Table Of ContentTo him, of course
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
Also by Beth Harbison
Copyright
Prologue
I could tell you what he looked like—his height and physique and the way the
contours of his body felt close to mine in the dark; the shape and exact color of
his eyes and how they looked when he was happy, sad, pissed, or passionate; the
lines of his forearms, biceps, shoulders, and elbows; the curve of his lips and the
feel of his mouth against mine; and what his back, and hips, and legs felt like
beneath my fingertips. I could tell you what he smelled like and what he tasted
like. I could pick his voice out in the crowd at Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
Even twenty-three years after the end, I could close my eyes and remember
every detail of him, as clearly as if he were right in front of me.
But what would be the point in describing all that? All it would do—all it
could possibly do—is diminish the whole into a rearrangement of features you
would never see the way I saw them. He’d sound like your neighbor, or your
brother, or that guy you work with, or some other person you couldn’t possibly
imagine inspiring an unending ache in someone’s heart.
Everyone has a first love, one person they never completely got over, right?
Picture yours.
Because when you come down to it, it isn’t really anything about the way they
look that distinguishes them in your memory—hair color, physical shape, style
—it can all change with time. It’s the way you remember feeling when you
looked at them.
When I looked at him, I felt real, unconditional love.
And I felt completely loved.
He was the only person I ever met whose soul I could clearly see in his eyes.
And I had more faith in him than I’ve ever had in another human being.
After I lost him, on the rare occasions when I saw him, I could feel the shape,
the moving embodiment, of the hole in my heart.
Not that my life was about that. I moved on, of course. Dated, worked, ate,
drank, laughed, cried. Had a child. Things happen, life goes on, and you have to
keep moving and think about what’s in front of you or you’ll go insane.
So I pushed the part of me that belonged to him way beneath the surface.
Just like he did with me.
No one would ever have imagined this part of me existed at all, that a piece of
my heart deep down was broken beyond repair, or that that guy—the guy who
could have been anyone (or no one) to you or the rest of the world—was the
cause of it all.
He was the only guy I was ever truly in love with. It took me years to move
on.
Then he came back.
Chapter 17
My dreams are almost never fully satisfying. Yes, I might dream I won the
lottery and can go out and buy a new house and whatever else I can think of, but
inevitably there is also a “grounded” element of the dream; for example, when
the IRS comes calling.
I dreamed of Nate. At first it was promising. Romantic, intense. We were in
the car, “Everything I Own” by Bread was playing, and we were making out,
careening toward the hot sex that ended just about every date we had. His shirt
was off, and I moved my hands across the broad expanse of his shoulders,
remembering the light sprinkling of freckles on his skin, and that one on his ear
that had been there forever.
Suddenly he grew cold. His body stiffened and he moved his arm away from
me.
“Nate? What’s wrong?” I drew back.
His eyes were fixed, like stone, on something in the distance. Or nothing in the
distance.
Not on me.
I knew that look. It had been years and years, but I knew that look. He was
shutting down, closing me out.
“Nate?” Panic grew in me. This couldn’t happen again. He couldn’t do this
again. I couldn’t stand it. “Nate!”
He wouldn’t answer.
Something hit my leg, but when I looked down there was nothing there. A
phone was ringing. Then everything around us faded and I slowly came to in my
bed in McLean Gardens.
Rick was next to me, still sound asleep, despite his ringing phone. I tapped
him, but he put the pillow over his head.
Made no difference to me whether he got the phone or not.
I rolled on my side and looked at his back, wondering when the last time was
that I’d run my hands over it in ecstasy, feeling him inside of me.
I wish I’d told Nate how much he meant to me back when I’d had the chance.
I wish I’d given more instead of just taking all the time.
I wish I hadn’t done anything like trying to make him jealous.
There can’t be anything worse for the ego than dating a teenage girl, you
know? Honestly. No matter how she feels about you, you’re still going to be
dealing with someone who is insane with hormones and who has, almost
inevitably, gotten her ideas about romance from TV, movies, and overwrought
pop songs, sung by pretty-boy musicians who have mastered the art of
manipulating tender hormonally driven feelings into dollars.
No matter what poor Nate had going on in his life—and now that I’m an adult
I realize that there was plenty—I was always ready to squeeze a little more
attention my way with a mention of, “I saw Derek today at the pool. He asked
me out [casual laugh] [lingering ellipsis]…” or “Um … my other line is ringing,
I’d better get that and talk to you later…,” whereupon I’d talk to Jordan into the
night, keeping half an eye open for Nate to show up in my front yard with a
boom box cued to “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel like John Cusack in Say
Anything.
It never happened.
Like I said, Nate wasn’t one for grand gestures. But I still kept trying to pull
one out of him. I guess it was a function of my age and immaturity, and maybe
basic selfishness.
It had to be awful dating me.
Nevertheless, I loved Nate with all of my heart, I really did. I guess I just made
it hard for him to see that. Or to believe it. In retrospect I guess I was just trying
to believe he would love me as much as I loved him and the only way I’d ever
seen that demonstrated, I thought—since my parents weren’t newlyweds—was
through the over-the-top antics of special guest stars on bad TV shows.
So I tried to work it out in my dreams, the way everyone does when they’ve
stuffed things so deeply into their subconscious that they’re in constant danger of
imploding.
Fortunately, Theresa didn’t show up in the dream.
She had nothing to do with this, really. At least she had nothing to do with the
old issues I needed to work out.
Neither did Rick.
As if hearing my thoughts, Rick stirred next to me, resisting waking up for
work. That was probably what had woken me in the first place. When Camilla
was home, it was always her iPod screaming from the bathroom while she got
ready for school that woke me.
But Camilla was at her grandmother’s, and Amy was at a sleepover, so Rick
had stayed over and it was his earlier-than-mine hours that got me up.
I turned away from him and closed my eyes, trying to bring the dream back to
me, but it was too late. It was gone.
I turned onto my back and lay there, discontented.
“Good morning,” Rick said, chipper. He was much more of a morning person
than I am.
“Hey,” I said on a slightly impatient sigh.
He laughed at me. “Don’t poke the bear in the morning, huh?” He was quoting
something I’d said once when he thought it was funny to goad me when I was
too tired for good manners.
I looked at him through narrowed, puffy eyes. “It’s never a good idea to poke
the bear.”
“But sometimes it’s fun.” He got up and stretched. I watched him. He really
was a good-looking man. He had an amazing physique, and the kind of face that
made fans of Disney high school movies swoon. Blue eyes, strong jaw, perfect
straight nose, shaggy brown hair. He was Zac Efron with a few more years and
an edge.
And he was mine.
Why wasn’t I happier about that?
Because I was tired and work was a drag right now, that was all. It was
nothing to do with Nate, I told myself. That incident needed to just be a blip on
my radar. It was a one-night stand, although it was daytime, and Nate was just a
