The Rewind
Also by Allison Winn Scotch
Cleo McDougal Regrets Nothing
Between Me and You
In Twenty Years
The Theory of Opposites
The Song Remains the Same
The One That I Want
Time of My Life
The Department of Lost & Found
BERKLEY ROMANCE
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2022 by Allison Winn Scotch
Readers Guide copyright © 2022 by Allison Winn Scotch
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and Berkley Romance with B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Scotch, Allison Winn, author.
Title: The rewind / Allison Winn Scotch.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley Romance, 2022.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022001935 (print) | LCCN 2022001936 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593546536 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593546543 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3619.C64 R49 2022 (print) | LCC PS3619.C64 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022001935
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022001936
First Edition: November 2022
Cover design by Lila Selle
Book design by Elke Sigal, adapted for ebook by Molly Jeszke
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_141685110_c0_r1
Contents
Cover
Also by Allison Winn Scotch
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
For Campbell, who was a newborn when I wrote my debut and who is now eighteen and grown. What a joy it has been to watch you fly.
We’re running with the shadows of the night,
So baby, take my hand, it’ll be all right.
Surrender all your dreams to me tonight,
They’ll come true in the end.
—Pat Benatar, “Shadows of the Night”
PROLOGUE
The Night Before
Frankie Harriman took a long last look in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door of her decently appointed hotel room. The lighting was, as expected, quite grim, but even without the shadowing and the unflattering overtone of yellow, she startled herself. She fidgeted with the hem of her oversize wool sweater, tried tucking it into the waist of her Levi’s, then decided that made her look like she was trying too hard, so untucked it, but she still wasn’t happy. She turned to the side and gave herself a final once-over. It would have to do. The rehearsal dinner invite had called for College Chic! and this was all she had: her old J.Crew fisherman sweater that she’d dug out of a box in the back of her closet in her Los Feliz apartment and her vintage Levi’s, which she now bought at a used-clothing store on Fairfax, but she may just as well have been wearing the ones from 1989, the year they graduated. The last time she’d set foot on campus at Middleton University.
She had been as surprised as anyone that she willingly accepted her freshman-year roommate’s request to be a bridesmaid (how do you really turn that sort of thing down?). Months later, she checked off “Yes! Party Like It’s 1999,” rather than “Y2Nay,” on the invitation, and after sealing the envelope and dropping it in the mailbox on the corner outside her office, it wouldn’t be a lie to say that she regretted it and immediately thought of a million and one excuses as to how she could bail last minute. She always had excuses at the ready, and to be honest, half of them weren’t even lies: her artists inevitably got themselves into trouble or she was headed out on tour or there was some sort of unforeseeable crisis to manage.
But here she was despite all of that. At April and Connor’s wedding. At Middleton after a decade. With a magenta taffeta bridesmaid’s dress with an oversize bow on one shoulder hanging in the closet next to the hotel robe. There were so many places she would rather be—anywhere, really—but she knew she owed it to April to show up and stand beside her when she vowed herself to Connor for life.
She’d tried to convince herself otherwise. She’d poured herself a whiskey a few months back, the day before she had to go to a wedding shop in Beverly Hills to pick up her bridesmaid’s dress, and dialed Laila Simpson, the college friend she was still tightest with, and ran through why her presence wasn’t really necessary. She’d stayed in closer touch with Laila than April in the years since they graduated; whenever Laila was in LA, they toasted each other and got drunk at whichever hotel bar Laila’s pharmaceutical company was putting her up at. That afternoon, Laila went quiet on the other end of the line for a beat, then said, “You know, Frankie, you have this big, incredible life, and I’m never here to tell you how to live it, but April gave you a shoulder to lean on when you needed it, and it’s probably time that you reciprocated.” Frankie knew she was referring to the night they graduated from college, when the two of them—Laila and April—had hailed her a cab and hugged her goodbye and called her the next morning to make sure she was ok, but she hadn’t thought about all of that in so long. It was easier not to think about any of that. Because that’s how Frankie marched forward. By never looking back.
Frankie wanted to protest, to say, But there are bigger reasons, more terrifying reasons for me not to come. But that wasn’t true. There was just one.
Ezra Jones.
Tonight at the hotel, Frankie tousled her blond hair one last time in front of the mirror and swiped on bright red lipstick. She checked her teeth and ran her fingers under her armpits because she couldn’t remember if she’d put on deodorant. She knew she was more frazzled than usual (as a former child piano prodigy, Frankie Harriman had been trained like a show dog to overcome any nerves), so she stared at her reflection until her pulse slowed, and she told herself that Ezra Jones was just a small sliver of her past, a hiccup, a forgotten glimpse. She didn’t have to speak to him, she didn’t even know if he’d be here at April and Connor’s wedding, and she certainly didn’t ask. Frankie often advised her musical artists on how to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to their weaknesses, and she thus knew that asking was doing just that.
Her phone beeped on the nightstand, and she turned away from the mirror and flipped it open.
“You ready?” Laila asked. “I’m almost there. I’ll be in the lobby in five.”
Laila was crashing with a girl Frankie didn’t remember who was two years behind them in college but who had returned to get her master’s in something related to literature. (Laila had told Frankie, but she hadn’t been paying close attention.) Laila had stayed in touch with this woman all these years because she was better at those things than Frankie.
Frankie pushed her shoulders back and reached for her coat, then her purse. She stuffed her CD player into her jacket’s oversize pocket and flipped her yellow Sony headphones atop her hair. She had Night Vixen’s early cut of their new album but never gave them feedback until she’d listened to it at least twenty times. She kept hearing new things, new nuances with each spin, but then that’s what made her the best at what she did.
Frankie held her head high as she swung the door open and strode down the hall toward the elevator. She heard the door latch behind her and told herself that she was Frankie Harriman, music manager to the stars, and she was capable of anything. She’d eradicated Ezra Jones from her life once before. How hard could it be to do for one weekend more?
—
Ezra Jones popped open the black velvet box one last time. The ring, naturally, was still there. He didn’t know why he worried it wouldn’t be. But nevertheless, it was reassuring to see it secured away in its place, sparkling and magnificent, a single two-carat solitaire. He thought of his mother and how much he wished she were here so he could call her and share the news. She was always happy for him, whatever his choices.
A knock on the door startled him, and he closed the box with a start and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat, which was slung around the mahogany wood chair in front of a matching desk. Ezra had sprung for a suite, which felt a little foolish now—he didn’t want his old college friends to think he was being flashy about his bank account—but it was too late to do anything about it. Besides, he wanted tomorrow night, New Year’s Eve, to be special. Mimi was coming, and it felt like exactly the right time, the right moment to make a new start, even if this was the place where plenty of things had come to an end.
“Hello?” he called from behind the door, then unlatched the safety lock.
“Dude!” He opened the door to find Gregory Mason standing there with open arms, double fisting two large bottles of booze. Gregory, whose brown hair was shaggy and who still looked about twenty-two despite a half-hearted attempt at a mustache, bear-hugged him like they hadn’t seen each other in years, which wasn’t quite true. Gregory had moved to Portland three summers ago, but they’d stayed close. They’d planned a trip to Prague last summer that Ezra bailed on last minute—instead, he went to Nantucket with Mimi for her work retreat—and Ezra was relieved that Gregory didn’t seem to hold a grudge.
Gregory entered like Ezra’s suite was his own, plunked the alcohol onto the mahogany desk, and flopped on the bed, rolling onto his back to unwrap his scarf and unzip his bright red puffer jacket. “Drink, my friend, you must drink. It’s the only way to see this through.” He rolled back over, then pushed up to his elbows and eyed Ezra.
“I’m fine,” Ezra said. “I’m totally fine. I’m better than fine.”
Gregory gave him a long up-and-down stare, as if his gaze were a lie detector, then he hopped to his feet and grabbed one of the bottles and took a swig. “You know that she’s here, right?” Gregory didn’t need to elaborate: she was Frankie. Ezra didn’t bother to ask how he knew such things because Gregory always knew such things.
“Mimi’s coming,” Ezra offered. “So I’m honestly fine. She’s flying from Kansas City to Chicago tonight, Hartford in the morning—I have a car bringing her.” He grabbed his bright blue iBook from the desk. “I was just about to check on her flight.”
“Mimi.” Gregory sniffed.
“I’m sorry again,” Ezra said.
Gregory shrugged like he knew there was no use in holding it against him. “I’m just saying that Prague is significantly more awesome than Nantucket.”
“I know.” Ezra nodded. Because he did. “It was just . . . it turned into a thing.” He didn’t mean to sigh but did anyway. How could he explain that Mimi was upset that everyone else was bringing a plus-one to the retreat while her plus-one was in Prague with his college buddy, and so, rather than disappoint her, he canceled his own plans.
Gregory moved on and refocused. “Your shirt is buttoned wrong,” he said, and Ezra glanced down at his plaid flannel (College Chic!). Gregory’s always-animated face slowed for a beat, and Ezra knew he was worried. He was one of just a handful of Ezra’s friends, well, really his only friend, plus Frankie, who knew how deeply his anxiety used to run straight through him.
“This doesn’t mean I’m not fine,” Ezra said, unbuttoning, then rebuttoning, but Gregory held the bottle between them until Ezra finally sighed and reached for it and drank. It burned all the way down, deep into his gut, and he shuddered.
“Special Portland blend.” Gregory smiled. “I know a guy.” He paused. “We used to know each other intimately but fortunately now are still on speaking terms. Because, you know, the booze.”
Ezra took this to mean that Gregory was still happily single, as he had nearly always been since he’d come out their senior year. Ezra never understood his rotating lineup of men, how it didn’t unnerve him not to have a steady partner, how Gregory seemed to delight in the chase. For Ezra, the chase was the most arduous, exhausting part. Give him the evenings in pajamas and Blockbuster rentals, give him morning breath and bed head, give him the assured companionship over dinner, the shared New York Times crossword, the intimacy of being on a first-name basis with her parents.
“Have another,” Gregory said. “I suspect you’ll need it.”
Ezra tipped the bottle back and drank again, and this time, it burned a little less, felt a little better. “I don’t even have to see her,” he said. “I mean, I guess I have to see her, but I don’t have to see her. It’s been ten years. Who said I have to care?”
Gregory cupped his shoulder and said, “My man,” and shook his head, like he was in on a secret that Ezra didn’t yet understand, and then he grabbed his scarf and his red puffer and also the two bottles of booze and said, “Let’s hit it. We have an hour at the hotel bar before we head to Burton.”
Ezra didn’t want to make a big scene about the ring in front of Gregory, who, he knew, would make it into an even bigger thing because Gregory was all about delighting in the dramatic. Until Ezra got on bended knee and slipped his grandmother’s ring on Mimi’s finger, he just wanted this for himself. He’d planned to put the ring in the hotel room safe, but that would draw attention to it, so instead, he reached for his coat where it was stuffed in the inside pocket and said, “Ok, just promise me one thing.”
And Gregory turned, with the door ajar, and said, “Anything.”
“Just don’t let me . . . I mean . . . Look, I don’t want to turn this into a drama. You know, with Frankie.”
“I got you,” Gregory said. “I’ll be the buffer.”
Ezra didn’t really know what exactly that meant. He envisioned Gregory rushing over to form a human wall between Frankie and him if ever they were in the same vicinity. But Gregory said it with such confidence, with such enthusiasm that he decided to trust him; he seemed to be an expert in making peace with exes, and when peace couldn’t be found, at exorcising their ghosts. Ezra had never exorcised a ghost in his life.
Ezra thought of Frankie again, of her ghost. He’d been off his anxiety medication for a few years now but always kept a solitary pill on hand. His break-in-case-of-emergency supply. His pulse was already racing at the news of her proximity, and he wondered if this weren’t a bit of an emergency.
“One sec,” he said to Gregory, then dipped into the bathroom and rooted around in his Dopp kit for his pill container: his multivitamins, his calcium, and a single Xanax. He stared into the mirror and resolved he was fine; he really could white-knuckle it out. But then Gregory said from around the corner, “You good, man?” And just to be sure that he really was good, he placed the pill on the back of his tongue and swallowed.
“All set,” Ezra said, emerging from the bathroom. Gregory held the hotel door open and flourished his arm as if he were an usher.
The Portland vodka was already making Ezra’s legs feel rubbery, and he held a hand up against the wall as they lolled down the hallway toward the elevator. Gregory jabbed the button, and the two of them glanced upward as the floor ticked downward.