Flipping the quarter around in my fingers, I lean down and place it on top of the stone, resting my palm over it for a few seconds before moving back to stare down at the headstone.
“I’m not being an asshole anymore, I hope you’re proud of yourself,” I say to the cement marker.
“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I suggested we come pay our respects,” Shelby informs me, moving around me to set a shiny penny down next to my quarter.
“It’s okay, he’d appreciate it,” I tell her when she gets back to my side and wraps both of her arms around my waist.
I drape my arm around her shoulders and pull her against my side.
“Tell me again what the coins mean,” she requests.
Sliding my free hand into the front pocket of my jeans, I continue staring down at Rylan’s grave. This is the first time I’ve been back here since the day I snuck out of the hospital and everything went to shit. I’d been putting it off for months, but after listening to my therapist nag me about it every time I met with him, and Shelby not so subtly reminding me every couple of weeks that she’d be more than happy to go with me when I was ready, I knew it was time.
I tossed and turned all last night after I’d finally told her I was ready. I came close to throwing up the pancakes she made for me this morning. I made her drive us here because my hands were shaking too badly for me to hold on to the steering wheel, but now that we’re here, a strange calm has settled over me and I wish I would have come sooner.
“You leave a penny for someone you might not have known very well, but you still considered a friend,” I tell her. “You leave a quarter if you were with the soldier when he died.”
The coin thing dates back to at least the Roman Empire and I first learned about it during boot camp. Rylan used to joke with me that if he died first, I damn well better show up at his grave with nothing less than a handful of fifty-dollar bills, because he was worth much more than a quarter.
I can almost hear him calling me an asshole and giving me the finger.
Almost, but not really, thank God.
I stopped hearing his voice and seeing his face when I finally learned how to let him go. He told me he would leave when I stopped needing him, but I think he knew that would never happen. I would always need my best friend. I would always miss him and wish I could have saved him. Not a day goes by that I don’t have to stop myself from picking up the phone to call him about something.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fully get rid of the guilt that he died and I lived, and I’ll never understand why him and not me, but I’m learning to do as he asked and not waste the second chance I was given.
I’m not fully healed and I’m not sure I’ll ever be, but every day gets a little bit easier. Shelby makes sure I never miss a meeting with my therapist, she hands me my pills and a glass of water every night before bed, and she always lets me know she’s not going anywhere, no matter how hard it gets or how many times I retreat into myself or pull away. She’s always there, pulling me right back out of the darkness, filling me up with more good than I ever deserved. She makes everything better just by being in the same room with me, making sure I’m okay without hovering and making me talk even when I don’t want to.
Shelby also convinced me to finally reach out to the two other men in our unit who were captured along with Rylan and me and lived through the same hell we did for five years. I didn’t want to face them when we were first rescued, because I knew seeing them and speaking to them would force me to accept the truth that Rylan wasn’t here. Talking to them now, sharing the same fear and pain and nightmares, knowing there are two other men out there who experienced the same things I did and having people who fully understand the struggles I’m dealing with has helped more than anything else.
Even through all the bullshit going on with her mother’s confession and the back and forth with lawyers for months, forgoing a trial when she immediately agreed to jail time. Through all the phone calls from the media wanting a statement from Shelby and practically the entire town showing up at the plantation at one point or another to either give their support or try and get a piece of gossip, Shelby has held her head up high and pushed it all aside to make sure I’m okay.
She amazes me every day. I’m in awe of her strength every time I look at her and realize how lucky I am that she has stuck by my side, never wavering in her determination to heal me and fix all of our broken pieces. She always reassures me that she got the better end of the deal. During my breakdown, my stay in the hospital, and the ten days I kept myself locked in my room, Shelby and Kat formed a bond that will never be broken. After every time we have my sister and her family over for dinner, after every time we stop by their house so Shelby can cuddle my niece, and after every time she hangs up the phone after speaking to Kat or Daniel, she gives me a hug and thanks me for giving her a family. One who loves her unconditionally, stands by her side, and supports her no matter what she does.
Shelby also gives me credit for helping her heal the rift between her and Meredith. I wanted to be just as pissed when I found out Meredith had been the one to keep all those letters I’d written to Shelby because she thought she was protecting her, but if I’d learned anything in the last few months, it was to let things go and move on. After a few phone calls back and forth to Meredith and coming up with a plan, a package arrived for Shelby a month ago that made her immediately dissolve into tears, call her best friend, and make amends. I’d secretly photocopied all the letters and e-mailed them to Meredith, who took them all and turned them into a book. Nothing she would sell to a publisher or release on her own, a book just for Shelby and me called, The Story of Us. She’d taken the letters and I’d filled in the blanks with present-day information and she’d turned it into an amazing story that I still couldn’t believe was ours. I still couldn’t believe we’d been through all of that and come out on the other side. We keep the book on the mantle in the living room, where we can always look at it, or read a few pages if we ever need a reminder of how much stronger we are when we’re together.
“You doing okay?” Shelby asks, tipping her head back to look up at me.
I smile down at her and nod.
“I’m doing okay,” I confirm.
With Shelby’s arms still around my waist and mine still draped over her shoulder, we turn and walk away. Glancing over my shoulder one last time, I keep my eyes on Rylan’s name as we walk until it gets too small to see.
“I won’t piss it away, I promise,” I whisper under my breath, turning my head back around as I grab my second chance by the hand and walk to the car.
Two years later…
The sound of shitty pop music echoes from the studio when I push open the door and walk down the hall. Pausing in the doorway, I smile when I see her in the middle of the room with her back to me, moving her feet from side to side and shouting directions so she can be heard above the song.
I watch her lift her arm above her head and the thirty or so kids in the room copy what she does. Her eyes meet mine in the reflection of the mirror and she smiles back at me before turning around, lifting her hand in the air, and crooking her finger at me. When all thirty kids turn around and mimic what she’s doing, I throw my head back and laugh.
When Georgia went to jail, she signed the entire Eubanks Plantation over to Shelby. It was hers to keep and do with as she wished. It didn’t make up for everything she’d done, but at least it was something, and Shelby knew exactly what she wanted to do with it as soon as she’d received the papers in the mail from her mother’s lawyer. Her mother hasn’t tried to contact her since then, and I worry that someday Shelby will regret not making amends with her, but I’m not going to push it. If that day ever comes, I’ll be right here by her side, giving her the strength she’s always given me.
Eighteen months ago, the Eubanks Plantation became the Rylan Edwards Camp for Children of Veterans and Deployed Soldiers. Since opening day, we’d had full registration for
every session. We’d kept on all of the original staff that worked at the house, the grounds, and the stables, and we hired a few therapists to talk to any families who needed it. The house was turned into sleeping quarters for the kids, I split my time between helping out with group therapy and giving horse riding lessons, and Shelby provided dance lessons in between throwing charity functions to help raise money to fund the camp. I initially protested when she first told me she was going to organize one, not wanting her to do something that had made her so miserable in the past, but it was a wasted effort. Nothing about this camp or helping these children could ever make Shelby miserable.
As Shelby finally gets the kids turned around and back to practicing the moves she’d already taught them, she tries once again to lift her hand and crook her finger at me. Pushing away from the doorframe, I walk through the middle of the room, avoiding flailing arms and kicking feet as I go.
When I get to her, I look down, and just like every time, I’m filled with amazement, love, and happiness.
“I don’t dance, Legs,” I tell her with a smile.
“Nice try, buddy,” she laughs.
“This song makes my ears bleed.”
She laughs again and that sound is still the best thing I’ve ever heard. Well, almost.
A loud, happy screech can be heard above the music and I laugh as I look down at our daughter, her pudgy legs dangling down out of a pink carrier against my wife’s chest and secured over her shoulders.
“See? It makes her ears bleed, too,” I inform Shelby.
“Cameron Rylan James, tell your father to stop being such a sissy and dance,” Shelby says to our daughter’s head. “You can say no to me, but you can’t say no to this adorable face.”
Grabbing Shelby’s hip and tugging the two of them close, I grab Cameron’s little hand and hold it out to the side, moving my feet and dancing all three of us to the music.
“Is it too soon to buy Cameron her own pony? What about a car? Something big and safe, like a dump truck. I should also stock up on a few shotguns and a couple extra padlocks. I don’t like the way that Southerland kid keeps looking at her,” I tell Shelby, looking down at Cameron and making a goofy face until she makes that loud, happy screeching sound again.
“Everett Southerland is six and he’s a sweetheart. Our daughter is seven months old. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need a pony, a dump truck, or a father with an arsenal to scare off boys just yet,” she reminds me as we continue dancing.
“A father always needs an arsenal, Shelby. Always.”
She laughs and shakes her head at me.
“You doing okay?” she asks softly.
I lean down and kiss the top of my daughter’s head, her soft silky hair the same strawberry blond as her mother’s, before coming back up to kiss Shelby. The entire room erupts in a chorus of eeeeeew’s and I quickly pull back with a laugh, looking around the room before my eyes come back to Shelby’s.
I still don’t know if I’ll ever be fully healed, I’ll always miss my friend, and I’ll never be able to completely erase the bad memories, but now I have two people in my life who make it all go away. I was given a second chance and I will do everything I can to make sure I don’t take it for granted or piss it away.
“I’m doing okay,” I reassure her, squeezing my hand around her hip. “Better than okay.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my agent, Kimberly Brower, for believing in this story, and for helping me through all the hundreds of rewrites and different versions of The Story of Us until everything clicked and it became something I’m so incredibly proud of.
Thank you to my absolutely amazing editor, Michele Bidelspach, for falling in love with Shelby and Eli and seeing their potential when their story was only a few chapters long. Thank you for helping me bring this story to life, and helping me make it the best thing I’ve ever written.
Thank you to Joanne Christenson for always being around to answer my military questions, even if speech to text hates you!
Thank you to CM Foss for answering my horse stable and farm questions, and for fictionally teaching me the correct way to toss a bale of hay.
Thank you to Jessica Prince for months and months of plotting phone calls, and for not wanting to kill me every time I changed my mind about how this story should go.
Thank you to the best beta readers in the world: Michelle Kannan and Stephanie Johnson. People always ask me how they can become a beta reader for me, and I tell them I have only used two people for almost every single book I’ve written, and unless they get hit by a bus, that will never change. Please, don’t ever get hit by a bus. I could never write another story without you kicking my ass when something sucks, and giving me a huge ego when something is good.
Thank you to all of the members of Tara’s Tramps for your unwavering support, and for all of your posts that make me laugh when I’m sad, or run out to the store to stock up on eye bleach.
Thank you to the fabulous women of FTN. For your support, your love, your help, and everything in between.
Please see the next page for a preview of Tara Sivec’s new novel, coming soon.
A poignant, breathtakingly romantic new book about the power of first love and the promise of second chances.
Prologue
Dear Everett:
If you’re reading this, I’m dead.
Sorry, that’s probably not the best way to start off a letter to my best friend, after what is surely my sudden, and horribly tragic death that you’ll never, ever be able to move on from, because I was such an amazing person, but there it is. You know I’ve never been one to mince words. And while we’re on that subject, you’re an asshole.
It’s been four years since we’ve seen you. FOUR. I get it, believe me, I do. The first time I met you, when we were ten-years-old, you told me you wanted to be a doctor. For sixteen years I listened to you talk about how you wanted to do something with your life you could be proud of. We’re all proud of you, Everett. Proud that you accomplished what you set out to do, proud that you took charge of your life and did something for yourself. But you can’t stay away forever.
I don’t know what happened between you and Cameron the night you left, but I know she hasn’t been the same since. Neither one of us has. The Three Musketeers has been missing one of its members for four years and if you aren’t here already, it’s time for you to come home.
Yes, I’m guilting you into coming home because I’m dead.
Finished.
Gone.
Never coming back from the Great Beyond.
Do you feel guilty yet? You should. Because Cameron misses you, even though she won’t admit it. I’ve tried my best to make her happy without you here. She puts up a good front about not giving a shit that you’ve been gone for so long, but I know she’s lying. She needs you now, more than ever. She needs you to get that stick out of your ass, suck up the reasons you’ve stayed away from us, and come home.
I’m not going to be there to make her laugh, wipe away her tears or cheer her on when she does something amazing. I am officially passing the baton over to you. It’s your turn now. You’ve traveled around the world, you’ve saved lives, you’ve become a God damn hero to strangers. Now it’s time to be a hero back here at home, where you belong. It hasn’t been the same without you. We haven’t been the same without you, and now that I’m gone, you can make it up to me by GETTING YOUR ASS BACK WHERE YOU BELONG.
And just so you know, I read your box of wishes that we swore we’d never, ever read until we were all old and gray. Dude, I’m dead, so you can’t be pissed at me for that. But I am so pissed at you from beyond the grave for never telling me about that shit. I mean, I knew, of course I knew, I’m not blind or stupid. But all these years when I thought you were just being an idiot and refusing to admit how you felt, or figured you must have changed your mind and moved on, you were actually admitting everything on those fucking stars! I’m your best friend and you didn’t even tell
me. Is that why you stayed away for four years? If it is, you’re an even bigger asshole than I thought. It’s time to stop wishing on those fucking stars every year and make your dreams come true by actually doing something about it.
I’m sorry I won’t be there to see Cameron kick your ass for staying away for so long. Be careful, she’s developed a mean right hook over the years. But go easy on her, man. She’s going to pretend to be okay, pretend like everything is fine and she’s fine and her whole damn life is fine…you know how she is. Always more concerned about everyone else instead of herself. She’s going to need you now, more than ever.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was sick the last time we talked on the phone, but what would have been the point? It’s not like you could do anything about it, aside from sit here and watch me die. I don’t want you to remember me like this. It’s bad enough Cameron has to have this picture of me in her head for the rest of her life, I won’t do that to you, too. I want you to remember me as the devastatingly handsome, perfect specimen of man that I was. I want you to remember the good times, the laughter, growing up together at the camp, and me being full of life instead of confined to this fucking bed with barely enough energy to write this damn letter. Don’t you dare feel guilty about not being able to save me. I know you’re an amazing doctor, but sometimes, cancer wins.
Come home, Everett. Come home and finally do something about those wishes.
You can’t save me, but you can come home and save our girl.
—Aiden
Chapter 1
Everett
How much pain can one person handle before they give up?
Watching children die right in front of their parents’ eyes?
Telling someone that they’re sick, but you don’t have the resources to help them?
Getting an infection from unclean water and living in horrible conditions?