Chapter 8 Now #2
I scan the audience and spot familiar faces—Mr. Gray from AP Lit, Mom’s book club, two girls I vaguely remember braving the mile with in gym class.
Elizabeth sits near the front with Ben, in a belted sweater dress with perfect posture.
I can’t tell if she’s genuinely proud or just impressed I could pull something like this off.
My mom beams from the seat next to her, and my dad looks like he’s holding back tears.
This is it. All I have to do is plaster on a smile, answer the questions with my rehearsed responses, and act like this is the best night of my life.
Simple. Fake it like you did at lunch. Laugh like it’s easy.
Talk like you believe in everything you wrote.
You’re not the girl who got dumped. You’re the author that everyone’s here to see.
The bookstore owner, Silver, who coincidentally has silver bangs and bright pink glasses, leans into her mic with a warm smile.
“Thank you all so much for being here tonight. This event filled up fast, and we’re so lucky to be hosting Richmond native and author of The Lucky Ones, Ainsley Green! Welcome home.”
Applause fills the room. I glance quickly toward my mom, who looks like she might combust from pride, and then toward Elizabeth, whose expression is unreadable but not unkind—nothing new there.
Silver turns to me. “Okay, Ainsley. I always like to start with a soft one. What’s it like being back in your hometown—for your last stop, no less?”
I grip the mic with both hands to keep it from shaking.
“It’s surreal, honestly. After school, I’d hang out a lot in the library.
Instead of checking out books, I’d read them there and dream about seeing my name on a spine one day.
So to be here now because that dream came true is just so full circle. ”
A few people nod. I hear someone say, “Aww.”
“I have to know, did you write any part of this book here in Richmond?” Silver asks.
I laugh lightly. “I wrote most of The Lucky Ones in my apartment back in Raleigh, usually wearing the same sweatshirt three days in a row and panicking about deadlines. Very glamorous stuff.”
The crowd laughs, and I lean into it.
“But I did do a little writing here, actually. I was home for a weekend and ended up jotting notes when I pulled into the driveway of my parents’ house. Something about being home cracked a lot of nostalgia and raw emotions open.”
That part’s true, but what I don’t say is that I was crying in the driver’s seat because Cole had bailed on the trip just a few hours before.
“Let’s talk about the inspiration. The Lucky Ones is based on your parents, right?”
I nod and launch into the story of their infamous meet-cute in the cereal aisle—the same answer I’ve given at every stop on this tour.
It always gets a laugh, and tonight’s no different.
I glance at them in the front row, my mom practically glowing, my dad pretending not to tear up.
I can’t quite tell, but I think Elizabeth smiles too.
“So writing this love story while you were in a relationship,” Silver continues, “did that influence the characters?”
I pause, just long enough to feel it. “Definitely. When you’re in love, it’s easy to believe everything is falling into place. I think I wrote this book from that headspace—from the version of me who believed love could be that simple.”
I leave it at that. I don’t tell them what I believe now though.
“There’s a line in the book where the main character Charlotte says, ‘Some people come into your life like it’s already been decided.’ Where did that line come from?”
I smile, almost sadly. “I think everyone wants to believe that love is written in the stars, but I’ve learned that timing writes just as much of the story as we do.”
The signing goes by fast—Sharpies everywhere, books passed down the table, quick conversations and even quicker photos.
People tell me they cried, that they saw themselves in Charlotte, that they still think about the ending.
I smile until my cheeks hurt. I don’t overthink a single word. For once, I let myself enjoy it.
Afterward, we pile into my parents’ SUV like it’s a middle school field trip, my tote bag wedged between Elizabeth and me in the back seat.
“Where to?” my dad asks, already grinning like he knows the answer.
“Scoop,” my mom says before anyone else can speak. “We’re celebrating.”
“I haven’t been there in years,” I say, turning to Elizabeth. “Do they still have mint cookies and cream?”
She doesn’t look up from her phone. “Probably.”
That’s it. No follow-up, no flicker of recognition that that was always our go-to. I glance out the window, letting the conversation die before it ever had a chance.
The neighborhood is buzzing, even this late. We circle for street parking a few times before my dad wedges us into a spot with less than an inch to spare. Just ahead, Scoop stands out like it always has, with white brick, a bubblegum-pink door, and a line that’s down the block.
We started coming here when it first opened.
I was still in high school and Elizabeth was already off at college, but when she’d come home, we’d always go.
It became our thing, a rare one-on-one ritual.
We’d hop in the car after dinner and take turns blasting our favorite throwback songs the entire way here.
I glance at her now, walking a few steps ahead, talking to Ben like this is just another stop in their night—not the place we used to sneak off to when it felt like we were actually getting along. I wonder if she remembers. I wonder if it mattered to her the way it did to me.
We manage to snag a spot in line when Ben nudges me.
“You crushed it tonight,” he says. “I was kind of expecting you to be nervous, but—”
“But what?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t know. You looked like you belonged up there.”
My mom turns around from reading the flavor board. “You really did, sweetheart. That crowd adored you.” She gives my hand a quick squeeze, her eyes still shining.
Elizabeth glances over. “You seemed legit.”
I blink. “Coming from you, I think that’s the highest compliment I’ve ever received.”
She shrugs but half smiles, and I let myself take it.
The line inches forward. Behind us, a kid is losing his mind over rainbow sprinkles while I’m just standing here still riding the high. Not like I pretended to hold it together but like I actually did. Tonight I’m finally the one they’re proud of.
Elizabeth tilts her head, eyes still on the flavor board. “So now what?”
I frown. “Now what?”
“You know. You wrote the book. You did the tour. Everyone cried. What’s next? Are you writing another?”
The bubble in my chest deflates just a little. “Eventually.”
“Another romance?” she presses, tone sharp in that Elizabeth way that’s half genuine curiosity, half interrogation. “You think you can pull that off with the whole Cole thing still hanging over you?”
My jaw tightens. “Wow, thank you for the vote of confidence.”
She shrugs. “I’m just saying. People loved Charlotte and James because they believed in them. Do you even still believe in that stuff? I mean, what even happened between you two?”
Typical Elizabeth. The high school sweetheart turned married-at-twenty-six expert on every relationship but mine.
The words slip out before I can stop them. “I already have a great meet-cute concept underway, actually.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, do you?”
“Yep,” I say, chin lifting as if this has been the plan all along. “It’s going to be iconic.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I don’t have a concept. I don’t even have a sentence! But Elizabeth is watching me like she’s just caught me in a lie (is sister telepathy a real thing?), and the only way out is through. I’ve set the bar, and now I’ll actually have to clear it.