Page 33 of Only Be Mine

“Cate,” Amy said, voice barely above the wind. “You don’t have to decide everything in one day.”

“But I do,” I whispered. “Because tomorrow isn’t just another day. Tomorrow is vows and a dress and people who took time off work and his mother’s flowers and…” My voice broke. “And if I walk into that church feeling like this…”

My eyes stung. I blinked again, furious at myself for being on the verge of tears on a random sidewalk like some cliché.

Amy stepped closer. “Then what?”

Then what?

I pictured myself in the mirror, in white, smiling for photos. I pictured the reception, the toasts, the dancing…

I pictured Trevor’s face when he looked at me.

And then, uninvited, my mind gave me John, standing under a streetlight twelve years ago, watching until my taillights disappeared. Like tomorrow was real. Like I mattered.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

Amy’s hand slid into mine again, warm and sure.

“John is gone,” she said softly, careful with the words. “But he’s not nothing. And pretending he is… isn’t working.”

I swallowed hard. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Amy took a slow breath. “You’re supposed to be honest.”

The word made my chest tighten.

Honesty meant consequences. It meant admitting that the life I’d built with Trevor wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t the whole truth.

It meant admitting that the absence I’d learned to live with wasn’t healed. It was quietly tucked away.

I squeezed Amy’s hand, my fingers cold despite the warmth of hers.

“I hate this,” I whispered.

“I know,” she said.

We stood there at the edge of the crosswalk, the light blinking red, the world rushing past like it had somewhere to be.

And somewhere deep inside me, something shifted again, quiet, and inevitable.

Because I knew, with sick clarity, that I couldn’t walk into tomorrow pretending I hadn’t remembered how it felt to be chosen.

Chapter 11

Cate

February - Twelve Years Ago

We weren’t supposed to end up anywhere.

That had been the whole point.

It was one of those rare free Saturdays where neither of us had plans, so we just drove. No map, no destination. Just snow-covered roads winding up into the mountains, the sky low and pale, John’s old truck humming beneath us.

The radio crackled to life, and the sultry voice of Britney Spears filled the cab.

“Oh no,” I said. “Not this.”