Page 1 of We Were Something
PROLOGUE
PAIGE
“What do you want me to say, Paige?” he asks.
For the life of me, in this moment, I don’t know that I can answer him. Because really, there isn’t justonething I want him to say. There are a million.
I want him to say he’s making a mistake.
He didn’t mean the things he said.
When he pictures his future, I’m right there, standing beside him, holding his hand—no matter what people think.
But I know he won’t say those things.
The man is breaking up with me—though, clearly, I thought we were much more ‘together’ than he did. It would be foolish of me to ask him to change his mind.
So instead, I try to grasp at the only thing that feels like it might still be in my control.
“We were something, though…weren’t we? Something real?”
He grimaces and looks away, like he’s embarrassed for me.
And I get it. I really do.
Because I should be embarrassed, too.
But I’m not.
I’m not embarrassed by how much this feels like begging for scraps. I’m not embarrassed that I probably look like trash while he stands there in his expertly tailored suit. I’m not embarrassed that I know his friends are listening in the other room, if the obnoxiously loud sound of silence is anything to go by.
No. I’m none of those things.
Instead, I’m desperate.
Desperate for him to acknowledge what we had. Desperate to know the words we spoke to each other were real. Desperate to be reassured that I didn’t spend weeks falling in love with a man who thinks we were nothing.
ThinksI’mnothing.
Tears track down my face as he remains silent, and when I finally realize he doesn’t plan to say anything in response, I do the only thing I can think of.
I run.
CHAPTER1
PAIGE
…six weeks earlier…
There’s something bittersweet about living at the beach when the end of summer finally rolls around.
On one hand, it feels like life reverts back to normal as the tourists and families all return to their everyday routines. The long, concrete stretch of The Strand that divides the multi-million-dollar homes of Hermosa Beach from the sand and surf seems to empty almost overnight, leaving behind only the early morning joggers and elderly residents walking their dogs.
The beach itself suddenly becomes barren, apart from the South Bay locals who venture out on the weekends and the surf bums who only use the sand as a walking path to get to and from the water. The bars and clubs that are mixed in with small shops on Hermosa Avenue stay busy but not overflowing, familiar faces becoming easier to spot in the mix.
As someone who enjoys the feeling of a swelling crowd, I’d actually argue that the sudden disappearance of the masses is thebitterpart, not the sweet. There’s something indescribably fun about the excitement that ebbs and flows through my beachside hometown during the summer months, and I’d wager a guess that I’m one of only a few year-round residents who doesn’t find enjoyment in the slightly slower pace of life in Hermosa during the other three seasons of the year.
I’m a night owl. A party girl. An energetic bee-bop of fun who enjoys concerts and bars and live music at the pier. I love having a few drinks while getting ready before a busy night on the town with my girlfriends. I’m energized by the crush of bodies on the dance floor.
