𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦?! | 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝟐𝟖. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡

Acknowledgements

Quarantine Dreams could not have existed without the unwavering support of my brilliant editors and agents at Simon & Schuster. Special thanks to Helen, who advised me in the novel's creation since the beginning. And to C, thank you for everything.

How you found yourself alone in Orlando again was still beyond your comprehension—a friend had won an all-expenses paid couples-trip to Disney World, but that coincided with her travel plans to Paris with her girlfriend. She passed the two tickets to another friend, except they were extremely single (you could relate), so Friend #2 passed the last ticket to you. It was free, and so were you, so why not?

Even your agent was for it–you'd hit a serious snag in your second novel, and probably needed a break. Nothing like new experiences to stoke the creative fire, she'd said. But what Disney World would inspire you to write was beyond you. The perils of long lines and consumerism? Your cup of Dippin' Dots inedibly pastel, overpriced, and melting, rouged princesses simpered, kids screamed, and lovebirds cooed all around you. Alone and waiting for a ride you were terrified to go on, you wondered if Disney World was really the happiest place on Earth.

They were off by about 10 miles, you thought. You checked the time. Since you were in the area, you had swallowed your apprehension and reached out to him to meet–he had been a friend, once. You knew you'd regret it otherwise. You might still regret it. You didn't think about how he'd responded almost immediately, proposing a local café, or how those gray dots floated over the chat bar for too long before vanishing. Over-analysis was the province of teens with too much spare time.

You fidgeted. You didn't actually need to go on Slinky Dog Dash, you decided. You left your spot in line to get ready.

He'd apologized, of course, but it wasn't the same. In the past two years, you and Clay had stayed in an awkward loose-touch: a text here, a text there, a congratulations for hitting another insane milestone, a birthday wish. You could've called, but you didn't. He could've called, but he didn't. By some unspoken agreement, love lives went undiscussed, though the Dreamcatchers and Drista diligently informed you of the proceedings: this gorgeous influencer, that painfully talented singer... Right now, he was a few months out from a break-up, they had said. You didn't need to know.

You wished you could say that, but somehow, you were always willing to listen.

You sat at your table. You'd both taken your turns seeing other people and moving on with your lives. But your heart betrayed you, lurching toward him the moment your eyes met. His face was the same, all artists' planes, swoops, and angles, and set with searching, intelligent, eyes. But he'd also learned how to dress–clean lines and solid neutrals–and it flattered him immensely. You were reminded of his tallness before he folded himself into the seat across from you.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "I had to do a few more takes in recording."

"It's no problem." You smiled. Two years and thirty million subscribers later, his music career was also faring well. You stirred your drink, turning a blind eye to the torrent of sugar he poured into his.

He set the massacred sugar packets to the side.

You fished for small-talk topics.

He stared at you head-on.

"I read your book."

The worst-case scenario. You choked out a laugh. "What did you think?"

Casually, impossibly: "I liked how they ended up together."

He knew about it, of course–Helen's editing suggestions and old contacts were the only reason the story got off the slush pile in the first place. She must've told him.