A/N: It's been a challenge writing this story, but it was definitely good practice. I'm slowly starting to find my bearings again, so maybe you'll see more stories from me soon.
I enjoyed this so much because it's different than what I'm used to, and I hope you all enjoyed it as well. Thank you so much for reading, I appreciate you all so much. So, please enjoy and, if you'd like, please review! I appreciate and welcome any comments you can give. (:
- J
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the words.
You stand in front of your full length mirror turning every which way, attempting to determine if this outfit, approximately the seventh outfit you've tried on, is the right one. You stand still, appraising your reflection- your chestnut hair, freshly washed with your favorite vanilla shampoo, lies straight and sleek in a lob (short for "long bob", you learned), and you silently praise yourself for getting such an easy haircut, because it means it's one less thing you have to worry about. Your hazel eyes are rimmed subtly with smudged black eyeliner, framed by long mascara coated lashes. Since you knew you'd be walking to the bookstore and it was a bit chilly, you lightly dusted on a bright pink blush, afraid that by the time you walked in, the natural rosiness of your cheeks would come out, and you would end up looking like you had clown cheeks- or had been slapped. You lean in towards the mirror and apply a bit of baby pink gloss and smack your lips, taking a step back and looking at the clock.
6:47. "Well," you think to yourself, "this is going to have to do." You take a deep breath, pull on your black, thigh-length trench coat and black knee-high riding boots, grab your purse and walk out of your apartment, shutting and locking the door behind you. You make your way out of the building and as the cool air hits you, you take a deep breath. "It's now or never."
You arrive at Sarah's bookstore at exactly 7:24, music and chatter streaming out the door. From the window, you can see the top of the author's head as he's sitting at the table, his dark curly hair reminiscent of a certain other person you are determined not to think of. You feel your heartbeat quicken in response. The line for autographs is slowly dwindling down, and before you open the door, your pull down the hem of your dress nervously, trying to pull yourself together. "Relax, it's not him," you tell yourself.
As soon as you step inside, Sarah greets you with a wave from the back of the store, gesturing wildly towards the author. "I'll introduce you later!" she mouths, and you laugh and nod. You pull out the copy of the book you took from the bookstore earlier and make your way to the line, waiting patiently.
"Who can I make this out to?" you hear a familiar voice ask. No, it can't be. Apprehensively, you peek around the two other people in front of you, and your breath catches. It's him.
Your hand is starting to cramp, your butt hurts from sitting for so long, you probably have a countless number of paper cuts along your fingers, your cheeks hurt from all your forced smiling for pictures, and you're tired of writing the same exact message in every book. You just want this to be over so that you can finally go home and get some rest. After traveling all around for the last six months, visiting random bookstores all around the United States, you're just dying for something normal. You're dying to be home. After all, your house isn't more than twenty minutes away from here, and you can almost hear your bed calling to you. But no, you're stuck here for another two hours.
You weren't complaining, you're more than grateful for the opportunities that have come your way these last few years. You spent the better part of two years writing and pouring your heart into this novel, on top of also taking over the position of chair of the English Department at the prep school you taught at. When you had finally pried your fingers off of your keyboard and forced yourself to stop editing, you shopped your manuscript around for no more than a week before you had major publishers clamoring for the rights to your novel. In two weeks you had closed a deal. And now here you were, a year later, just finishing up your six month book tour for a novel that had shot right up the charts of the New York Times' Best Sellers list. You couldn't be happier.
Actually, that was a lie. You could be happier. If you had her. You still kept her note in your wallet and read it from time to time, albeit less often than before. In some masochistic way, it comforted you knowing that you still at least kept a piece of her with you. Hell, you even dedicated this book to her.
You remember when your editor asked for your dedication, she was the first person to come to your mind. She was, after all, your inspiration for the novel. So, you metaphorically ripped off the band-aid and exposed yourself in that dedication. It still hurt reading it, so you purposefully skip over it every single time when you do these signings.
"Who can I make this out to?" you ask, not even bothering to look up as a pair of small hands gives you her book. You immediately turn to the blank page after the dedication and begin scrawling the same message you've signed in every single book, leaving a space for you to write in the person's name once they tell you.
Dear _,
Thank you so much for your support with this novel, it truly means the world to me.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.
Sincerely,
Ezra Fitz
You hear the person clear their throat. "Make it out to Aria, please," they say, "Aria Montgomery." You whip your head up towards the voice, and your hand freezes in the middle of your signature. You can't believe your eyes. It's her.
Your heart won't stop pounding. You know that there's only a few feet (and a few people) separating you from him, and you don't know whether you can handle it. A part of you considers bolting, no one besides Sarah would ever have to know you were there, but that idea immediately rushes out of your brain as you see him smile. You watch as the girl at the table quickly rushes around and places her arm around him, smiling widely for a picture. You duck behind the person in front of you, afraid he might see you, and you see him smile.
You always loved his smile, that smile that was so wide, it would crinkle his eyes. That smile of his always made your heart stop. You hadn't seen it in years, and today was no exception. This smile he wore now was pained, forced, fake. You could tell from his eyes that he was tired, that he probably needed a good night's rest- and maybe a drink. You automatically felt for him, knowing that when he was tired, he was exhausted.
You realized now that the people in front of you were gone, leaving only you, face to face with him. He's looking down as you hand him the book. "Who can I make this out to?" he asks as he takes it from you, immediately opening the book to the blank page at the beginning of the book. You notice he quickly skipped over the dedication page, which was weird because whenever you went to book signings, the authors liked to write their personal messages on the dedication page as well.
Not that what he was writing could really be considered "personal". You watch as he scrawls on the page, leaving a space after "Dear" and beginning to write a generic thank you message. You clear your throat, willing yourself to speak clearly and not let your voice crack.
"Make it out to Aria, please," you say. "Aria Montgomery."
You watch as he whips his head up to look at you, his piercing blue eyes finally meeting your hazel ones. You smile timidly. "Hi, Ezra."
Yes, you wanted this book signing to be over before, but now you're desperate for it to end. After finishing signing the last copy of your book, you finally got to stand up and stretch out a little, but it also meant that you would now have to wander around and mingle with people. Sure, that was usually always your favorite part, because you would get to finally talk to your "fans" (you hated having to call them that), getting to know them on a personal basis, and be able to consider them as friends. But now, all you wanted to do was see her. Talk to her. But she was gone, and you had no idea where she went.
"Oh, there you are, Mr. Fitz!" You flinch a little, unused to hearing yourself be referred to as "Mr. Fitz" again.
"Please, call me Ezra," you say, turning to meet the bookstore's owner. Sarah, you remember her name being. "Only my students call me Mr. Fitz," you say with a forced chuckle, your eyes attempting to discreetly pan across the crowd, looking for her.
Sarah's cheeks redden in embarrassment, and you immediately feel a tinge of remorse. You smile genuinely at her, "Thank you for letting me host my last signing here. It feels good ending this tour so close to home."
You watch as she smiles back, at ease again. "No, thank you for having it here! I really appreciate you stopping here and not one of the many major chain bookstores you could have chosen."
"I've always preferred smaller bookstores over the larger ones," you respond, glancing at her quickly and then returning to scan the crowd.
"I'm sorry," Sarah says, drawing your attention back to her, "Are you looking for someone?"
You sigh in defeat. She's nowhere to be found. "No, just admiring the turnout," you flub, "It always amazes me that even one person shows up to these."
Sarah laughs again, and the silence between you two is uncomfortable. But you can tell she has something to say. "Listen," she says, leaning in, "I have a friend I would love to have you meet. She's a new fan, and I promised I'd introduced you." She backs away and holds her hands up, "I mean, only if you want to, of course."
You look down at your watch and realize it's almost ten. All you really want to do, besides find her, is finally go home and sleep, but there's something so hopeful in Sarah's face that you feel bad saying no. So you say yes.
She beams at you and begins leading the way to a little secluded corner in the back of the store. It's a cozy little place, quiet and tucked away from the party. You spot a cozy looking chaise lounge propped against the wall, next to a lightly blazing fireplace, with a small girl wrapped in a blanket lounging on it and reading a book. Your book, you realize.
"Aria!" Sarah says enthusiastically, and you suddenly feel nervous as you also realize it's her. No wonder you couldn't find her, she was hiding in the back of the store. You feel horrible, thinking you've interrupted her little sanctuary, but that thought is immediately dashed as you see her grin, her smile reaching all the way to the corners of her eyes, taking your breath away.
You watch as she stands up and smooths out the imaginary wrinkles in her black lace dress. "Aria, I'd like you to meet Ezra, our guest of honor," Sarah says, gesturing to you. "Ezra, this is Aria. One of my best friends from college." All you can do is stare at her. And she stares back.
Sarah probably realizes something is up, because she grins and back away quickly, mumbling something about needing to tend to the guests. But you've forgotten about it all, about the party, the guests, the novel. All you can focus on is her, and the fact that she's finally in front of you.
You take a step forward at the same time she does. Instinctively, you left hand reaches back and rubs the back of your neck, unsure of how to proceed, how to greet each other. You eyes drift over to the book she's left on the chaise and you see she's read the dedication. You turn back to her, and there's a tear in her eye.
"I forgive you," she whispers. "Thank you." And in a split second, she's in your arms. She's back.
To the One That Got Away,
I know I hurt you, and I will always regret that.
I will always regret letting you go.
Wherever you are, I hope you're happy. All I want is for you to always be happy.
This book is for you. Everything I do is for you.
One day, I hope this book finds you. One day, I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me for all my mistakes.
I love you. I will always love you.
Sincerely,
Ezra
You see him pull her into his arms, holding onto each other as if their lives depended on it. And they probably did. You watch as he picks up her coat and delicately slips it on her, smiling as she hitches her purse onto her shoulder before placing her hand in his. You watch her kiss him on the cheek. You watch as her and him walk out of the bookstore hand in hand, talking animatedly about anything and everything, filling in each other about their lives.
And, if you look closely, you can see the exact moment when they cease to be a him and a her and instead become an us.
Fin.