Page 7 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

“When I first moved to New York, I got robbed…”

Could it be…?

No. NO. Absolutely not. It was just a coincidence. Hundreds, probably thousands of people had a similar story.

I leaned back in my seat as the waitress refilled our coffee and cleared our plates. When she was gone, I added a dash of cream to my coffee and drank.

My right leg kept jumping and I needed to use two hands to hold my coffee cup. Caffeine was the last thing I needed. I set down my cup and tucked my hands under my thighs.

Two years ago, I found a notebook in Tompkins Square Park. Or, rather, Chuck the Vietnam vet I’d befriended found it. He thought I might be able to use it in one of my collages. When I asked him where he got it, he told me he saw a strung-out, toothless man digging through a duffel bag. The junkie kept the valuables and ditched the rest.

Chuck rescued a plaid flannel shirt from the trash too. It was soft and worn, and still smelled like laundry detergent and the musky scent of a boy.

The notebook had a torn cover, marbled black and white, and the pages in the front were so water-damaged that the words were illegible. But farther in, I struck gold.

On a bench in the park, I’d flipped through pages ringed by coffee stains and infused with the passion of a wildly romantic soul. I fell in love with his words and half in love with him. He wrote like a beat poet crisscrossing the country from coast-to-coast on a quest for enlightenment and the true meaning of life.

Now, I ran through all the reasons why Gabriel couldn’t possibly be my Notebook Boy.

Number one. The flannel shirt was extra-large. Gabriel was taller than me, just above average height, but he was too lanky and fine-boned for an extra-large shirt.

Number two. Annika knew all about Notebook Boy, but it hadn’t triggered any reaction from her.

Granted, she’d only skimmed a few passages and that had been two years ago on the heels of her parents’ divorce drama.

But we used to talk about Notebook Boy all the time, conjuring up images of what he looked like (James Dean but make him nerdy, without the untimely death) and how we would meet (reaching for the same book at a used bookstore).

After agreeing to share the book, we would go to a 24-hour diner and talk all night then stumble home at dawn, drunk on love and kisses and fall into bed. And a relationship.

Years later, whenever people asked how we’d met, we would tell them the story of the notebook. “We were meant to be,” we’d say, trying not to sound too smug that out of all the billions of people in the world, we’d found each other.

“Maybe Cleo has it.”

My gaze snapped to Annika’s face. “Has what?”

“The book Gabriel left at the bar.” She laughed. “What did you think I meant?”

Maybe Cleo has your notebook.

Or your flannel shirt that’s clearly too big for you so it couldn’t possibly be yours.

Or maybe she just has really shitty luck and fate has done her dirty.

But no, they were talking about a lost book, a conversation I’d obviously missed while I was busy freaking out while simultaneously envisioning my future with Notebook Boy.

I reined in my overactive imagination and looked over at Gabriel, relieved to see that he looked nothing like James Dean. I couldn’t picture him in glasses either. “Which book was it?”

“Milan Kundera.The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I need to get another copy so I can find out how it ends.”

“Oh, yeah.” I nodded. “You need to finish it. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

He held up his hand. “Don’t spoil it.”

My jaw dropped. “What do you take me for? A barbarian? Next, you’ll accuse me of reading the ending first.” He laughed. “I guess you can borrow mine,” I said grudgingly. “But only if you promise to return it.”

“Wow. This is a big moment.” Annika’s hand went to her heart. “Youneverlend out your books.”

“Because I never get them back!” I laughed.