Not You Again

Chapter 1

Carly

Carly Hart was what one former friend had called “an emotional basket case.” She cried openly, in public, with very little

concern for who saw. And it wasn’t just big moments that caused her to tear up—a breakup, losing out on a job, having to fly

out from LAX—but the little things, too. Like when she tripped on a sidewalk crack and accidentally squished a caterpillar,

or the time she went to take a shower after a workout and the water came out cold instead of hot. Carly felt deeply without

much effort. Crying was cathartic, natural and part of her way of life.

But it had been a week since her dad died and still, not a single tear. She’d imagined his funeral would be the thing that finally broke her. Yet, here she was, sitting in front of his casket, and . . . nothing. Flower arrangements

lined the walls, white folding chairs were arranged in neat rows and a blown-up photo of her dad from thirty years ago with

a film camera on one shoulder and a four-year-old Carly on the other was placed in front of the coffin. The evidence of her

dad’s departure was all around, but still, none of this felt real.

Cry, she told herself, just like you’d write into a movie. Yes, if this were a scene she were drafting, the heroine would emit deep, guttural sobs, the camera would pan out and the

screen would fade to black.

But this wasn’t one of her screenplays. There would be no swell of orchestral music, and no comforting hugs from a secondary

character, apparently. Because no one else was there—the room was empty, except for her. Was she actually going to be the

lone attendee at her dad’s service? Was this how Bruce Hart would be remembered?

A floorboard creaked and Carly stood, hopeful that a friend of her father’s had arrived, but it was just the funeral director.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said.

Adam. His name was Adam. Now she remembered. He was probably in his thirties, tall and lanky in a fitted blue shirt with a

blazer and loose tie. His floppy red hair fell just above the sharp lines of his jaw.

“It’s fine,” she said, but her voice was much softer than she’d ever heard it. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Fine.”

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she managed to respond.

“We’ll move outside in about twenty minutes, if that’s okay with you.” He clasped his hands, and she registered how his brown

eyes had flecks of honey in them.

Carly blinked. Outside, as in the burial. She gave a quick glance at the coffin, then studied her shoes. “Sure,” she said. Though there was no way she’d

be able to watch her dad get lowered into the ground. She just couldn’t.

Her eyes began to mist. Was this the moment she’d finally cry?

But then Carly’s knees buckled just enough for her to sway. In a flash, Adam was next to her with his arm wrapped around her waist. “I’ve got you.” His tone was as firm as his grasp at her side.

He maneuvered her into a chair, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by the nearness of him. Who even was this guy? Why was he

here, at her side, instead of anyone else in her life? She didn’t want to be in this room, let alone be taken care of by someone

who was about to bury her dad. She had a hard time getting the words, “I’m fine,” out, but she’d done it.

Instead of taking the hint and leaving, Adam opened a bottle of water that had been strategically tucked under a seat and

handed it to her. “Here.”

Her hands were shaky, though, and the water dropped and began to spill all over the floor. He deftly picked up the bottle

and found a cloth to place over the spill.

Carly should’ve apologized, offered to get towels, or anything other than what she did next. “Please just leave,” her lips

trembled over the words.

He stopped cleaning, looked up. “Of course.” He stood, and his expression turned firm. “Just don’t step in the water. I don’t

want you to fall—”

“I don’t need you to save me.” Her eyes narrowed at him. Carly understood that she was lashing out at Adam because of her

grief, and the fact that she forgot to eat that morning probably didn’t help either. But she also didn’t care. This was her

dad’s funeral. No one else had shown up. And she didn’t want to be comforted by this man she barely knew. She didn’t want

his hand at her waist, or the water, or him. She wanted to get the hell away from this room.

His firm expression softened, but then a door down the hall opened, followed by footsteps.

“Excuse me.” Adam walked away from her all too quickly and approached the hallway. Carly’s heart anxiously beat again—finally, maybe this was someone to see her dad?

But no.

“Shireen?” Adam’s voice was surprised.

“Can we talk?” The woman attached to the voice appeared—also tall, but curvy, with the most gorgeous dark curls Carly had

ever seen. Her expression, though, was concerned.

“I’m working.” He tilted his head toward the room where Carly sat. His work was the business of burying her dad.

“It’s important,” Shireen said quietly.

Adam gave Carly a genuinely apologetic look, then left.

She swallowed down a lump that had lodged in her throat. She knew she’d been unfair to Adam and later she’d regret her words,

but she was also relieved by his departure. Carly approached the coffin and placed her palm on the closed lid. In there, Bruce

wore the navy-blue suit and tie she’d picked out. Pinned on his jacket lapel was the Star Wars enamel pin she’d gotten him for his sixtieth birthday. He’d forever be sixty-four.

Carly studied her fingers instead of imagining him inside the box. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye, she realized. She wanted

to explain that this was all just too much for her—too intense, and awful. Maybe she could come back tomorrow and visit the

grave, when she was ready? But that was when she heard them fighting.

“What do you want me to say, Adam? I fucked up! I slept with him. I’m sorry,” Shireen shouted.

“Keep your voice down!” Adam’s own raw with emotion.

Carly frowned. What was she overhearing?

“I don’t know what else to say!” the woman exclaimed. “I just need to know if you’ll forgive me.”

There was a long stretch of silence. Carly realized that this was a private moment between two people, and she had no business listening in. She should definitely cover her ears or something.

Problem was, Carly was nosy.

“What did you expect me to do? You haven’t paid attention to me in years! We’re basically coworkers.”

“Coworkers don’t have sex, Shireen.”

“And neither do we!”

Carly slapped a hand across her mouth to keep in whatever noise was about to tumble out. Instead of sobs, she choked back

incredulous giggles. How was it that on the worst day of her life, she was overhearing some of the best dialogue? Her eyes

went wide as she focused on the coffin. “What do you think, Dad? Movie-worthy?”

But she was met with silence, because of course she was. For a moment, she’d been able to pretend like her dad was still there.

Like they were having one of their old brainstorming sessions, where she’d rattle off a half-baked idea that he’d punch up.

Who was she going to spitball with now?

She uncovered her mouth. “I miss you.”

The words came out easily because they were pure truth. She missed him. And in that moment, she knew where she finally needed

to go.

The Last Showing movie theater was located off Main Street in the small, sleepy town of Julian, California. When she’d taken

the key from her dress pocket and opened the doors, Carly wasn’t sure what to expect. Her dad had sent photos of the renovations

he’d done, but to see the theater in real life was . . . surreal.

The place had been closed for a week, but the red-and-gold-flecked carpet was spotless.

The warm white walls held framed posters of upcoming and past film releases.

Neon stars dangled from wires on the ceiling.

The food counter had been wiped clean, and the glass cases that held rows and rows of candy were stacked and ready to sell.

If she’d wanted, Carly could throw open the doors, turn on the overhead marquee and wait to see if anyone came in.

That was probably what Bruce did every day. Used to do.

Instead, she went behind the snack counter, tore open a package of Milk Duds and dumped the chewy morsels into an empty popcorn

bucket. Then she ripped open a pack of gummy worms and let them fall in. She added Skittles, Swedish Fish, Twizzlers, M&Ms,

Reese’s Pieces and mini Butterfinger Bites until the bucket was nearly full. Her dad called this a candy salad, their favorite

treat.

Bruce also liked to add hot, buttery popcorn on top so everything melted together. He wasn’t there to tell her that, though.

He. Wasn’t. There.

Carly looked up from her tub of sugar. A “questionable” pot of joy any other day, but the thing felt as heavy as a brick in

her hands. Her dad’s whole world had been movies. He’d gotten his first job as a PA on the set of a low-budget indie horror

film when he was eighteen. But after forty-some-odd years of working his way up to cinematographer, he’d wanted a change of

pace. He could’ve taken a cushy role as an adjunct professor at USC’s film school—a job he’d been offered. Instead, he’d done

the least sensible thing imaginable: taken his savings, uprooted his Los Angeles life and bought a decrepit movie theater

in a small town three hours away.

“I want to build something special—something of my own,” he’d excitedly told Carly over a greasy pancake brunch at the Tallyrand diner in Burbank, just a few blocks from his house and her apartment. He’d already begun renovations on the theater. “You’ll see, Carly girl!”

But she didn’t see, and neither did anyone in Julian. Because as Carly recently discovered, Bruce was in massive piles of

debt. He’d taken out more loans than movie tickets sold. An exaggeration, but still . . . his gamble hadn’t paid off.

A few weeks ago, her dad had asked that she come visit so they could make his famous candy salad and watch the total solar