you. I get one back immediately: DUH. Luv u 2, Rosebud.

  “So are you going to join us downstairs for your birthday?” my mom asks.

  “In a few minutes. First there’s something I have to do.” She nods and smiles at my dad, who’s just come in. He’s holding a big white envelope.

  “Happy birthday, cookie,” he says. “In the midst of everything, we forgot to give you this.”

  They look at each other and then at me as my dad slides the envelope onto the bed. Embossed on the front is the Stanford logo. Of course. I’d forgotten to check online.

  “Go ahead,” my dad says. “See what’s inside.”

  I pick it up and turn it over. I’ve been waiting for this moment for ten years. Longer, even. I always imagined how it would go. I would call Rob, excited and breathless, and he would come over. We’d sit on the floor in my bedroom and I’d put a hand over my eyes and hand him the envelope. “I can’t do it,” I’d say. “Just tell me.”

  He’d open it and read it to himself with a straight face, nodding soberly. Then he’d look up with a blank expression and say, “Rosie, here’s the deal.” He’d pause, and my heart would be beating out of my chest. Then his face would crack into a gigantic smile and he’d say, “You got in!” He’d thrust the paper into my hands, and I’d read with completely shaking fingers, the letter flapping everywhere.

  But now it’s just me and the envelope. No Rob. No nerves, even. I turn it in my hands, just holding it, and then I set it back down on the bed.

  My dad frowns and looks at me, but my mom is smiling slightly, that little smile that says she just knows. “We’ll be here when you’re ready,” she says, and ushers my dad outside.

  Something is coming back, some life force I’ve been missing since Rob died, maybe even before. Probably before, actually, because it feels like my entire life I’ve been just floating along, anticipating one thing and then another, like my life was a checklist and I just kept ticking items off. I used to think that was safe, comfortable. Like nothing bad could happen if I just stuck to the list. Now I realize it was downright constricting. I don’t want to live like I know what’s coming.

  I throw myself into my bathroom. I run a brush through my hair and gargle with some mouthwash. I’ve looked better, but I just don’t care. I’m buzzing now, humming with the excitement of what I’m about to do.

  I jump into some jeans and pull a long-sleeved T-shirt over my head. Then I throw on a sweater. After all, it’s snowing outside. For the first time I kind of understand what my mom’s been talking about. That it’s my birthday and the start of a new year. It’s cool, really, that I get this chance to do things differently. That one day, one moment, can mark the beginning of all kinds of change.

  My parents are hanging out in the kitchen when I get downstairs. They actually went over to Juliet’s parents’ house the other night. I don’t know if they will fix things, but I think they’ve started to try, and for just a moment I’m grateful for that, for the fact that sometimes things turn out the way they do, and even if unthinkable things happen, there is good buried underneath. Feuds can end. Families can reunite. Friends can change and grow, sometimes even with you. The possibilities of life are unknown and endless, and the staggering reality of that, of how much things can change in a moment, suddenly seems less scary and more full of hope. Overwhelming, but tinged with excitement. Like the edges don’t recede away into oblivion, stretching out forever, but instead are lit on fire. Energized, somehow. Like life isn’t something that happens to us but through us and by us. Like we’re a part of something. Like we have choice. Because having a plan is great, but sometimes you realize that the thing you really want, you forgot to write down.

  “I’ll be back later,” I say, and shout good-bye. I pull on boots and slip outside. My car is parked in the garage, where it always is, and for a second a familiar fear catches in my throat, but today I push it to the side. It’s now or never, and I don’t want to wait anymore. I tap my unused license in my palm as I climb inside and put the keys into the ignition. When the car starts, I just keep telling myself that I can do this, that I’m not afraid, that it will all be okay.

  And it is. As soon as I start driving, the fear begins to melt away. My hands relax on the steering wheel and I’m cruising down the highway. Effortlessly. Past Grandma’s and Charlie’s house and school and the place where I fell last year while biking with Olivia and skinned my knee, and where Jake and Rob used to go surfing at the cove. And just like that, I need a new seven. Because not driving is no longer the thing that defines me. And I’m not so sure anymore that there is one thing that defines any of us. Because the fact that Lauren does SAC or that Olivia likes purple or that Charlie has Big Red doesn’t really tell us anything about them. Or if it does, it doesn’t tell us nearly enough. Their sevens should be that Lauren picks up any responsibility, without ever asking for any credit, and that Olivia stands up for her friends when it really matters, and that Charlie is resilient and strong and that she will hold you up when you can’t do the same for yourself. Those are the things that define us. The way we love the people around us, and the choices we make to show it. That’s what makes us who we are.

  As I keep on driving, it’s like a huge gravitational force is pulling me by my belly button toward the Cliffs, tugging me closer and closer so that it feels almost like I’m on autopilot. I don’t need to think. Something else, something bigger than me, is doing it for me now.

  When I pull into the parking lot, it’s empty. For a moment I’m disappointed, wondering if maybe I was wrong, but then I see a figure over to the side, by the rocks. I slam the door and walk closer. He looks just like I thought he would. Shirt and jeans, familiar and exhilarating. I approach him from behind. He’s busy bent over something, studying it. I want to go and put my arms around him, bury my head in his shoulder and tell him how I knew I’d find him here. That if he was anywhere, he’d be here, of course. With me. And that there’s something I really need to tell him.

  “Hey,” I say. He stops what he’s doing, but he doesn’t immediately turn around. He straightens up, runs a hand across his forehead. “I knew you’d be here,” I say.

  Then Len spins around, slowly, and when he does, I’m reminded of all the times I’ve been here before. How much has happened in this exact spot. And in the time it takes him to face me, I realize I’m happy to be here, now, like this. That I’m choosing to be happy. And that that choice is the best one I have ever made in my life.

  “Hey,” he says. “How did you know where to find me?” He’s frowning, and it throws me off. I thought he’d be smiling. I thought just by seeing me he’d understand.

  “Grass,” I mumble, because it’s the only thing I can think of. “You were doing a project on grass.”

  His face softens. “You came here to talk about grass?”

  “No,” I say. “I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Yes?” he says. He crosses his arms and looks at me.

  “I—I—” I stammer, “I understand now. You were right.”

  “About what?” he asks. He’s moved closer to me now, and I can feel the warmth of him. I want to press myself up next to him, to have him put his arms around me, but I force myself to stay still and finish what I have to say.

  “You told me something months ago. Something about letting go.”

  Len uncrosses his arms, and when he does, that curl swings down onto his forehead. This time I don’t stop myself. This time I reach over and sweep it away, and at the same time I say, “Y
ou were right. He wasn’t meant for me. And not just because he’s no longer here.”

  I can feel Len inhale, my hand still on his forehead. I let my hand trace back through his hair. It’s soft, like the cashmere sweaters my mom keeps wrapped in tissue paper in her closet. “But you were wrong about something too.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says. He has inched closer to me too, and one of his hands reaches up to touch my arm. The contact sends sparklers off down my spine. Even though it’s snowing, he’s not wearing a jacket, and I reach for his arm too, and slowly trail my fingers down his birthmark, along one of the many wonderful things that makes him him.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s that?” he whispers. His lips are inches from mine, and I have to bite my lip to keep from reaching out and pulling his face down right this instant.

  “It’s not the hardest part of letting go. The hardest part is just making the choice to do it. Everything after that is easy.”

  Len nods. “So is that what you’ve done?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And what have you chosen?” His voice is low and deep, and when he talks, it feels like the vibrations of his words are humming through me like music.

  “You.”

  I can’t be sure who moves first, but all of a sudden our lips meet, and when they do, it’s like the entire world has been turned off because all the light in the universe is existing just between us. Like fireworks on the Fourth of July. So much light you can even hear it.

  When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Len keeps one arm around me, and with the other he points up to the sky.

  “Do you see that?” he says.

  “There’s nothing there,” I whisper. “Just clouds.”

  Len shakes his head. “It’s Andromeda,” he says. “A princess from a Greek legend. She was chained to a rock in the ocean to die, and Perseus saved her. It’s a spiral galaxy, just like the Milky Way.”

  “But it’s not night yet,” I say. “The stars aren’t out.”

  “Of course they are.” He smiles and pulls me closer. “Just because you can’t see things sometimes doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

  I think about the things I haven’t seen. How much has changed. How six months ago I thought I had everything figured out. I was so sure of how things were going to unfold. I think about Len saying he wasn’t finished with high school yet, and I think I know what he means now, because I’m not either.

  “I got my letter from Stanford.”

  He smiles. “They paying you to go?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t open it. I don’t even know if it’s what I want anymore.”

  Len considers this, running a hand gently through my hair. “You know, NYU has a great music school,” he says. “And it’s not too late to apply.”

  I lean back and look at him. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Juilliard is in New York, would it?”

  He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Please,” he says. “I have better things to do than sit around and think about us spending our college years together, playing music, sitting in coffee shops . . .”

  “We probably wouldn’t even see each other,” I say, teasing. “I’m sure we’d be very busy.”

  “Plus, there’s that girl with the tattoos I need to date in order to properly rebel.” He laughs. “Still and all, I think we could make it work.”

  “Yeah?”

  He looks down at me and touches his forehead to mine. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

  Here. This place that has seen a beginning and an ending and now a beginning again. He pulls me toward him, and when our lips meet, the possibility of life seems to explode outward, and the astounding energy of the universe, of how alive the roots and the leaves and the stars and even the delicate, white, precarious snow is, makes me smile against his lips.

  “So what happens now?” I ask.

  He kisses my nose, and I can see his dimples dancing. “Anything you want, Rosaline,” he says. “Absolutely anything.”

  Epilogue

  Olivia was right. The point of the Choose Your Own Adventure books was just that: choice. It wasn’t about where you ended up; it was about the decisions you made to get there. And I don’t want to skip to the end anymore. Because in real life there is no way to know, anyway. There are no guarantees. You can start down one road and figure out it wasn’t the one you really wanted to be traveling down at all. Or you could switch courses just to realize this new path leads to the exact same place as the old one. And, see, that’s where choice comes in. Because while you can’t know where you’ll end up, you can, even in the last act, alter the course you’re taking. You can veer off to the left, swing right, and find yourself somewhere you thought you’d never be. I guess the thing I’ve realized is that fate and destiny only get you so far. Because they decide beginnings, not endings. Destiny might drop you off somewhere, but it’s your job to get where you’re going, to decide your own ending, what moment you choose to close the curtain on. So I guess Shakespeare didn’t get it wrong, after all. The truth is that there are many different endings to the same story.

  This one is mine.

  Acknowledgments, and thanks . . .

  First and foremost to my stupendous agent, Mollie Glick. Thank you for your belief, your commitment, and your mad iPhone skills. You make me feel supported, challenged, and excited every single day. I have the best job in the world because of you.

  To my incredible editor, Anica Rissi, who loved Rosaline from the get-go. Thank you for fighting for this book; for the chocolate; for your genius, ridiculously awesome editorial guidance; and for always, always making me feel like the coolest kid on the block.

  To Brad and Yfat Gendell, who, from my first minute here, have made New York home. Yfat, none of this, not one single part, would be possible without you. Thank you for seeing something in that girl that I didn’t yet, and thank you for making me family.

  For Hannah Brown Gordon, there is not enough gratitude. Thank you for helping me understand that this was my story, and for holding my hand as I figured out how to tell it. Between the two of us we use a lot of words, but we need only one: love.

  To my wacky buddy cop, writing partner, and wonderful friend, Leila Sales, who stood next to me and sat across from me during this entire process. You showed me that this extraordinary dream was possible, and you challenge me every day to be worthy of it.

  To Melissa Seligmann, who lived through this and many other books with me. I was never alone, because I had you.

  To everyone at Pulse who made me feel so welcomed from day one. Bethany Buck, Mara Anastas, Jennifer Klonsky, and Guillian Helm, thank you. I couldn’t imagine a better place to call home.

  To Katie Hanson for sharing her apartment with me every Sunday and for celebrating these triumphs as her own.

  To all of my friends, you know who you are: I love you.

  To Yes Giantess, for helping me write my way in. Check them out: www.myspace.com/yesgiantess.

  A big thank-you to everyone at Foundry, in particular Stephanie Abou and Stephen Barbara. Stephen, thank you for introducing me to the wonderful world of children’s literature. I will always be grateful.

  And finally to my parents, to whom this book is dedicated. You always believed, even when I didn’t. I am so blessed to have you both.