Maybe it’s having Ryan back in my life. Our banter, his kiss, the way his body feels against mine—it’s all so familiar. When he calls me beautiful with such ease, it’s almost as if he hasn’t missed a beat. Like there aren’t five years and a whole lot of heartbreak between us. And the way he talked about “we” and “us” and “our book” just now—that’s familiar, too. My words have always been his and his mine to the point where I’ve never been exactly sure who suggested what.

The familiarity is comforting. But it also wakes something else up inside me as I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen. The memories of what this all felt like five years ago when I was burnt out keep pestering me, almost like they’re trying to tell me not to get too comfortable. You were happy last time, too, they seem to whisper. You had everything you thought you wanted, until you realized that wasn’t what you wanted at all.

That was it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t that I couldn’t handle the fame or the work that came along with it but that I simply didn’t want it. I wanted something else. The rustling of pages, the click of a keyboard, the scratch of Ryan’s pen. Not the squeals of excited readers or the voices in my head screaming that I’d never be good enough.

A quieter life. A life with Ryan.

And when I closed the book on us, I put it on the shelf and told myself I wasn’t enough for that story, either.

I truly did think I had dealt with this. That it was done, and the only thing I had left to do was conquer my fear of publishing again, and I’d be healed. All that therapy, unraveling the story piece by piece. It was almost like editing, the way it happened. Dianne would listen to my first draft, then she’d poke at it, unearthing layer after layer. She’d ask me questions and make me think. It helped, obviously, but I’ve been alone with it for so long. Like she said the other day, the true test is letting someone in.

There’s no question about what I want now. I still want that quiet life with Ryan. But there’s only one path to it. We can’t have our second chance if he doesn’t know what happened with our first.

Chapter 28

Scarlett

Five Years Ago

Tired. So, so tired. It’s the only word my overworked brain can focus on when I’m not writing or interviewing or signing. There are probably more accurate or descriptive words to express my condition—stronger words, as Ryan might demand—but I’m too tired to think of them.