From What I Remember

My conviction doesn’t quite dull the pain in the way I’d hoped.

I buy a slice, a few garlic rolls, and a Diet Coke for my di

I reach the big blocky building I now call home, and take the elevator up to the sixth floor. The halls are empty, and my footsteps echo as I clomp toward my room in my Doc Martens, the de rigueur NYU shoe. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the place this desolate. As I reach my door, I notice a piece of paper tacked to it.

I step closer and pluck it off. It’s a letter addressed to Max.

What?

I start to read, and realize it’s an acceptance letter from the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, for January.…I’m thoroughly confused.

I open my door to find…Max sitting on my bed, waiting for me.

“Oh. My. God. What are you doing here?” I say.

“Happy to see me?”

“Thrilled out of my brain…but how…what—”

“Gabrielle gave me her key. I forgot how articulate you are when you’re thrown off guard.”

Is it possible he looks even better than when I left? I’m pretty sure I don’t. I’ve definitely gained the freshman five. Too many cereal choices at breakfast.

“I didn’t have plans for Thanksgiving, and rumor has it, neither do you.” Max holds up a can of cranberry sauce. “You like cranberry sauce? ’Cause at the moment, that’s kind of all we’ve got.”

I hold up the letter and wave it at Max. “What’s this?”

“I’m transferring to Pratt.”

“Here. In New York?”

“No, I’ve decided on the campus in Dubai. Better weather. Good squash team.”

“Shut up.”

“Turns out, I hate prelaw. Someone I know warned me that might happen. Go

How is it this beautiful boy likes me? Has flown across the country to spend Thanksgiving with me? Is transferring schools to be in New York City? I am the luckiest girl in the world. Maybe there’s no expiration date on my good fortune.

Maybe this is my life from now on.

“What about your dad?”

Since the summer, Max’s dad has only gotten sicker. He’s been in and out of the hospital the past two months.

“I bit the bullet and talked about it with him. He wants me to be happy.”

“Oh my God. Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I got in. And then I wanted to tell you in person.”

I can’t believe we’re still at opposite ends of the room. I quickly close the distance between us by taking a flying leap into his arms. Max catches me, laughing. I wrap my legs around him and hang on to him with everything I’ve got. He staggers back but then regains his balance. My head nestles into his neck and I breathe him in. He smells like toothpaste and airplane food. God, I’ve missed him.

And then Max’s lips are on mine, soft and sweet and tasting like latte. I open my mouth and our tongues find each other. There’s no more me. Just us. And there’s no place I’d rather be than right here, right now. In a dorm room in New York City. With Max. This is the best Thanksgiving ever. Thank you very much. More, please.

othing would have gone according to plan for us without our agent, Erin Malone, whose astute advice and unwavering support have kept us going through it all; our brilliant editor, Emily Meehan, whose smart and savvy notes made the book better at every turn; our families, whose unflagging enthusiasm and love encouraged us to write in the first place; and our children, whose drunken Mexican adventures inspired this story (kidding—they’re all under the age of thirteen).