2. Chapter One
Chapter One
Ten Years Later
My phone buzzed violently on the nightstand, rattling me out of sleep.
Still half-asleep, I fumbled for the phone and croaked out, “Hello?”
“Oh, Miss Ella, thank goodness you’re up.”
I was up now , especially since I recognized the voice. No one called me Miss Ella anymore. Panic exploded in my chest.
“Doris, what’s wrong?”
I could hear it—the tears catching in her throat. “Miss Ella, it’s your aunt. We think she had a heart attack.”
Please, God, please don’t let her be dead.
“She’s at St. Vincent’s in Birmingham. She’s asking for you.”
Thank you, God.
I didn’t hesitate. “Tell her I’m on my way.” I hung up before she could say another word. All I cared about was getting to Aunt Lu.
I jumped out of bed and dressed in record time.
While running a brush through my hair, I threw together a suitcase—just in case.
Atlanta was only three hours from Birmingham, but I didn’t know what waited for me on the other end.
If she was at St. Vincent’s, it was serious.
Otherwise, she would’ve been at Kaysville General.
I opened the garage door, and a blast of icy air hit me square in the chest.
December in Georgia wasn’t usually this cold. I considered grabbing my long wool coat, but decided against it. I’d either be in my car or in a hospital room—I just needed to get to my aunt.
I tossed my suitcase in the back and slid into the driver’s seat of my recently purchased BMW—a gift to myself after Aunt Calliope and Jane in London hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list for Children’s Picture Books.
The thought made my throat tighten. All my stories—every single one—were based on the adventures I shared with Aunt Lu.
And now, she was lying in a hospital bed.
I didn’t know what I would do without her. She was the only person who’d ever truly loved me.
I hit the highway and tested the limits of what my new car could do.
The salesman at the car dealership was right—she was fast and smooth.
With only the hum of the engine as my only company, I got lost in my thoughts, trying not to think the worst. I kept reminding myself that Aunt Lu was a tough old bird, albeit a beautiful, classy one.
No doubt even death would be afraid to come knocking on her door. Afraid of what she would do to it.
But before I knew it, the Alabama state line came into view. And everything inside me sank. I hated coming back. I usually avoided it at all costs. This state—my home state—every mile held a ghost. Every road led back to something I didn’t want to remember.
I still saw Aunt Lu all the time, but it was usually in Atlanta or tucked away in some tropical vacation. I hadn’t been to my childhood home since I graduated from high school. Aunt Lu agreed that I should leave and never come back. She said Kaysville had a way of sucking the life out of people.
I had asked her several times to move in with me. Her excuse for never accepting was that she was old and set in her ways, but I knew better. To her, moving would be like saying the Jacksons had won, and she wouldn’t ever let that happen.
The Jacksons. That was one name I wished I could forget. Everything about Alabama whispered reminders of them.
If only I had followed the rules. Maybe things would be different now. Even though I’d left, I had never managed to forget them.
No matter how hard I’d tried over the years.
I considered moving farther than Atlanta. But my agent and publisher were both there. More than that—I couldn’t stand the idea of being too far from Aunt Lu. Atlanta still held echoes of the past, but at least it was better than when I lived in Auburn while attending school.
Oh, well—it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was getting to the hospital.
Yet, one particular Jackson refused to leave my thoughts, no matter how hard I tried to shove him out.
His memory clung to me like a parasite—unwanted and relentless.
If there were a cure for it, I’d have paid anything. Gladly.
I cranked up the radio—desperate to distract myself. To keep my mind where it needed to be. On Aunt Lu.
And for a little while, the noise worked.
Until I passed a sign that read: Auburn — Next Exit.
I felt the sting of regret. Four years in that town, wishing I’d gone anywhere else.But Aunt Lu had her heart set on me attending her alma mater. And I hadn’t had the heart to say no.
Unfortunately, when your school’s biggest rival is home to the star quarterback, who also happens to be your ex-boyfriend, there’s no escaping his name. It was everywhere—school paper, local news, casual conversations overheard in the dining hall.
To make matters worse, his new girlfriend, Amber Capshaw, was just as famous. Pageant royalty. Queen of every room.
I glanced at the speedometer. I was going way too fast.
Thinking about the Jacksons and the Capshaws while behind the wheel—especially today—was a dangerous combination. But that was what being in Alabama did to me. It twisted memory into distraction. Grief into velocity.
I eased off the pedal just as a green highway sign flashed by: Tuscaloosa— Home of the University of Alabama.
Of course.
I didn’t need this.
Why couldn’t I get Brady Jackson out of my head?
More importantly—why couldn’t I get him out of my heart?
I was twenty-seven years old for crying out loud.
A successful author. I’d toured the country, traveled the world.
I’d dated men who were polished, wealthy, and charming.
But none of them—not a single one—made me feel the way Brady had.
And that? That stung.
It seemed wrong—unfair even—that the only time I’d ever truly fallen in love was at sixteen. What do sixteen-year-olds know about love? Clearly, not enough. Or maybe just not better.
The highway was mocking me. How many stupid billboards did the University of Alabama need? Seriously. I needed to stay focused on my aunt, but my mind kept drifting back to the past, to my senior year in college.
That was the worst year. Brady’s name was everywhere.
Alabama was having an incredible year. They were undefeated.
Brady had broken all kinds of records, and unfortunately Auburn was having a very off season.
Everyone thought Brady would, hands-down, be the next Heisman Trophy Winner, and the number one draft pick for the NFL the following year.
His girlfriend, Miss Alabama, was making headlines too. And—if I’m being honest—I took a little, okay a lot, of joy in why.
I’d always known Amber wasn’t the brightest bulb, but I figured Brady’s momma had coached her enough to fake it through the Miss America pageant. Apparently not.
She wasn’t even asked a hard question: “Why are you proud to be an American?”
Her answer?
“I don’t know if I’m proud to be an American, because, you know, it’s kind of a sin to be proud.
But I’m super happy that I’m American, because if not, I wouldn’t get to be in this pageant, which is like, the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.
Oh, and I just love the colors red, white, and blue. ”
I nearly drove off the road from secondhand embarrassment. It wasn’t gracious of me, but it was honest. Somewhere, Brady’s momma was still losing sleep over that answer—and I didn’t feel the slightest bit sorry.
The media practically crucified Amber for days. Needless to say, she didn’t win Miss America. She didn’t even make it to the finals.
But Brady came to her rescue.
Every interview, every press conference—he’d politely say things like, “She was under pressure, and “Of course she loves America.” He asked for grace on her behalf. Asked people to be kind.
It didn’t surprise me that he would stand by her. He was still the nicest guy I’d ever known. But it hurt. Because he’d chosen her over me.
Not long after, the engagement rumors started. Then came confirmation. She had a ring.
Every football game, the cameras would swing toward the Jackson box—and there she sat, glowing beside his family, flashing that diamond like it had its own fan section.
She gushed to every reporter about how much she loved him, how excited she was for his NFL career, how wonderful their life together was going to be.
It was nauseating. I tried not to pay attention. But they seemed to be everywhere.
Then the Iron Bowl came. In Alabama, it was practically a sacred holiday—stores closed early, streets emptied, and every television in the state was tuned to Alabama vs. Auburn.
We all knew Auburn had little chance that year. Brady had turned Alabama’s offense into a well-oiled machine—practically untouchable.
I didn’t want to watch. But Aunt Lu expected me to watch every Auburn game.
She didn’t care that Brady Jackson was playing.
Sometimes, I think she never understood how in love with him I’d been.
Or maybe she did, and this was her way of reminding me of the pain the Jacksons had caused, so I would never break the rules again.
During the third quarter, Alabama was on the fifty-yard line. It was second down. The quarterback threw a perfect spiral, and Brady caught it in stride at the forty. He turned to run. And then it happened.
A cornerback slammed into him from behind at the exact moment a linebacker collided with his front. Brady’s leg twisted in a way legs aren’t meant to twist. And then—
It snapped.
The entire stadium went silent. The bone broke straight through the skin.
Compound fracture. Gruesome. Undeniable.
The worst part? They kept replaying it. Again and again and again.
I gasped aloud, alone in my apartment. I cried as I watched his face contort in pain—hating myself for still caring.
In a matter of seconds, his NFL dreams were gone. That kind of injury doesn’t heal clean. Not enough to play professionally.
Alabama still won. But Brady lost.
He lost the Heisman. He lost his career. And eventually, he lost his fiancée.