Steam still fogged the glass in her bathroom as Emily towel dried her hair.  She was clad in her fleece pants and old sweatshirt, much warmer and drier than she’d been before.

Her meeting with Justin was still on her mind, but she’d been forcing herself not to think about him.  Now, she just wanted to curl up with her book and forget about the world for a while.  She wanted to slip between the pages and let them become her life. 

Curling up on the window ledge with a blanket, Emily opened her book to the dog-eared page.  She unfolded the flap, smoothing the paper and searching for the spot she’d left off.

Her eyes scanned the page, confusion knitting her brow.

The words were not what she remembered.  She flipped back a few pages, searching for her spot and not finding what she was looking for.  She flipped forward, hoping maybe the book mark had been wrong.  She still couldn’t find where she’d left off.  The words were all different, the story not what she remembered.

Emily closed the book and stared at the cover.  It was the book she’d been reading.  She knew the creases in the cover, the worn spots from her hands and years of being held, opened, and read.  She decided to try one last time, hoping to clear up her confusion.  She must’ve forgotten what had been happening in the book.  It was impossible that it had changed.  Completely impossible.

She found a chapter she remembered well.  With a sigh, Emily sat back and read.

The boy laughed in spite of his embarrassment.  His blushed cheeks ached from smiling, but he was trying to pretend that he was aggravated with this whole situation.  His mother was swaying around the room, humming a tune he didn’t know and making up words as she went.  The broom in her hands became a microphone as she danced around her son, nudging him and signing loudly.

“Come on,” she prodded.  “It’s fun.”

Emily could feel her stomach sinking.  This scene…this story was exactly the story that Justin had told her at coffee today.  The description of the silly songs, the image of his mother.

He’d lied.

He’d sat there and told her a story that’d he had read in the book and he’d lied.

She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for it.  She’d been a puddle in his presence, and he’d been playing her all along.  She ignored the voice in her head that whispered maybe he wasn’t lying.  It wasn’t possible that this was his story.  It wasn’t possible that the book had changed.  She must’ve been getting sick.  She must’ve been coming down with a cold and she wasn’t remembering things correctly.

There was a logical explanation for this. 

Right?