She opened her eyes and glared at his profile, unable to keep her gaze from lingering. His nose was crooked—not badly, but almost in a Matthew McConaughey kind of way. His jaw was square—chiseled, with a shadow of scruff that hadn’t been there last she’d seen him.
His hair was lighter now. Probably from driving around with the top down like this. It was about two shades darker than her own. Not brown or blond, but that shade right in between where she knew he must have been a towhead when he was little. But it was his mouth she couldn’t pull her eyes from. The soft, full shape she still remembered to this day.
She closed her eyes and turned back to window. She’d be kidding herself if she said he wasn’t handsome. He was honestly one of the best looking men she’d ever seen in her life. Strong features, strong body, bronzed skin, which only made his blue eyes more vibrant. But handsome wouldn’t be the first word she’d use to describe Tristan Montgomery. Big. That would be the word. Not big in size. Though yes, he was over six feet tall—much larger than Samantha’s five-foot-two-inch frame. But it was his sheer presence that made up the volume, more powerful than the roar of the mustang below them. More expansive than the wind blowing in her face.
But he didn’t remember. His words kept whirling in Samantha’s mind. The kiss that had been her first, which she’d unwillingly compared with every other kiss she’d had since, was too insignificant to take up his brain space. She leaned forward again, retrieved her laptop out of her bag, and sat it on her lap. She needed to write, to focus on anything but the man who sat beside her.
Her narrative was a diary of sorts, the way to get things out of her head so she could let them go.
Dear Renee,
She began as she always did—though Renee rarely ever received them. Samantha had hundreds of messages like this, if not thousands. Some were letters of excitement and joy, others fears and anxiety. But many were confessions. Too many. They were unedited, unanswered, unsent. Letters from a teenage girl who was confused, heartbroken, and needing someone to talk to. Letters from a drunken newly twenty-one-year-old woman, who for some reason was thinking of Tristan when on a romantic getaway with her boyfriend.
I can’t wait to see you! To see you in your wedding dress. To hug you!
I can’t wait to catch up on all you’ve been doing since leaving LA. I know we’ve talked nearly every day, but it’s different when I can see your face. I’ve missed you so much. So much more than I can say in this letter. So much—that I find myself sitting next to your brother for the next four days.
He says he doesn’t remember me; is that even possible? That he couldn’t remember the girl who was at his house more often than her own? But I guess that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that he showed up, and that I’m on my way to see you.
I miss you! I miss your stinky ballet shoes! I even miss tripping over your dance bag you always left by the front door. I miss us sitting on the couch, binge watching Netflix. I worry we’ll never do that again…
I know it’s silly, but I always pictured us growing old together. You’d live next door and come over to borrow sugar. But you’d stay awhile…so our babies would crawl on the living room floor together.
We’d go to cocktail parties, see romcom movies because our husbands never wanted to go. We’d always give them a hard time, but secretly we’d love it. Because it would be like old times, like sitting under blankets watching Netflix…
Six years earlier
Maple syrup dripped from the bite of waffle held midair on Samantha’s fork. A sea of breakfast foods covered the plate in front of her: waffles, eggs, toast. But she’d neglected to take a bite of any of it. Breakfast wasn’t her favorite meal on any given morning, but today the food was especially unappealing.
She’d tossed and turned all night long, barely able to get more than an hour’s rest. Her stomach was rolling with anxiety and guilt. The feeling that still lingered now. It was guilt over kissing Tristan, but also about holding back the truth from Renee. Samantha and Renee shared everything with each other. Everything. Last night was the first time in their Nine-year friendship that Samantha had gone to bed knowing she hadn’t told her friend the truth.
Samantha’s mom had once told her that the secret to a happy life was never going to bed knowing you’d been dishonest. At the time, she’d thought her mom was trying to convince her to confess about the cookies she’d stolen from the pantry, but the advice haunted her last night. Because an untold truth felt an awful lot like a lie. Like stolen cookies leaving a sour taste in the bottom of her stomach.