Liv fought the sudden urge to reach out and grab the jar, throw it into the creek out back, leave that stuff buried. Her fingers curled against the table. But none of the women stopped Kincaid as she set aside the lid and fished out the pages.
Without ceremony, Kincaid looked at the names on the letters and then handed one to each of them. Liv ended up with Rebecca’s. Kincaid kept Liv’s.
The paper felt brittle in Liv’s fingers, the blue lines of the loose-leaf faded. But when she unfolded it, the writing was still clear. Neat, looping green handwriting filled half the page.
“Liv, why don’t you go first?” Kincaid suggested. “Put Bec out of her misery.”
Rebecca winced at the suggestion, and Liv hesitated. “Hey, if you don’t want me to read it, I won’t. Seriously. It’s up to you.”
There was no love lost between her and Rebecca, but she wasn’t going to torture the woman. These were her secrets to keep or share.
Rebecca stared at Liv for a moment, a few different emotions flickering over her face. Bec was an attorney now, and Liv imagined she was having some sort of courtroom battle in her head, but finally she pressed her lips together and nodded. “No, go ahead. It’ll be embarrassing, but I’ll just make sure y’all drink enough not to remember this in the morning.”
Liv smirked. “That may happen all on its own. But okay, let’s do this.” She smoothed the paper on the tabletop and began to read. “On this day, August first, I, Rebecca Lindt, promise the Class of 2005 that I will not waste the second chance that I have been given, that I will honor all the people we lost by living my life to the fullest. Professional goals: I will get a law degree and graduate at the top of my class. After practicing law for a few years, I will run for political office and will fight for better gun control laws and more mental health interventions for teens. I will make a difference in the world. Personal goals: I will stay a virgin until I’m married. And I will marry Finn Dorsey in a Paris wedding. We’ll have two kids, preferably one boy and one girl, and a dog named Bartholomew, after my grandpa. I will be a good friend, wife, and mom. I will be happy.”
“Oh God.” Rebecca put her reddened face in her hands and groaned. “That was worse than I remembered. I hate you, teenage Rebecca.”
Taryn pressed her hand over her mouth but couldn’t contain the snort.
Rebecca turned and sent her an oh-no-you-didn’t look.
Taryn grimaced and lifted her hand. “Sorry. The dog name got me.”
“Not the virgin thing?” Kincaid said with a grin, bumping Rebecca’s shoulder with hers. “You really were rocking the good-girl life, Bec. You don’t do things halfway.”
Rebecca shrugged and took another sip of her drink. “Well, I never said I didn’t go halfway.”
The others burst into laughs at that, the margaritas and awkwardness of it all making everyone a little silly. But Liv only gave a distracted smile as her gaze ran over Finn’s name again. Rebecca had never known about Finn and Liv’s secret relationship or where he’d been that night before he’d jumped in to save her. Finn had said there was nothing between him and Rebecca but friendship, but clearly Rebecca had felt differently.
“Finn, huh?” The words slipped out before Liv could stop them.
Rebecca looked up, her smile faltering a bit. “Yeah. He’d been my neighbor since we were little. And after my mom left, things at home were…not great. So he’d let me escape to his house to get away from my real life. I think I loved him from fourth grade on, and I got pretty close to his family. So when he saved me at the school, I figured it was fate.” She stared down at her drink, a far-off look on her face. “But I don’t think he ever saw me that way. It was all very Dawson’s Creek in my head. I just didn’t realize I was Dawson.”
“What happened with him?” Kincaid asked.
“We kept in touch for a few years after he moved away and I went to college, but eventually the emails stopped coming.”
Liv felt a petty kick of jealousy, the old rivalry ghosting through her. Finn had kept in touch with Rebecca for years? But then the second part settled in. They’d been close friends but nothing more. Maybe Finn hadn’t been lying to her.
“Well, some of the stuff worked out, right?” Taryn said, a hopeful note in her voice as she adjusted her glasses. “You’re a lawyer.”
Rebecca nodded, her expression going thoughtful. “Yeah, a divorce attorney. But I’m not the political warrior Teen Me wanted to be. I’ve never run for office. And I wouldn’t have time for a dog, much less a husband or kids.”
Even though Rebecca had a lot of be proud of, the undercurrent of disappointment in her voice was hard to miss. But Liv couldn’t tell if that was Bec’s overachiever gene kicking in—I’m only a successful attorney—or if it was something more than that. Liv frowned. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this if it’s just going to bum us out.”
Rebecca’s attention snapped upward. “Oh, no you don’t. My dirty laundry pile is stinking up the joint. The rest of you aren’t going to keep yours hidden.” Her wry smile returned, and she rapped the table with her knuckles like a gavel. “Bring it on, ladies.”
“I’ll go next,” Kincaid said, lifting Liv’s letter. “Let’s see what dark-and-broody goth Liv had planned.”
Liv groaned. “To get the hell out of town. I think that’s as far as I’d thought.”
“Let’s find out.” Kincaid unfolded the letter and cleared her throat as if she were going to give a speech. “On this day, August first, I, Olivia Arias, promise the Class of 2005 that I will not waste the second chance that I have been given, that I will honor all the people we lost by living my life to the fullest. First, I will move anywhere but here.”
Liv sniffed. “Told ya.”
But Kincaid ignored her. “I will find a job I like that will make me enough money and give me enough time to do my photography. Then, when I get good enough, I will turn art into my job. I won’t play it safe. I won’t be practical. I’ll live a passionate life and date passionate guys and see the world so I can take pictures of it. I promise, Class of 2005, to live the life that scares me.”
Kincaid’s eyebrows popped up, and Liv’s heart sank as each word hit her like drops of cold rain. She could almost see her eighteen-year-old self climbing up on her soapbox and making all those declarations. That girl who was racked by panic attacks and nightmares, who had a family who didn’t—couldn’t—get it, a girl who was trying to look her fears in the face and give them the finger.
Too bad it hadn’t worked out. “Boy, I certainly was dramatic.”
Taryn put her chin in her hand, the dim light over the table making her brown eyes sparkle and her riot of black curls look like a halo. “I think it’s beautiful. I mean, damn, I want that life, too. Minus the art part. I suck at art. But passionate guys and seeing the world? Sign me up.”
“Right? Seriously,” Kincaid said. “So did you get to do any of that? The travel? The guys? If it’s a yes to the guys, we need to get more drinks so you’ll tell us the sordid stories.”
Liv laughed. “I’m definitely not drunk enough for that.”
Not that there was much to tell. There’d been more guys early on than she wanted to remember. That’d been her go-to way of dealing with the anxiety that had stalked her at college. Drink too much. Find a guy to distract her. Anything to forget what she was going through for a few minutes—even if that meant waking up with a bucketful of regret in the morning. But passionate love affairs? Romance? The things she’d imagined when she wrote that letter? She’d never had that. Not even close.
“Are you still doing photography?” Rebecca asked.
Liv stared at her melting ice cubes, absently stabbing them with her straw. “Not really. I had this project I started, but I don’t know. I haven’t looked at it in a while.”
Or in years.
“Was that the project with survivors of other trage
dies?” Kincaid asked, curiosity lighting her hazel eyes. “I remember reading a story about you, and it mentioned that.”
Liv rolled her lips inward, a pang going through her. “Yes. It was just an idea at the time. I thought I could take stripped-down portraits of survivors of different events to show their range of emotions, their strength and vulnerability. Somehow show the world that we weren’t just the one thing they’d labeled us as. I was going to donate the proceeds to the Long Acre fund.”
“Wow. I’m sure that’d be amazing,” Taryn said. “And intense.”
Liv glanced up. “Yeah. Too intense. At least for me.” She’d made it through two sessions before she’d realized she couldn’t handle it. Hearing other people’s stories, seeing their scars…it’d been too much, too close to home. It had set off her PTSD like fireworks. “I put the photography aside and got a job doing web design. Eventually, all my time got sucked up as I moved up the ladder at work. Now I barely have time to squeeze in a workout, much less a hobby. I guess my just-to-make-money job became my career.” She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake out the tightness gathering there. “Photography was never going to pay the bills anyway. I wasn’t that good.”
Taryn’s expression soured. “No way. Your photos were gorgeous, Liv. Don’t sell yourself that line of crap.”
Liv took her letter from Kincaid, half wanting to ball it up and toss it across the room. But she forced herself to fold it neatly, creasing each line just so. “It’s better than admitting that I got practical, right? That I’ve become some boring nine-to-fiver—or nine-to-niner—that teen Liv would’ve hated.”
“I don’t know,” Rebecca offered. “Maybe that’s just a consequence of being a grown-up. Dreams are called that for a reason. They usually don’t happen.”
“Oh, that’s uplifting,” Kincaid said, her East Texas twang turning dry. “Put that on a motivational mug, y’all. If you can dream it…you probably can’t do it.”
Taryn snorted. “Let’s call Oprah. She’d love the hell out of that one.”
Rebecca gave both of the women a gimme a break look. “Just being realistic.”
“Realistic?” Kincaid straightened, her nose wrinkling in derision. “Screw that. We need to do better.”
“Kincaid—” Liv began.
“No. Realistic? Practical? What in the hell is wrong with us?” she demanded, her gaze alighting on each of them. “We made these promises to people. People we lost who will never get the chance to chase their own dreams. We’re not eighty. We still have time.”
“I don’t think time’s the issue,” Liv said, giving in and pouring herself another drink. Maybe she didn’t drink like this anymore, but if there was ever a time to have earned being drunk, it was tonight. “Once you’re on one path, it’s not easy to take a hard left. Like Rebecca said, we’re grown-ups. We have bills to pay, responsibilities. Jobs. We can’t just chase whims.”
“Why not?” Kincaid asked, in full bulldog mode now. “Does it have to be an either/or thing? There’s got to be a way to do some of both—the practical and the exciting, right? Why couldn’t you pick up your photography project on the side? Or travel? Or have a passionate affair?”
Liv shifted in her seat and frowned. “It’s not that easy.”
“Exactly,” Rebecca said with a curt nod. “And how about you wait until we read your letter, Miss Rah-Rah-Siss-Boom-Bah, before you start making battle cries for us?”
Kincaid lifted a haughty brow. “If that’s a cheerleader joke, it doesn’t work. I was dance team. Totally different.”
“I was referring to your cheering now,” Rebecca said. “And how were you not on cheer?”
“Dance team had better outfits, and I didn’t have to trust other girls not to drop me from great heights.” Kincaid flicked her hand at Rebecca, giving her the cue to read her letter. “Bring it on, lawyer. I don’t remember what I wrote. But either way, I’m definitely adding ‘have passionate affair’ to my to-do list.”
“Agreed,” Taryn said. “That’s going on mine, too. Good suggestion, Liv.”
“Thanks,” she said distractedly.
The conversation moved on. But Liv had trouble focusing on any of it. Kincaid’s challenge had landed on her with a thud. Why can’t you? Why not?
Those questions poked at that long-ago rebellious girl who thought she could do anything. And they weighed on her as the other letters were read and as the night started to wrap up. She and the other women weren’t doing badly. Kincaid was a successful real estate agent, Rebecca a lawyer. Taryn hadn’t kept up with sports or moved away from town like she’d wanted, but she’d gotten a doctorate in forensic psychology. More than a little impressive.
From the outside looking in, they appeared just fine. Successful, even. They’d all managed to get good jobs, make a living. But it wasn’t lost on Liv that none of them were in relationships. None had started families. No one had taken any risks. And none had lived up to the women they’d wanted to be in those letters.
They were still young, just entering their thirties. But they’d already settled. They’d been given this second chance when others hadn’t, and they’d settled for good enough, for getting by, for not making waves.
Teen Liv had been racked with anxiety and nightmares, but still, she’d craved adventure. Art.
Passion.
She’d believed she could still have it.
What did grown-up Liv believe? Want?
Did she even know?
Her attention wandered from her friends as her thoughts tangled around themselves, and her gaze lingered on a booth in the far corner. The waitress was dropping off the check, but Liv caught the profile of the man taking it from her, the big, capable hands. Hands that never dropped the football. Hands that had once held Liv close.
Finn.
He didn’t look her way, just accepted the check and fished some bills out of his wallet. But as she watched him move, something stirred in her, something old and familiar and dangerous.
Suddenly, she was back in the library, hiding from Mrs. Wentz—the eagle-eyed librarian—and trying to keep quiet. She was supposed to be tutoring Finn in history. But instead, Finn’s hands were in her hair, his scent in her head, and his lips on her neck. They’d always known exactly how many minutes they had before the bell rang. They’d used every second.
As if hearing her thoughts, his gaze drifted her way. Their eyes locked, and a still quiet filled her. This was the part where she was supposed to do something. But she didn’t turn her head, didn’t offer a wave, didn’t do what any normal, polite person would do. She just let it go on. The staring.
Let herself remember how he used to look at her. How that made her feel. There’d been steel gates between them in public, but alone, there were never any walls with Finn. He’d made her feel wanted. Dangerous. Alive.
She realized right then how long it’d been since she’d felt that brand of high, that flavor of reckless abandon. That good. She wasn’t supposed to think of that, wasn’t supposed to imagine the before because there was no going back. She certainly wasn’t supposed to let herself entertain how things used to be with him. But she couldn’t stop staring.
Without looking away, Finn lifted his half-empty glass in a silent question. Drink?
This time there was no hesitation with her answer. It was as if her body were on autopilot. She tucked her letter in her back pocket, grabbed the margarita pitcher to top off her glass, and then wished her friends a good night, saying that she needed to get some air and would see them in the morning.
She didn’t look to see if Finn followed. She just kept moving forward, her heartbeat a steady thump in her ears. She stepped out onto the unlit porch that overlooked the creek behind the hotel and leaned against the railing, letting the heavy night air cloak her and the smooth soundtrack of the water and the singing crickets surround her. She shouldn’t be o
ut here.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
She thought of the words on the little rectangle of paper tucked in her back pocket, giving a little nod to teen Liv.
She was only here for one night.
Maybe it was time to keep some promises. And bury some ghosts.
Maybe tonight she wouldn’t play it safe.
“Hello, Finn.”
chapter
THREE
The boards of the restaurant’s back deck creaked somewhere behind Liv. She didn’t need to turn and look to know it was him. Her senses seemed attuned to his presence. She kept her eyes on the water, letting her greeting drift between them. “Hello, Finn.”
“Liv.”
The quiet tenor of his voice hit her harder than she’d expected, the volume too close to how it used to sound against her ear in those stolen make-out sessions. Funny how even after all the years and the men who’d cruised through her life since, that voice still sounded so bone-deep familiar. She didn’t turn to face him, not trusting her expression to stay neutral. “I guess it turns out I have time for that drink after all.” She lifted her glass. “But I’ll warn you, I’m a few drinks in and all out of energy for polite chitchat.”
“Good. I don’t chitchat.”
He stepped a little closer, his scent drifting her way—some combination of cedar and mint. Like a man who chewed gum while chopping wood. The thought made her want to giggle.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Liv scrunched her nose. “You mean, am I drunk?”
She wasn’t sure what the answer was on that one. Probably a little. She doubted she could be this close to him without anxiety bubbling up otherwise.
“No. You ran out of the gym today. I mean, are you okay?”
Okay.
Was she? She hated that question. That was the question she’d probably heard most since that night—and then again when her mom passed from cancer two months later. That was what everyone always wanted to know. Are you okay?
But people asked, wanting her to say, Yes, I’m fine. I’m going to pull up my bootstraps and not make you uncomfortable with my messy feelings. No one wanted the real answer. But she got the sense Finn did. After all, he’d probably gotten asked that question just as much as she had. She released a breath. “Today sucked.”