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CHAPTER ONE
IF I GIVE YOU TODAY, THERE WILL BE NO TOMORROW.
Price
Two months ago,I slid a handwritten note onto the nightstand next to a white tissue box and a gold-framed photo of a blue-eyed Himalayan cat.
I can’t do it. Please forgive me.
Can’t or won’t?
“Can’t” made me weak. “Won’t” made me selfish.
Either way, it was with an insufferable and unavoidable pain that I’d come to that conclusion.
Conclusion or decision?
Hell, I didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
Nothing could prepare a person for that kind of moment. But they’d left me with no choice. Well, that wasn’t true. There was always a choice. Was mine an unforgivable one? That was hardto say. After all, they were my people. I would have died for them, but not like that.
My new placedoesn’t have a picture of a Himalayan cat on the nightstand, my favorite black weathered recliner from college, or a warm body waiting for me in bed.
It’s a fully furnished two-bedroom home in Austin, Texas. It’s all very Pottery Barn. There’s a tufted crushed velvet sofa in twilight blue, mid-century wood tables with fake flowers in vases, and marble bookends flanking a collection of everything from Stephen King to Margaret Atwood.
Wood floors.
Modern rugs.
And a few contemporary pieces of framed art—red poppies and birch trees on cobalt canvas.
In the primary bedroom, above the bed, there’s a photo of a young boy on a bicycle with a yellow lab chasing him down a sidewalk. The boy looks like a younger version of myself.
Maybe it’s that I had a yellow lab.
Maybe it’s because my parents made me ride my bike everywhere while my friends were in their rooms gaming.
Maybe it’s his twiggy arms and legs and wavy brown hair in a mess. Since then, I’ve added muscle and discovered that a little hair gel goes a long way to taming thick, wavy hair.
Whatever it is about that boy in the photo, it’s comforting.
Before five in the evening, I add a blue Honda CRX to the driveway. It has a dent in the rear bumper, which complements my new life and motto: Perfection is overrated. My whole life has been overrated. For a decade, I’ve been the happiest, miserableoverachiever. It’s a complicated oxymoron that makes sense if one takes a step back to see the whole picture.
However, I’m six weeks into remedying that situation—well on my way to underachieving the hell out of my life.
Now, there’s only one thing left to do. Findher.
Scottie Rucker looks exactlyas I remember—wayward, cinnamon-brown hair just past her shoulders. Bangs brush her eyes, always a quarter inch too long. When she laughs, her head shakes, and her chin lifts to flip those unruly bangs away from her gleaming eyes of gold and brown.
Always hopeful.
Always pleasant.
I don’t have a single memory of her that’s less than perfect. Even our breakup felt like fate because she said all the right words. The world makes sense with Scottie in it. And right now, I need things to make sense.
A whoosh of cool January air whistles when a customer exits Drummond’s General Store, leaving me and a handful of other customers milling around the aisles of industrial shelving surrounded by white shiplap exterior walls with sliding ladders. This place bleeds nostalgia.
There’s a vintage soda fountain with a draft arm, an ice cream cabinet, and rows of syrups. Bulk goodies—everything from fireballs and taffy to Tootsie Rolls and Bit-O-Honeys—line the far end of the bar with sparkly red swivel stools. A stand with fresh floral bouquets anchors one end of the register, while a display for local artisan-made goods anchors the other.
