Meet Me for a Second Chance

I’ve missed you

i’ve missed you

Unfortunately for me, my nervous system doesn’t seem to be able to differentiate between being chased by a bear and being asked to talk about myself.

I can’t fucking do this.

For the fifth time in as many minutes, I scan the room, looking for an escape route that doesn’t involve leaping out the window onto hot asphalt and breaking both my ankles.

Contrary to the way I’m reacting, I haven’t been kidnapped. I’m not a bride being forced into marriage. I’m technically not in any danger at all. Or so I’m told.

When the door opens, I practically jump out of my skin.

“You ok?” Lori says when she steps into the room.

I nod. Sure. Doing great. I’m a professional.

I am absolutely not good.

“Five-minute warning,” Lori continues, looking entirely unconvinced by my nod. “Drink,” she says, retrieving a water bottle from the mini fridge and handing it to me.

Automatically, I accept it and crack open the lid.

“I promise I’ll make sure they take good care of you out there.

These people are here because they’re excited for you and your book.

I know it can feel intimidating, but this is what success looks like.

You wrote an amazing book, and I know once you’re out there, you’re going to do great,” she says as I take a sip.

The water helps. Her words do too, but a tiny voice of doubt in the back of my head tells me I shouldn’t believe her.

“Thank you,” I say anyway.

Lori is my agent, but we haven’t been working together for very long.

For the first four years of my writing career, I was represented by a woman named Susan who turned out to be the most conniving, two-faced, terror of a woman, and I never knew.

She promised to be a shark for me when I was new and young and scared, and I stupidly trusted her with my whole-ass career and reputation.

After finding out that somewhere along the way, Susan started making me out to be the worst kind of diva so she could squeeze free travel, hotels, and gifts from the events that hosted me, speaking on my behalf and treating people a way that keeps me up at night, I fired her ass, but it felt like the damage was already done.

Lori has been great, over-communicating to help me feel comfortable that she’s not doing anything I wouldn’t want her to do, but everything is still very very new.

I mean, I thought Susan was great at the start too. Shows how good of a judge of character I am.

I’ve always been nervous before events, but the size of this one and it being my first one after everything blew up with Susan has me in my head about every little thing—what to wear, what to say, what people are thinking, what people are saying.

I glance again at the window. Maybe a broken ankle wouldn’t be so bad.

It’s possible I’m being a tad dramatic about the whole thing.

Automatically, my right hand goes to my other wrist, to the tiny C charm hanging on a thin gold chain. I rub the circle where the letter is engraved between my thumb and forefinger like clockwork. I never take it off. I guess not everything is different.

The echo of a cheer draws my attention to the door again. We’re in a high school theater, and I’ve been told the space is sold out. The dressing room Lori and I are waiting in is functional, though not very cozy, tucked down a hallway from the stage I’m supposed to walk out on in like ten minutes.

I take a deep breath, giving my brain some much-needed oxygen. Lori is still looking at me with her eyebrows drawn together. I hope I don’t look as green as I feel.

“I’m ok,” I say, unsure if I’m trying to convince her or myself. I set the water down, stand, and shake out my arms. “I’m ok,” I repeat, feeling more honest this time.

“You got this,” Lori says with a genuine smile that reaches her eyes. “I’ll go make sure everything is good to go, and then I’ll be back to get you.”

“Thank you,” I say before she slips back out of the room.

When the door snicks shut, it’s just me, the chatter of the crowd, and the creeping doubt in my head.

I remember my first event, and I wonder if I’ve grown in the years since then. I feel stupid for letting Susan run unchecked for so damn long. At least back then I had an excuse for not knowing anything.

Somehow, my books found their audience from the very start, blowing up faster than I’d ever imagined. Susan got me an amazing three-book deal after that, the second of which I’m touring for now. Because the books kept selling, I thought she was doing well for me. I thought I was doing alright.

Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing at all.

Suddenly there’s a burst of applause followed by a hush. Someone from the bookstore must be starting the intro for the evening.

Standing now in silence, I feel unbelievably, exceptionally alone.

The door opens again, and I can hear the person in the auditorium more clearly now.

“Without further ado, I hope you’ll all join me in welcoming Mia Lane to the stage,” they proclaim.

“It’s go time,” Lori tells me, even though we both heard the announcement.

She steps aside, and I walk on surprisingly steady legs. We’re passing between the curtains and then bright lights blind me while applause rings in my ears. Just before I step out, Lori takes my hand and squeezes it.

Then, I’m on my own.

An hour later, I feel stiff, and I’m sure I’ll be running through every word I said until the early hours of the morning, but I made it through. I’m ushered to a signing table while the crowd who came to see me—my readers—forms a line that looks like it goes on forever.

I sign hundreds of books. I smile. I thank every single person I speak to. I remind myself to remember these moments, which I really am grateful for, no matter how shitty things might feel sometimes.

Lori checks on me regularly while booksellers hurry about, keeping things clean and making sure the line moves smoothly. They’re all so kind. It’s an emotional rush, and I try my hardest to keep up.

After what feels like ages, the last person steps up. On autopilot, I reach forward for my book.

“Thank you so much for—”

And then I see it.

A plain silver band on the thumb of a pale hand with long fingers. It’s entirely ordinary, unassuming. But it makes my breath hitch and my heart stutter.

My hand still frozen in midair, reaching for the book, I slowly trail up its owner’s arm and torso to a face I know nearly as well as my own.

He’s taller, and his hair is longer, showcasing a wave in the strands that was kept hidden when he’d worn it shorter in college.

It reminds me of when we were kids and those curls ran wild.

He has a short beard now, just some stubble really, and it ages him a bit.

But maybe that’s just from the seven years since I’ve last seen him.

Behind black-framed glasses are the same green eyes I’ve known almost my whole life.

“Hi,” he breathes, and the familiarity of his deep voice squeezes my chest.

A sharp pang of longing lances through me, burning with how strong it is.

Forrest.

Before I realize I’ve moved, I’m flying out of my chair, ignoring it as it crashes to the ground behind me, and launching myself at my former best friend’s chest. Through the ringing in my ears, I faintly hear the book smack against the table when he drops it.

My hands fling around his neck the same time his arm binds around my back, lifting me onto my toes.

Home.

“I’ve missed you so much,” I breathe against his neck, nearly sobbing. He’s warm and strong and so damn familiar. After a night—after months—of being surrounded by strangers, he feels so good.

“I’ve missed you too, Cam.” He whispers it so quietly, using the nickname forgotten over the last few years since I became author Mia Lane.

I have a thousand questions for him, an explanation for why I left, and an apology on the tip of my tongue for how I left him and shattered his heart with nothing more than a few words scrawled on a scrap of paper.

But then he squeezes me, and I breathe him in, and every word flies out of my head. Because I finally have him back, and I can’t lose him again.