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Bryce: Devon! I know you’re there. I can see when the message is delivered. Answer me.
Silence
Bryce: I’ll give you two days.
Luckily, my professor comes in and starts the class. I turn off my phone after sending Quinn an SOS message.
Me: Tequila and limes for dinner.
Ugh, I feel like shit. I skipped my class this morning, and now Quinn’s driving us to D.C. to chase a series of protests we found online. She watched as I drank myself into oblivion last night, dissecting every text from Bryce. At one point, she called Nate, and he tried to talk me into at least listening to Bryce, but I shut him down. He acted really weird about the whole thing. I figured it was because they were still best friends. Little sisters and best friends never mix. I’d learned my lesson.
“Let’s make sure we get the protesters outside the White House. I have an idea,” I tell Quinn as she parks.
“You got it,” she agrees.
We go in different directions, making plans to meet in three hours. I trudge along the back of the park, still cursing my hangover and the man who I couldn’t get off of my mind.
Once I pass the first alley, I stop and turn back. There’s a very petite lady and two small children sitting in a huddle. She holds the small children as they cry. They look at me uncomfortably as I approach.
I explain I’m a college student taking pictures for a project, and they instantly relax. Over the next hour, I listen to her story of fear and uncertainty, and I know—I have the story for my World Journalism paper. I only leave them to go to the protest and take pictures for Quinn’s piece.
On our way home, we talk non-stop about our different experiences. She found her angle, and I found mine. And for a brief moment, I think about how proud Nate and Bryce would be. But I let it go… This is my life now.
Chapter 2
Three hours. Only three hours until I get on the plane and head across the country to Aspen, Colorado, for the next ten days.
Quinn is next to me, refreshing the site every few minutes, looking for our grades to post. I asked her to stop an hour ago, but she won’t. She’s addicted. If she gets less than a B, she’ll have a total melt down. That’s one reason we’re at the airport so freaking early. Our flights are an hour apart, but she needs moral support.
So I sit here drinking a beer, and she has her head buried in the computer. My adrenaline is flowing, ready to be on the slopes, and Quinn is killing my excitement.
“Will you stop and have a beer?”
“Yeah.” She sighs, placing the computer in her bag. “What are the plans for Miami on New Years?”
“My parents got us a room. After the game, I guess we’ll figure out where the party is.”
“Knew we wouldn’t be apart!” She claps excitedly, wiggling in her seat.
When UVA was invited to play in the Orange Bowl, our plans changed completely. My parents got us a room away from the chaos. My break is looking awesome; snow and sand sound heavenly.
It’s been ten days since Bryce texted me, and I’m still on edge. He said he’d give me two days and then nothing. My heart was not letting me forget, but my mind was winning. I had to let go.
Quinn and I decide to do a few shots before our flights and somehow end up with an audience. A few guys join us, buying drinks and body shots up until the last minute. We say our goodbyes and run to our gates.
I settle in with my iPad, getting comfortable against the window seat, when the scent of familiar cologne wafts through my senses. Holy shit! It’s been a while, but I’d know that smell on my deathbed… Bryce. I look around, inspecting every seat, but there are no familiar faces. It’s ridiculous; tons of men probably wear the same brand of cologne, so why does my mind automatically assume it’s only him?
A young businessman sits next to me and immediately brings out his computer. I sink down and close my eyes, knowing someone on this flight is going to torture me with the one scent that can bring me to my knees.
Once we take off, I order a vodka and soda, showing my fake ID with a huge smile. The guy beside me chuckles and gives me a wink. I almost think he’s flirting, but he snaps his attention back to the computer.
The flight attendant returns with the drink, and I suck it down quickly. The stranger beside me laughs softly again, shaking his head. Really? Is he flirting or judging? Not giving it a second thought, I position my hoodie against the window and fall asleep.
Dreams invade my mind. Images of the rally in D.C. last week and the woman who spoke to me candidly about her fears, the two small children clinging to her but watching me in fascination. Then the scene fades to just me in a field, laughing and smiling, spinning in circles as rain drenches me. I feel carefree, happy. Lightning strikes, and someone is calling
me, telling me to get out of the rain. A hand reaches for me, but there is no face. The damn cologne permeates the air around me again, so close…
I jerk awake and feel warmth on the skin of my wrist. There’s a hand wrapped around it securely, resting on my thigh. I lurch back, ready to scream, when my gaze connects with the deep blue eyes I’d recognize anywhere. Bryce Randolph is facing me, caging me in between him and the wall of the plane. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him. My eyes rake over his body. The last nineteen months have been good to him. His chest is fuller, his shoulders broader. The long sleeve thermal shirt fits snugly around the muscles in his arms. For a brief second, I grin at him then remember where we are.
