Page 132 of The Story Between Us

She held out the paperback. “Now. Would you sign this for me?”

He took it. The cover had worn soft as cloth—a painted forest, two figures on a path, the title in silver foil that had mostly rubbed away. He opened to the title page and pulled a pen from his pocket.

Started to write Ia⁠—

“No.” Her hand on his, stopping him. “Nate will be fine.”

He looked at her. Her eyes stayed steady. Certain.

He crossed out the half-formed letters. Wrote instead: For Lila, with love. Nate Rivers.

His real name. On the page. For the first time.

Lila examined the signature. Winked. Then she met his eyes. “I know you think you’ve wrecked this, Nate. But your story—and Livvie’s story—isn’t over yet. Go, rewrite the ending.”

He frowned at her, but she winked and walked away.

Huh.

His breath fogged in the cold. The crowd shifted around him, preparing for the lantern release, but he ignored them. Pulled out his phone. Found her name. Pressed call.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

Four.

“You’ve reached Livvie Fox. Leave a message.”

Her voice. Professional. Warm. The voice that used to greet him every morning, that had commented on his chapters after reading them in the afternoons, that had gasped when he’d kissed her at the festival—only two nights ago, though it seemed like years.

He opened his mouth.

What would he say? I’m sorry. I was wrong. Come back.

None of it carried enough weight.

He hung up.

The festival lights disappeared in his rearview mirror, the warm glow of lanterns rising into the night sky giving way to a canvas of scattered stars. The road wound through dark pines, headlights cutting white tunnels through the black.

The lake house appeared through the trees first. Dark windows. No lights.

Then Lila’s cottage, just visible through the pines. A single lamp glowed in the front room. Livvie there? Packing? Already gone?

He could walk over. Knock on the door. Say the things he should have said yesterday when he watched her drive away.

He parked. Cut the engine. Sat in the silence.

The dashboard clock glowed green: 9:34 p.m.

The lamp in Lila’s cottage flickered. Then went dark.

He got out. Walked past the envelope still waiting on the kitchen counter. Out the back door. Down the flagstone path. Onto the dock.

The stars were scattered across the sky—thousands of them, brilliant and cold, the Milky Way a pale river overhead. No moon. Just starlight and silence and dark water stretching toward the far shore.