The Princesses of Iowa (43 page)

“Ethan, goddammit, I want to talk to you!”

He spun around, pushing a hand through his wet hair. “Why? What more is there to say?”

“Let’s see,” I said. “How about I’m sorry, for one?”

“Are you asking or telling?”

“Telling. I’m sorry. You’ve been so great to me, and I’ve been an asshole to you.”

He shrugged. “Whatever.”

“I mean, you
are
great,” I said.

“Fine,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Really great,” I said, getting desperate. His eyes were dark.

“Look,” he said, not unkindly. “I just don’t think we can be friends. We tried, it didn’t work, fine. Let’s cut our losses and move on.”

I flinched, raising a hand to my cheek as if I’d been slapped. The rain poured down my face. I didn’t even want to think about what I looked like — my carefully applied mascara was probably running in rivers under my eyes, my hair a limp, wet version of Medusa’s snakes. Princess Paige would have left it there, would have gathered what poise she had remaining and made the most dignified exit she could.

But I was no longer that girl. “Ethan,” I said, and then stopped. What could I possibly say to convince him?
I didn’t realize — not until I thought you were dead. . . . I spent the last two days looking for you.
Everything I thought sounded so trite, and yet I couldn’t stop running through every cliché I knew.
You had me at hello. You complete me.
Shit.

“I missed you,” I finally said.

“Look,” he said impatiently, “I saw you with Jake —”

“On stage? That wasn’t — Ethan, listen to me.” I reached out a hand and grabbed him, and even through the freezing rain a spark of electricity jumped between us. “Listen. That wasn’t anything. We’re finished.”

“Which explains why he was kissing you. . . .”

“Which explains why I punched him in the junk and ran away.”

He laughed unexpectedly. “Really?”

A strand of wet hair flopped across his eye, and I had to restrain myself from brushing it back. My heart was shivery and nervous, but I tried to play cool. “No, but would I seriously be standing, barefoot, in the middle of a torrential rainstorm if I was still with Jake? I mean, logically, wouldn’t I still be inside, dancing and . . . um . . .” I looked around, desperate for inspiration.

Ethan gave me a small smile. “And eating princess cake?”

“Exactly. And floating on fairy castles. . . .”

“Riding unicorns into the sunset. . . .”

I laughed and shivered.

“Look,” I said. “I have a lot of things I need to figure out. But with you, I feel like it’s okay that I don’t exactly know who I am. Because you don’t make any demands of me. You don’t expect me to be anyone but myself.” I sighed, frustrated that words were failing me when I needed them most. “Am I making any sense at all?”

He grinned. “You mean, other than the part where you seem to think that being with me is better than riding unicorns?”

“Other than that.”

Ethan’s eyes locked with mine. “Absolutely.”

We were built on words; the words we’d written together, the things we’d told each other that we hadn’t said to anyone else. But there was also something between us that transcended words: the connection, the understanding, the times we had looked at each other and really
seen
— all those moments of silence were just as important. All this time I’d been holding myself back, keeping myself between the lines other people had drawn for me, because I couldn’t see myself as anything more than princess. But with Ethan, I
had
been more. I had been myself. And while I knew that I would continue to be myself with or without him, I wanted to be me with him. If he’d have me.

He reached for my hand. I grinned, tears mingling with cold rain on my cheeks, and laced my fingers through his. I leaned against him and he leaned against me, and we walked until the rain stopped falling, the clouds evaporated, and one by one the stars appeared.

This book was written in six years, five houses, four jobs, three cities, two states, and with the help of one incredible community. Because my gratitude is as vast as a continent, allow me to give my most geographic thanks.

In Publishing Land: I am overwhelmingly thankful for Secret Agent Becca Stumpf, who in addition to being a visionary editor and a relentlessly cheerful champion is also an excellent dancer. I am equally thankful for my brilliant editor, Kaylan Adair, whose editorial wisdom has far surpassed my every expectation. I recently read that they don’t make editors like they used to; apparently Kaylan didn’t get that memo — and thank goodness, because I don’t know where I’d be without her keen eye and sharp green pencil. Hogs and kisses, Kaylan!

In New Mexico: Lisa Aldon, in whose house this book began, Jennie Lee, Tony Forbes, Rory Cobb, Kelly Williams, and my students at Moriarty Middle School, who inspired and challenged me, with special thanks to fellow writers Elizabeth Carpio, Liz Spalding, and Anaztasia Borrego.

In Chicago: StoryStudio has been the kind of writing community most writers only dream of, and I owe huge thanks to everyone, especially the members of the Advanced Fiction Workshop, who saw early drafts and asked all the right questions. I am particularly indebted to my mentor, teacher, and friend, Jill Pollack, without whom I would not be the writer I am today. Thanks also to the Ragdale Foundation and to my fellow residents for the champagne and daffodils.

In Iowa: Ali Brown and Cameron Gale were this book’s first readers and cheerleaders. You’re both okay, I guess. Dan Beachy-Quick and Mark Baechtel shaped me as a writer and teacher, and provided Mr. Tremont’s best lines and lesson plans. Em Westergaard Hamilton, Jennie Wheeler Rothschild, Adrienne Celt, and Carly Schuna read early drafts and convinced me to keep going. Molly Rideout read a late draft and talked me off the ledge. Nick Wagner has been my favorite writing buddy, and Chris Rathjen was my consultant on Iowa topography and flora. Melissa Torres, Dana Watson, Sarah Aswell, Kate Herold, Hudson Heatley, Rick Heineman, Carrie Robbins, Nadia Manning, and Mary Hoeschen: you’re all wonderful. And the entire Grinnell and Plans community, without whom I could hardly face the world each morning, much less write a book. Thank [you] all.

In Wisconsin: Lifelong gratitude to Gail Gregory, Karen Ludvigsen, Camille Farrington, Michele McConnell, Debe Van Steenderen, Dan Williams, Heather James, and especially Nat McIntosh, who understood from the beginning.

At home: My giant, wonderful family, including several hundred cousins, aunts, uncles, steps and halfs and once removeds. Thanks especially to Val, Justin, Elodie, Helene, and all the Hestads, to Roger Backes and Sally Hestad for their unflagging support, to my whip-smart sister Megan, whose incredible eye for detail helped this book immeasurably, and to Eileen Backes, for everything. Finally, my deep and lasting gratitude to Natalie Kossar, for the thousand ways you support me every day. Thank you for putting up with me and all my envelopes.