Nobody is here.

But he was here. Houston was here. The book he pulled is Grimm’s Fairytales. It’s one of the older copies from the lit section of the library. I flip through a few of the pages, noting the violent illustrations; the bleak look for every story—the way these fairytales were intended. Then, a spark of color in the middle catches my eye. It’s another note, with a lot more writing on it, taped to the opening page of Rapunzel.

This is the only one I know of that has a tower. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get this quite right, but you tell a better story than I do anyhow. Rapunzel…or let’s call her Princess P…is locked away in her tower, waiting for her prince to save her.

Tired of waiting, she learns to fight on her own.

When the evil witch comes to give her dinner one night, the princess has become so ripped she throws the witch out the window. The witch lands on the prince, who is really too late in coming to her rescue at this point, and seeing him as such a failure has completely turned Princess P off anyhow.

Having worked out so hard—and taken so many natural-growth hormones, which of course the bluebirds flew to her through her window—Princess P finds her hair has now grown long enough to reach the ground outside her window. She conveniently finds scissors in her tower room, cuts her hair, and braids it into a kick-ass ladder, upon which she climbs down, stepping on the bodies of the witch and the failed prince as she passes.

The end.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s nothing like the version you told. But the point is I miss you, and no one should go without feeling loved on Valentine’s Day; so consider this me loving you still. And if this isn’t who I think it is, the person I’ve seen here, by the window, every night this week, then feel free to pretend this was meant for you, because now I feel really bad telling you it’s not.

Sincerely,

The failed prince

I’m laughing. Out loud. There’s no one near me that would ever hear, so I let myself laugh, and maybe cry a little. I peel the sticky notes from the book and fold them to go along with my crooked heart in my wallet. I flip through a few more pages of the book and chuckle at the real, very sad ending of Rapunzel, which results in basically everyone’s death, then put the book on the return cart parked nearby along the wall.

Knowing there is no longer a reason for me to be here, I lift my bag and leave the library, my heart pulled in two directions—between selfish and selfless. For the first time, I have something I can talk to Rowe about, and I really think she might be the only one who will understand.

When I get back to our room, everyone is inside, so I look at my phone to check the time. It’s not quite five, and I know they weren’t planning on going out until late. But I am glad Rowe is here now. Maybe she’ll have some time to talk.

I walk in behind her, ready to tap her shoulder, but glance at our small television, which seems to have everyone completely captivated.

“What’s going on?” I ask, letting my hand fall to my side. Cass turns to me, her eyes wide and her lips caught in a shocked-type of smile.

“They just arrested Martin Campbell,” she says. My face mimics the look of surprise on my sister’s, but only because I need something to mimic, something that won’t show the concern consuming me inside that this news…it’s bad news for Leah and Houston.

“Why?” I ask, turning my attention to the TV, trying to read the information scrolling along the bottom so fast it feels like it’s on fast-forward.

“Something about paying off cops, hiding a homicide,” Nate says. I keep my eyes glued to the TV, catching the last few words spoken before the story flips to something else—a fire at a warehouse in Oklahoma City.

“Manslaughter,” Rowe says after, her voice lost in a trance for a moment.

“Huh?” Nate asks, turning to look at her.

She shakes her head after a second, like she’s coming out of something in her past, and I realize she probably doesn’t watch the news a lot, not since there was a shooting at her school.

“It was a vehicle accident, a family member driving under the influence. They killed someone. They said the case is maybe four years old. He covered it up,” she says, her face showing genuine remorse for people she doesn’t know.

My breath is gone.

“Fuck, I bet it was Chandra,” Ty says, his remark so nonchalant.

It’s like that moment when a sand artist is running his hands through grains and all of a sudden a picture reveals itself. Everyone else has moved on—already talking about where they want to go for dinner, before the bar. The television remote is tossed on Rowe’s bed after someone shuts it off. Cass is laughing at something Ty said. And I’m on the outside, still stuck in the time bomb that just went off.