BooksBarbecue
Back Love at First Like
Chapters (42)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. • Part 1 •
  4. • Chapter 1 •
  5. • Chapter 2 •
  6. • Chapter 3 •
  7. • Chapter 4 •
  8. • Chapter 5 •
  9. • Chapter 6 •
  10. • Chapter 7 •
  11. • Chapter 8 •
  12. • Chapter 9 •
  13. • Chapter 10 •
  14. • Chapter 11 •
  15. • Chapter 12 •
  16. • Chapter 13 •
  17. • Chapter 14 •
  18. • Chapter 15 •
  19. • Part 2 •
  20. • Chapter 16 •
  21. • Chapter 17 •
  22. • Chapter 18 •
  23. • Chapter 19 •
  24. • Chapter 20 •
  25. • Chapter 21 •
  26. • Chapter 22 •
  27. • Chapter 23 •
  28. • Chapter 24 •
  29. • Part 3 •
  30. • Chapter 25 •
  31. • Chapter 26 •
  32. • Chapter 27 •
  33. • Chapter 28 •
  34. • Chapter 29 •
  35. • Chapter 30 •
  36. Acknowledgments
  37. Reading Group Guide
  38. ‘Meant to Be Mine’ Teaser
  39. one
  40. Continue Reading…
  41. About the Author
  42. Copyright

Holden is engaged. Holden, engaged? Holden, my on-again, off-again ex whose birth name is Hayden but who goes by a J. D. Salinger reference because he thinks it makes him sound smarter. Holden, the one who used to say that monogamy isn’t natural and that he would always want the freedom to pick up and move to Borneo or Mexico City or wherever else pops into his head. Holden, the guy with a Bernie Sanders tattoo who forgot to register to vote. I repeat, Holden is engaged.

Right there, at the very top of my feed, a photo of him kneeling in front of his girlfriend, Faye, who appears as if she’s based her entire personality off a Free People catalog. A fringed, floor-length robe slides artfully off one shoulder as she claps a hand over her mouth in surprise.

“Two souls became one today,” Holden solemnly captioned the photo.

I navigate to Faye’s profile, where she’s posted not only that photo, but also a close-up of the diamond ring on her hand against a backdrop of lush green trees. Her caption: “I went hiking with the love of my life today . . . and I said YES!!!” She geotagged a misspelled version of the Appalachian Trail.

I sign the check and get the fuck out of the bar. My apartment is just across the street. It should be an easy walk—except, of course, it’s suddenly pouring. Water squelches into my shoes as I break into a sprint. My purse slaps against my side.

Holden and I were caught in flash floods like this once. We were on vacation in Nashville for our one-year anniversary (if you didn’t count the three-month break we took halfway through), and the sky just opened up. We huddled under a tiny awning while he scrolled through Yelp reviews of nearby restaurants. I had begged him to just pick a restaurant, any restaurant.

“Eliza,” he said slowly, clearly annoyed. “I can’t eat just anywhere. I’m a chef, all right?”

He was not a chef. He was a cook at a second-rate grill on Long Island during the summers and was looking for a full-time job at a restaurant in Brooklyn. My shoes were waterlogged for the rest of our trip.