Page 1 of When We Meet Again

PROLOGUE

WAVERLY

It’s been happening more and more lately—this whole existential contemplation. Just when I thought I had it all figured out, my boyfriend of six years, Patrick Huxley, proposes. It was supposed to be a luxury vacation on the coast of the Philippines at Puerto Princesa. Drinks, dancing, feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries, but none of that happened. Instead, he got down on bended-knee last night and held up a gorgeous, antique, oval diamond ring.

I always thought I’d cry when a man proposed to me. Breathlessness would take over and I'd fan myself out of pure heated adrenaline pumping through me like a rapid fire. But I didn’t shed one single tear. No heat. No adrenaline. No fire. Maybe it’s because I’m constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don’t allow myself to fully enjoy the positive moments life gives me, or so I’m told by my therapist.

What’s all the proposal hype about?A subtle breeze picks up, rustling the palm trees behind us. A day on the beach the morning after being proposed to is exactly what I needed.

“You’re turning my mom's ring like it’s a fidget spinner.” Patrick eyes the inherited, two-karat frosting dangling from my finger.Mom's ring.I never wanted something this big, butmarrying into the Huxley family, they wouldn’t dare let you be seen with something any more humble than a rock this size.

Did I mention it’s too big? I thought the guy was supposed to fish around a girl's jewelry box full of rings and steal it away for sizing to get it perfect. Maybe I’ve seen one too many romantic movies.

Patrick’s sapphire eyes, covered by dark-rimmed, Ray-Ban sunglasses, leave me wondering if he's annoyed or joking. He was snoring seconds ago. Spinning rings is a habit of mine, which is why I opt out of wearing them altogether.Shouldn’t he know this after six years?

“You aren’t having second thoughts, are you, Waverly?”Am I? I don't think so.I think general contemplation of "Is this the right move for me at the age ofalmost forty" is completely normal. I wouldn’t exactly call that ‘second-guessing’.

I sit up from my reclined lounge chair, resting my feet in the sand, and I wiggle my toes while the hot sun kisses my skin. After securing the ring back on its designated finger, I lean over and kiss his lips. Our love has been quick. Easy. It was almost too easy, but I never questioned it. Even to this day. That’s what true love should be, right?

“No, Patrick. You’re it for me.” I kiss him once more before looking around the secluded beach. I was told this isn’t a well-known tourist spot; instead, a place for locals to frequent. Not today. Today something big is going to happen. I don’t know what. I don’t know when, but I feel it in my gut. Maybe he’ll un-pop the question. I feel like it’s something bigger, though.

“Can see smoke coming out of your ears from here. What’s up, Waverly?” He always calls me by my full name, never something cutesy. Never a name that would cause him to look vulnerable or in love. I can tell he closes his eyes again by looking through the side of his glasses. Ishouldbe relaxing on our last day here, living in the present.

I aggressively bite my lip, contemplating keeping my mouth shut. I don’t usually tell him when I have thisfeeling—like something’s going to happen. He once told me I should keep those thoughts to myself before everyone thinks I’m crazy. “They’ll send you off to the looney bin,” he threatened the last time I brought up a feeling of uncertainty.

The tug in my gut is getting worse. Do my organs know something about Patrick that I don't? Is there danger lurking? Who the hell knows, but I ignore it. Tamp it down like I do everything else and take a deep breath. It's a fight-or-flight feeling. My newfound commitment-phobia must be acting up.

“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep, old man,” I joke, shoving his leg with my sandy foot and I smile. He ignores my words but brushes the sand from his leg with pinched brows.Always so serious.

“Pipe down over there. I’m only a year older than you are.” He doesn’t smile. He doesn't playfully wipe his now sandy hand on me. Nothing.

Patrick works hard. I know how difficult it was for him to find time to fly halfway around the world for a vacation with me—especially with him being an active member of the U.S. Coast Guard. And so we must cherish these moments together where we can. He’s gone for months at a time, and sometimes we go days without talking. It’s something that I still haven’t gotten used to. I don’t think I ever will.

His sandy blonde hair blows in the wind against his newly tanned freckled face.What a handsome man.I smile to myself, knowing I did well finding someone who can give me a stable life and decent companionship. Maybe even a cute baby if I can finally convince him.

I start drifting into a light, sun-induced sleep, mind racing with thoughts of what our future will look like before a heart-stopping, deafening noise blares through some sort of speaker.

“A siren? Patrick, what?—”

He pops up. “Tsunami siren. We need to move!” I laugh because it’s ridiculous. “Seriously?” I look deep into the horizon, trying to decipher whether it’s an incoming wave or just the ocean meeting the sky. It isn't the latter. It’s a massive wall of water moving straight toward us. I’ve read about these. I’ve seen these in movies and on social media. My palms turn clammy, and I break into a cold sweat. I didn't notice the water being sucked away. I was too busy swirling down my post-proposal rabbit hole.

I jump to my feet gathering everything I can, throwing it into my oversized black beach bag. I look around in a panic at all of our shit strewn about. “How the hell?—”

“Damnit, Waverly! Now’s not the time for questions. And forget the fucking towels…” Patrick snaps before he shouts at the family down the beach. They have three kids, and they look confused as to what the siren means. Or maybe they’re suffering from the same shock that I'm in.

Patrick tries to yell at them over the siren, but it doesn’t work. “Shit. Get to higher ground.” He looks past me. “Run up to that house.” He points to a yellow house in the middle of a mountain, about six stories worth of dark wooden steps. “I need to get those people off the beach,” he shouts.

“Patrick!” I scream, begging him to come with me, but everything in me knows he’d risk his life to save someone. Especially kids. He gives me a glance and bolts toward the family that is at least a hundred yards away, leaving me to my fate alone.

It's not that I need him to save me.

It’s that I’m not so sure I want to save myself right now.

I made it more than halfway up the old wooden steps and turn toward Patrick. Like it was perfect timing, the wateraggressively floods the shoreline, taking my fiancé and the family with it. Screams fill the air.

But it’s not others who are screaming.

It’s me.

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