For my amazing mom, who’s always been mybiggest fan, harshest critic, and the womansingle-handedly responsible for my distrust ofthose asshats in the shoe industry. Thank youfor letting me read under the blankets when Ishould’ve been sleeping.And for my beloved dad, who saw the cover butnever got to read the book. He would’ve lovedthe Stella’s scene and remembered the ketchup.RIP, Jerry Painter (5/17/39–5/18/20)—L. P.OceanofPDF.com PROLOGUE“I’m just a girl, standing in front of aboy, asking him to love her.”—Notting HillMy mother taught me the golden rule of dating before I even hit the secondgrade.At the ripe age of seven, I’d snuck into her room after having a nightmare. (Ahouse-size cricket might not sound scary, but when it speaks in a robot voice andknows your middle name, it is terrifying.) Bridget Jones’s Diary was playing onthe boxy television on top of the dresser, and I’d watched a good portion of themovie before she even noticed me at the foot of her bed. At that point, it was toolate to rescue me from the so-not- rst-grade-friendly content, so she snuggled upbeside me, and we watched the happy ending together.But my rst-grade brain just couldn’t compute. Why would Bridget give upthe cuter one—the charming one—for the person who was the equivalent ofone ginormous yawn? How did that even make sense?Yep—I’d missed the movie’s point completely and had fallen madly in lovewith the playboy. And to this day, I can still hear my mom’s voice and smell thevanilla of her perfume as she played with my hair and set me straight.“Charm and intrigue can only get you so far, Libby Loo. Those things alwaysdisappear, which is why you never, ever choose the bad boy.”After that, we shared hundreds of similar moments, exploring life togetherthrough romantic movies. It was our thing. We’d snack-up, kick back on thepillows, and binge-watch from her collection of kiss-infused happy endings likeother people binge-watched trashy reality TV.Which, in hindsight, is probably why I’ve been waiting for the perfectromance since I was old enough to spell the word “love.” And when she died, my mother bequeathed to me her unwavering belief inhappily ever after. My inheritance was the knowledge that love is always in theair, always a possibility, and always worth it.Mr. Right—the nice-guy, dependable version—could be waiting around thevery next corner.Which was why I was always at the ready.It was only a matter of time before it nally happened for me.OceanofPDF.com CHAPTER ONE“Nobody finds their soul mate whenthey’re ten. I mean, where’s the fun inthat, right?”—Sweet Home AlabamaThe day began like any typical day.Mr. Fitzpervert left a hair ball in my slipper, I burned my earlobe with thestraightener, and when I opened the door to leave for school, I caught my next-door nemesis suspiciously sprawled across the hood of my car.“Hey!” I slid my sunglasses up my nose, pulled the front door shut behindme, and hightailed it in his direction, careful not to scu my pretty new oral ats as I basically ran at him. “Get o of my car.”Wes jumped down and held up his hands in the universal I’m innocent pose,even though his smirk made him look anything but. Besides, I’d known himsince kindergarten; the boy had never been innocent a day in his life.“What’s in your hand?”“Nothing.” He put the hand in question behind his back. Even though he’dgotten tall and mannish and a tiny bit hot since grade school, Wes was still thesame immature boy who’d “accidentally” burned down my mom’s rosebushwith a recracker.“You’re so paranoid,” he said.I stopped in front of him and squinted up at his face. Wes had one of thosenaughty-boy faces, the kind of face where his dark eyes—surrounded by mile-long thick lashes because life wasn’t fair—spoke volumes, even when his mouthsaid nothing.An eyebrow raise told me just how ridiculous he thought I was. From ourmany less-than-pleasant encounters, I knew the narrowing of his eyes meant hewas sizing me up, and that we were about to throw down about the most recent annoyance he’d brought upon me. And when he was bright-eyed like he wasright now, his brown eyes practically freaking twinkling with mischief, I knew Iwas screwed. Because mischievous Wes always won.I poked him in the chest. “What did you do to my car?”“I didn’t do anything to your car, per se.”“Per se?”“Whoa. Watch your lthy mouth, Buxbaum.”I rolled my eyes, which made his mouth slide into a wicked grin before hesaid, “This has been fun, and I love your granny shoes, by the way, but I’ve gottarun.”“Wes—”He turned and walked away from me like I hadn’t been speaking. Just…walked toward his house in that relaxed, overcon dent way of his. When he gotto the porch, he opened the screen door and yelled to me over his shoulder,“Have a good day, Liz!”Well, that couldn’t be good.Because there was no way he legitimately wanted me to have a good day. Iglanced down at my car, apprehensive about even opening the door.See, Wes Bennett and I were enemies in a no-holds-barred, full-on war overthe one available parking spot on our end of the street. He usually won, but onlybecause he was a dirty cheater. He thought it was funny to reserve the Spot forhimself by leaving things in the space that I wasn’t strong enough to move. Ironpicnic table, truck motor, monster truck wheels. You get it.(Even though his antics caught the attention of the neighborhood Facebookpage—my dad was a group member—and the old gossips frothed with rage attheir keyboards over the blights on the neighborhood landscape, not a singleperson had ever said anything to him or made him stop. How was that evenfair?)But I was the one riding the victory wave for once, because yesterday I’d hadthe brilliant idea to call the city after he’d decided to leave his car in the Spot forthree days in a row. Omaha had a twenty-four-hour ordinance, so good oldWesley had earned himself a nice little parking ticket. Not going to lie, I did a little happy dance in my kitchen when I saw thedeputy slide that ticket underneath Wes’s windshield wiper.I checked all four tires before climbing into my car and buckling my seat belt.I heard Wes laugh, and when I leaned down to glare at him out the passengerwindow, his front door slammed shut.Then I saw what he’d found so funny.The parking ticket was now on my car, stuck to the middle of the windshieldwith clear packing tape that was impossible to see through. Layers and layers ofwhat appeared to be commercialgrade packing tape.I got out of the car and tried to pry up a corner with my ngernail, but theedges had all been solidly attened down.What a tool.When I nally made it to school after scraping my windshield with a razor bladeand doing hard-core deep breathing to reclaim my zen, I entered the buildingwith the Bridget Jones’s Diary soundtrack playing through my headphones. I’dwatched the movie the night before—for the thousandth time in my life—butthis time the soundtrack had just spoken to me. Mark Darcy saying Oh, yes, theyfucking do while kissing Bridget was, of course, as swoony as hell re, but itwouldn’t have been so oh-my-God-worthy if not for Van Morrison’s “SomeoneLike You” playing in the background.Yeah—I have a nerd-level fascination with movie soundtracks.That song came on as I went past the commons and made my way throughthe crowds of students clogging up the halls. My favorite thing about music—when you played it loud enough through good headphones (and I had the best)—was that it softened the edges of the world. Van Morrison’s voice madeswimming upstream in the busy hallway seem like it was a scene from a movie, asopposed to the royal pain that it actually was.I headed toward the second- oor bathroom, where I met Jocelyn everymorning. My best friend was a perpetual oversleeper, so there was rarely a daywhen she wasn’t scrambling to put on her eyeliner before the bell rang. “Liz, I love that dress.” Joss threw me a side-glance between cleaning up eacheye with a cotton swab as we walked into the bathroom. She pulled out a tube ofmascara and began swiping the wand over her lashes. “The owers are so you.”“Thanks!” I went over to the mirror and did a turn to make sure the vintageA-line dress wasn’t stuck in my underwear or something equally embarrassing.Two cheerleaders surrounded by a pu of white cloud were vaping behind us,and I gave them a closed-mouth smile.“Do you try to dress like the leads in your movies, or is it a coincidence?” Jossasked.“Don’t say ‘your movies’ like I’m addicted to porn or something.”“You know what I mean,” Joss said as she separated her lashes with a safetypin.I knew exactly what she meant. I watched my mom’s beloved rom-comspractically every night, using her DVD collection I’d inherited when she died. Ifelt closer to my mother when I watched them; it felt like a tiny piece of her wasthere, watching beside me. Probably because we’d watched them together So.Many. Times.But Jocelyn didn’t know any of that. We’d grown up on the same street buthadn’t become actual good friends until sophomore year, so even though sheknew my mom had died when I was in fth grade, we’d never really talked aboutit. She’d always assumed I was obsessed with love because I was hopelesslyromantic. I never corrected her.“Hey, did you ask your dad about the senior picnic?” Joss looked at me in themirror, and I knew she was going to be irritated. Honestly, I was surprised thatwasn’t the rst thing she asked me when I walked in.“He wasn’t home last night until after I went to bed.” It was the truth, but Icould’ve asked Helena, if I’d really wanted to discuss it. “I’ll talk to him today.”“Sure you will.” She twisted the mascara closed and shoved it into hermakeup bag.“I will. I promise.”“Come on.” Jocelyn stuck her makeup bag into her backpack and grabbedher co ee. “I can’t be tardy to Lit again or I’ll get detention, and I told Kate I’ddrop gum by her locker on the way.”
