Page 1 of You Met Me There

Prologue

Natalie

When I was eighteen, I didn’t realize I could want something so badly, just to change my mind in an instant. To crave something else entirely.

At eighteen, I wanted leopard-print skinny jeans. Now, I want the Marla crinkled satin pants by Akris punto.

At eighteen, I wished our little town could just get a freaking McDonald’s. Now, I’m dining at places like Sexy Fish Miami—a top-rated restaurant in town. And yes, that’s its actual name. The place is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It has a magnificent floor-to-ceiling waterfall behind the bar, a pink seashell-inspired ladies’ room that looks like a mermaid threw up in it, seafood entrées you’ve never even heard of, and the best peach-and-jasmine cocktail I’ve ever tasted. I’ve come a long way from the Golden Arches.

At eighteen, I was bored. Now I travel all over the country photographing rising social media stars and spend evenings at the country club drinking coffee, and eating triangular cucumber sandwiches with my mother-in-law. Samantha took me under her wing when I left home, becoming a mother to me in her own way.

I, myself, have no children, much to my disappointment.

It intrigues me how we as humans are so fickle. We want, desire, and crave what we don’t have, until we finally get it. And then, suddenly, we decide there must be something else out there that could outshine it. There must be something better, mustn’t there?

If that’s so, then we’re in a hamster wheel of opportunities, chasing the next best thing on an endless cycle of chase and release, chase and release.

When will we decide we have enough?

Are we doomed to always run and run and run in an endless loop until we eventually fall off the wheel and cease living?

Chapter 1

Natalie

Inever expected my world to shift, to tilt so fully on its axis that I completely toppled off. My world evolved around one thing, one person, I believed would keep me sane—keep my heart beating.

But I’ve been wrong before.

As I scramble through my room grabbing brightly colored articles of clothing from the drawers, I do my best to keep my eyes from his side of the bed. I try not to remember the way his soft blond hair flops across his pillow in the morning light or how his piercing blue eyes watched me intently as we used to dream of our future together.

I certainly don’t pause at the closet door, remembering the night we tumbled in there and made love on the floor.

Every year for my birthday I’ve asked for the same thing: for us to expand our family. For us to become parents.

And every year his answer is the same: some form of a soft NO that lands heavy in my chest.

After the first few birthdays following our wedding, I should have known the answer wouldn’t change.

A drawer slams shut after I empty it of all my T-shirts and tank tops. A lacy beach cover-up drops to the floor. I step over it.

His excuses look different each time I mention children. One year it was “I don’t think right now is the right timing.” Another year he said, “Kids aren’t conducive to the jobs we have.” And my personal favorite: “The world is a bad place. We can’t bring kids into something so unstable.”

My shoulders slump and heat builds behind my eyes. I grab a pink dress and a tan coat from the hangers, stuffing them into the large suitcase sitting open on the plush carpet at the foot of the bed. I don’t bother folding anything neatly. I don’t take time to organize any of it. If it doesn’t fit in this case, I’ll toss it into a trash bag and throw it in my car.

I really don’t care. I just have to get out of here.

My phone rings … again. I don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is. And even if I didn’t have a special ringtone just for him—the song we danced to at our wedding—I’d still know who was calling. The ringing makes me slow my pace, and my hand reaches out to the musical tone as it plays our song, but I don’t let it pull me in. Not again.

My husband can call a hundred times, and a hundred times I’ll ignore it. I have the last seven calls to prove it.

By now he’ll know where I am and that I’m probably packing, so I pick up the pace and grab every pair of underwear, jewelry, and piece of clothing I can find. The suitcase is already full to the brim. I close it and zip it up, sitting on its edge to get the last few inches zipped shut.

I don’t have much time before he’s here. It’s not that I’m scared of him. No, it’s quite the opposite. The only thing I’m afraid of is that seeing him again—even just once, even for a second—will make me fall madly in love with him all over again.

That’s how it always goes. He has a spell over me, one that’s been growing in strength ever since I first laid eyes on him.

We were eighteen. He was a tourist in my hometown on a camping trip with his parents. As I stopped at a local bait store near the river to get an ice cream bar, he caught my eye from across the street.