My sister told me about it. We were having a perfectly nice, perfectly bland chat about her perfect life when she said, “Hey, by the way, Noah’s getting married. Gillian something. You guys were pretty hot and heavy, weren’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

Noah was getting married. To someone who was not me. Married. As in living together. Sleeping together, waking up together, eating together, and probably having kids together.

My sister’s words sat in my stomach like stones. “That’s nice,” I said belatedly, but Jules was already talking about the perfect vacation she’d be taking.

I’d managed to avoid imagining Noah with someone else. It was much more romantic to think of him staring out at the horizon, wind whipping his hair, arms crossed, his heart still mine. Occasionally, he showed up in my dreams, at times happy, sometimes angry and, worst of all, sad.

You can try to talk yourself out of loving someone. You can pitch it all the right ways, ways that make sense. We wanted different things. It was beautiful while it lasted. Not every relationship is meant to be forever. I’ll always have a soft spot for him. You never forget your first love. And all that makes sense . . . in your head, if not your heart. I still loved Noah, and sometimes I’d find myself walking down a street and letting out a growl of frustration. Why couldn’t he have at least tried to love my city, to open his heart to it? Why did he view Stoningham, that beautiful, pretentious, infuriating, lovely little town, as the be-all and end-all for our lives?

And who the hell was this Gillian person he was marrying?

A quick Facebook search brought me to her page. Gillian Epstein, the future Mrs. Noah Pelletier. She was an event planner—Epstein Events, not a very creative name.

Neither was she subtle about their engagement; her profile picture was her hand on a man’s chest. Noah’s chest. On her finger was a very pretty solitaire. Other photos showed the two of them at McMillan Orchards, in what was obviously their engagement photo shoot. I knew this because her page wasn’t private, and there were thirty-seven pictures captioned Engagement Photo Shoot!!! A lot of Stoningham people had weighed in on how beautiful they were, how happy they looked, couldn’t wait for the wedding, a year and a half away, for the love of God. If you were going to do it, just do it.

I didn’t like the look of her. She was pretty, but very done. Those too-perfect eyebrows. Eyelash extensions (or very blessed). She looked . . . smug. Oh, she was nice-looking, of course. Quite pretty.