Page 96 of Rewrite Our Story

“You can and you will,” Mom says, her voice assured. She places the book back in my lap.

“I don’t want to steal your copy,” I say as one last pathetic excuse.

Mom smiles. “I bought all the ones for sale at Bluebird Books. I’ve got some to spare.”

Unable to find another argument other than the fact I’m terrified at what I’ll find between the pages of this book, I concede and tuck it to my chest.

“Bring our Marigold home,” Mom says, her voice hopeful. She leaves me alone with my thoughts, the Colorado night, and the book.

Sighing, I open it, anxious at what I’ll find.

53

CADE - PRESENT

Mare stares backat me with wide eyes as I tell her how Mom encouraged me to read her book despite my many arguments. “Did you read it?” she whispers.

I unfold the blanket I was holding and spread it out on the ground. Mare and I are both quiet as I lay it out in the middle of the marigolds.

Taking Mare’s hand, I pull her down until she rests against my chest. We used to lie together in this position all the time, staring up at the moon. It feels good to be doing it again, this time the sun shining down on us.

We aren’t hiding anything; we aren’t sneaking around, we’re just us.

“I read the book,” I confess. My fingers play with the hair that spills down her back.

“And?”

“And I think thatOur Storyseems a lot likeourstory.”

I think back to the night my mom handed me the book. I didn’t even make it past the dedication before having to take a break. The title and the dedication made everything click for me.

“What makes you say that?” she asks.

“To the one that got away,” I recite from memory. “I’ll always love you, even from a distance.”

Mare turns her body so she can meet my eyes. “That could be about anyone.”

“But it’s not about anyone.”

“No. It’s about you. It’s only ever been you.”

“Goldie, if you'd just told me I didn’t ruin it all. I would’ve…”

Mare runs her hands along my cheeks. She presses her palm against my stubble, letting it scratch against her skin. “I wrote the book thinking if I just told our story, every beautiful and heartbreaking moment, that by the end of the duet, I’d be putting our love story to rest, too. That if I could give them a happily ever after, if I could change the ending, that I’d get over you.”

“Did it work?”

“I haven’t written the ending yet.”

“Is it working?”

“I thought it was,” she confesses, tucking her hand underneath my T-shirt. Her hand is warm, and the way she trails it along the waistband of my jeans is doing things to me. “Before I came back, I was hoping it would work, but now I know that was hopeless.”

“I read the book in one night. I couldn’t stop, even at times when reading so many of our moments together felt too heavy. The sun had come up by the time I made it to the ending. If you could even call it an ending.”

“That’s the way we ended…or so I thought.”

The ending of the first book ended with an airport scene similar to the one shared between Mare and me. The hero told the heroine he didn’t love her, and the last words were the heroine wondering how she could ever love again.

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