Page 7 of What I Like About You

Anyways, how this book only has 24 ratings on Goodreads is a tragedy—I will be plugging and blasting and screaming about FIREFLIES AND YOU on social media until the end of time!

PLZ READ IT SO ALANNA CAN WRITE MORE AMAZING BOOKS.

With Love (& Cupcakes),

Kels

And, as always, tag me in your cupcake posts!! I LOVE seeing your beautiful bookish creations. [Showing Comments 1-20 of 1,782]

TWO

You’d think us Levitts would be minimalists.

I mean, we once movedsix timesintwo yearsin the name ofGentrify, U.S.—a documentary that exposed the realities of gentrification in American cities. From nine to eleven, I lived in Brooklyn, Boston, Chicago, D.C., San Francisco, and Seattle.

By Chicago, I lived out of my suitcases. There was no point in pretending to settle.

With every move and every new doc, my parent promised it wasthe one.Gentrify, U.S. earned Mad and Ari Levitt their fifth Academy Award nomination.

It lost to a doc about chinchillas. Seriously.

I’m just saying. Considering how much of my childhood has been spent packing and unpacking and relocating, stuff should be a burden. I should live a cleansed, clutter-free life.

I don’t.

Exhibit A: the tornado of clothes still covering Aunt Liz’s floor. Or my floor now, I guess.

I stare at the mess I made. If I move the clothes from the floor to the bed, is that progress? Maybe instead I’ll purge everything that doesn’t spark joy. Honestly, I probably should’ve channeled Marie Kondo in Charlotte,beforeI challenged myself to fit my entire closet it one suitcase, just to see if I could.

I decide I can deal with the clothes later. First, my books need to breathe—in alphabetical order, by genre. I empty my suitcase one book at a time, organize, and shelve. Repetitive motion centers me, but I finish too soon. All my books fit on the white lacquered bookshelf next to the bed. It’s small—only two shelves. It’s kind of a tragedy, all the books I have fitting on onlytwoshelves.

I would’ve had at least five more if my parents hadn’t made me donate a bunch to the library before we left. Incomplete fantasy series and old white dudeliteratureI read for school now have a new home in the donation bin at the Charlotte Public Library. It’s never easy, saying goodbye to books. Especially ones that I have discussed and debated foryearswith my friends. Like, will Nash still be my best friend if he knows I donated the first two books inThe Queen of Stoneseries? I’m not about to tell him and find out.

Still, it didn’t hurt so bad at the time, when I thought I’d have Grams’s collection to fall back on. But I don’t. And I’m afraid to ask Gramps what he did with them, because if he trashed them I don’t know what I’ll do.

I take a step back and assess my work. My bookshelf is small, but it is mighty. It’s a collection that consists of my three favoritethings: swoony romcoms, twisted thrillers, and anything edited by Miriam Levitt, AKA Grams.

Fireflies and Youis face out, of course. Signed, courtesy of being the granddaughter of the editor. It’s hands down the most priceless part of my collection.

Everyone on Book Twitter claims it’s impossible to pick a favorite book, butFireflies and Youis mine—no question. Beyond the beautiful story, it’s the book that made OTP. It’s the book that told me publicity is my path and showed me that I am in fact good at shouting about books—and making people listen. The one that helped me see I need to work in publishing.

And now it’s the book I reread to feel close to Grams.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the pressure that builds behind my eyes.Fireflies and Youis going to be a movie, so it’s been everywhere lately. It comes out in January and it’s the first Grams book to ever be adapted and she doesn’t even get to see it. She’ll never know—

Breathe.

“Hal?”

I twist to face the door, for one brief minute expecting Grams. Then Gramps’s head pokes in. I turn back around to wipe my tears, quick. Grampscannotsee me like this. I need to be positive. Enthusiastic. Iaskedto be here.

Gramps’s expression is neutral behind his too-long beard. If he saw me upset, he doesn’t show it. “I’m sorry. The orange. I know you hate it. I meant to paint it. Before. I just—”

I shake my head. “It’s okay, Gramps. Orange is a crime to the color wheel, but I’ll live.”

He nudges the door open enough to step in. “Itispretty bad.”

I snort, grateful for this acknowledgement. It’s small, but it’s the first time since arriving that Gramps sounds likeGramps. “Sobad.”

---