Page 128 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
She didn’t finish that sentence, but it gutted me just the same.
“I wanted to,” I said, leaning back on my hands. “I don’t know. Jenna hit me at a time that was already so hard for me, you know?” I frowned at the lie, because I hated telling it, but it was easier than admitting the truth — that I’d stayed away for fear of not being able to control how much I wanted her. “My parents were high school sweethearts.”
I knew without looking at her that those words hurt. She didn’t want to think of me having a life with Jenna any more than I wanted to think about having a life without B.
“It’s okay that Jenna wasn’t the one.”
“I know,” I said quickly, and I decided to tell at least some truths. “I think I always knew. She was fun, we clicked, had some great times together. But there was something missing.”
I turned to face her then, but she kept her eyes on the waves, refusing to meet my gaze.
“You’ll find someone,” she said softly, eyes still on the waves.
And that’s when my stupid idea clicked into place.
I sat up straight. “Well, I don’t like leaving my life to chance. So, I have a proposition. If you’re game, that is.”
She finally looked at me, cocking a brow. “Why do I feel like I should run right now?”
I laughed to hide how hard my heart was beating.
“I say we make a pact.”
“A pact?”
I nodded. “If neither of us are married by the time we’re thirty, we marry each other.”
“Oh my God,” she scoffed, leaning up to mirror me with an incredulous look on her too-beautiful-for-this-world face. “That is so stupid, Jamie. It’s also the plot line for every cheesy Rom-Com ever.”
I shrugged, wiping the sand from my hands before I looked out at the water. “Sounds like someone is scared.”
“I’m not scared. It’s dumb.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m going to be married by thirty, Jamie. And you’re definitely going to be locked down by then.”
“So then you have nothing to worry about,” I challenged, pinning her with my gaze again. I shot my hand out for hers. “If we’re not married in twelve years, you become Mrs. Shaw.”
She eyed my hand like it was poison. “That’s not fair. You turn thirty before me.”
I shrugged. “My pact, my terms. Do we have a deal?”
Her dark eyebrows bent together as she stared at my hand, and then with a roll of her eyes and a dramatic huff, she grabbed it and shook firmly three times.
“Fine. But this is dumb, and pointless.”
I smiled a winner’s smile.
“You’re so weird,” she added when I dropped her hand.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
I knew she loved me — just as certainly as I knew I loved her. Maybe we weren’t ready to say it yet — not seriously, anyway. But we both knew.
I soaked up every moment of that last day with B, not wanting to let her go, not wanting to leave her behind. But I took solace in the pact we’d made, stupidly believing it actually mattered, that we could make a promise at seventeen and eighteen and somehow keep it as the adults we didn’t even know we’d become in twelve years’ time.
But I also knew that in one year, my little surfer girl would find her way to California. There was no way she wouldn’t, not with her mind made up.
And so I’d go to California, get through freshman year, and wait for her.
For when we could finally be together.
IT WAS OVER A year later before I saw B again.
My life had completely changed — as it often does when you go to college. I was already through my freshman year, excited about getting into more major-specific courses as a sophomore, and thoroughly enjoying student activities on and off campus… if you catch my drift.
It was move-in week, the Alder campus crawling with students and parents unloading U-Hauls and heaving boxes across campus to the dorms. I was already moved in and settled, and so I spent the pleasantly warm afternoon on the basketball court, flirting with freshmen as they walked past.
Everything in my life finally felt on track.
I loved Alder — which I’d been accepted into last minute, thanks to my uncle knowing someone who knew someone in the admissions office. Truthfully, I hadn’t worked hard in high school to impress on my college applications, so I’d been waitlisted, at first. I was fine going to UC San Diego, even though my dad and uncle graduated from Alder.
But my uncle wasn’t having it.
And once he pulled the strings and got me in, I realized why he was so adamant about it.
Alder was every new adult’s wet dream. The campus was gorgeous, close to the beach, and one of the only universities that allowed alcohol on the grounds. I was on an intramural basketball team, never had a class that was more than forty students, and my professors knew me by name. Add that to the fact that you actually had your own room in your dorm, as opposed to sharing bunk beds with a stranger, and I was sold.
