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She leaned in. “Page ninety-nine, one hundred and forty-two, one hundred and eighty-six, and two hundred and forty.”
“You memorized them?”
Evie held his gaze. “You’d be surprised what I’ve committed to memory.”
You and me both, sweetheart. Nick’s smile stiffened as he tried not to beam. “And on that bombshell…”
“Happy reading.” Evie pushed open the door. “Oh…and Nick?”
He turned around. “Yeah?”
“You weren’t my first choice.”
Like a pin to a balloon, Evie’s words deflated all the giddiness in Nick’s chest. “For…?”
“Narrator. My publisher pushed for you. She thought your scandal might sell more books.”
He scratched his temple. “And did it?”
She punched the air. “Sunday Times bestseller, baby!”
“Good girl. Making lemonade out of my lemons.”
“Well, I am your caterer, right?”
“You are.” Nick’s heart panged. And so much more.
TWENTY-ONE
EVIE
Then, Friday, August 6, thirteen years ago
Evie knew long-distance relationships sucked; she just didn’t know they could suck this much.
Of the past three hundred and twenty-seven days, Nick had been in her orbit for a measly ninety-six hours. The culprits were unavoidable: Evie’s studying and final exams, Nick’s university course and production internship (dragging through June), and Kiki’s last-minute ‘mum and sons’ getaway to Greece (swallowing up most of July), but Nick promised he’d make up for it. The rest of the summer would be just the two of them, and best of all, he’d be back in her arms the evening of August 6—the one-year anniversary of their first kiss on the trampoline. Evie had bought a new outfit, booked the weekend off work, and vowed to show Nick exactly what he’d been missing since their last desperate kiss during April’s Easter break.
But Nick was missing out on more than kisses.
Thanks to a June Crohn’s flare, Evie was taking prednisone, an inflammation-reducing steroid, notorious for side effects including bruising, acne, and facial swelling not-so-lovingly called moon face. Round and bloated, Evie’s cheeks were chipmunk-esque. Cute on a baby; not so cute on a self-conscious eighteen-year-old reuniting with her sex-on-legs boyfriend. Nick knew Evie was at the tail end of the flare, but she’d carefully omitted the distressing change in her appearance, trusting her doctor’s word that, as she tapered off the medication, the swelling would vanish completely. Unfortunately, after swallowing her final dose, she still felt puffy and still felt worrisome twinges in her belly.
Everything else, though, was picture perfect. The previous day, Evie had received her final exam results and two firm offers for university, and tonight she was staying over at Sunita’s—at least that was what she’d told her mum. DJ Klimaxx (otherwise known as Tarquin) was also throwing the biggest party of the year, if not the decade. Taking over his grandmother’s largest pasture while she visited friends in Glasgow, Tarquin’s dance party would provide Evie all the celebratory vibes, tunes, and fireworks she needed for a night to remember with Nick.
They had arranged to meet at nine-thirty so he could have a post-flight meal and enough time to give his baby brother a helping hand with his big show, but impatience whipped Evie’s excitement into a bouncing-off-the-walls frenzy. Fiona and Sunita both agreed there was only one cure—arriving early so their best friend could dance her little heart out and burn off some pent-up, prednisone-fueled energy.
As the sunset’s fiery kiss took its final bow, they picked up their day-glo wristbands from Nick’s cousin Jonathan and strolled through the rusted gates of Lily’s farm, passing food vans and porta potties and a table offering free bottles of water.
Evie gaped, soaking up the festive atmosphere, but it was the stage that demanded her attention. Dressed in black with a cigarette dangling between his lips, Tarquin danced and wore headphones as he spun his favorite tunes from a platform overlooking a sea of awestruck teens and young adults. Shimmering white lights coiled and climbed the temporary scaffolding, while blue strobes, pulsing in time with the music, sliced through a smoky haze. Behind Tarquin’s turntables and speakers, an enormous backdrop reminiscent of the ‘streaking stars’ hyperdrive effect from Star Wars made the setup look like a speeding spaceship hurtling toward Earth.
“This is ah-may-zing!” Evie marveled.
Sunita unzipped her faux-leather bomber jacket, a hand-me-down from her sister. “Imagine having this kind of money…for a party?”
“Sam’s gonna kick himself,” said Evie. “He’s totally missing out.”
“Why’d he head back to uni early?” asked Fiona, squeezing through the crush, a bundle of unlit sparklers poking out from her mini backpack. “We’ve barely seen him this summer.”
“I think he met someone there. Speaking of”—Evie bumped Sunita with her elbow—“check out that blond dude!” By Tarquin’s side, a handsome guy in a white button-down, skinny jeans, and a rave-unfriendly blazer thumbed through a crate of 12” singles.
