Ayla

“You ready?” My friend, Seth, stands in the doorway of my bedroom as I sit on top of my overfilled suitcase. I’m going to be living out of this thing for the next three months. Last week Hard Hearted officially launched, and my publisher is sending me on a three-month, twelve-city book signing tour.

“Yep.” I tug the zipper all the way around and climb off.

“We’ve got to get going.” Seth motions for me to hurry up. “Flight leaves in three hours and we have to take the 405, which is crazy this time of day.”

“I know, I know.”

His bag is at the door, and his car keys jangle in his hand. I take another look around at the modest-yet-comfortable condo I purchased last year with money from my advance.

Millions of dollars sit untouched in my bank account. I’ve still yet to spend a single penny of Bryce’s inheritance with the exception of the money I gave my mom so she could retire early. That woman worked her ass off to provide for me, sacrificed everything, so it’s the least I can do for her.

I plan to put some of the money back into the foundation and give some to charity. For now, I’m letting it grow, and according to my accountant, it’s growing like crazy right now. He says if I don’t touch it, it could double within ten years, then double again ten years after that.

All I know is I want to do as much good with it as possible.

My eyes rest on the gray velvet living room sofa where I penned the sequel to my first book. There were days I barely moved from that spot, the words flowing from my mind to my fingertips on a tidal wave of messy emotions—all of which were inspired by one person.

“You excited?” Seth asks.

I nod, my stomach filled with butterflies, but not the good kind.

“You’re nervous,” he says a minute later, loading our bags into his trunk. “That’s why I’m coming. Everything’ll be fine.”

I’m glad he’s coming. I didn’t want to go alone, at least not this first time. I’ve never done a book signing, and I’m not sure what to expect. I’m grateful for my one-man entourage.

I met Seth at a writer’s workshop in West Hollywood two Christmases ago. We’re one hundred percent platonic, but I can tell he wants more. Don’t get me wrong—Seth is extremely attractive. He’s a hair over six feet with chocolate brown hair, hooded, honey-colored eyes, and ridiculously sexy tortoise-shell glasses. He wears cardigans and skinny jeans and leather Chucks and he’s not even trying to be a hipster. He’s just ... Seth.

He reads like crazy. He’s ridiculously well-versed in American literature and he’s not even pretentious about it.

And he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.

Seth is the kind of guy who would take of his jacket and throw it across a rain puddle. He’s the kind of guy who waits the extra five seconds to get the door for the person behind him. He’s the kind of friend you can call at three in the morning when you can’t sleep and he won’t even be mad that you woke him up.

Maybe pre-Rhett, Seth would’ve been perfect for me.

Anyway, you can’t force chemistry. If it isn’t there, it isn’t there.

We climb inside Seth’s Volkswagen and he tells me I can change the radio station if I like. The ride to LAX is mostly road noise and soft tunes. I was so nervous this morning I forgot to eat breakfast, so my stomach rumbles every five minutes.

“You’re never this quiet,” he says, placing his hand on mine. He does that sometimes. He touches me like I’m his, like we’re a thing. I think he does it on purpose. It’s as if he thinks one of these days I’m going to come around.

I gently take my hand out from under his. “Just wondering how tomorrow’s going to go.”

“It’s going to go just fine,” he assures me. “There was so much hype around this book, there’ll be people lined up for blocks just to meet you.”

“What if they think I’m boring?”

“Impossible,” he says.

“What if they hate my signature?”

“Have you been practicing?” he asks.

I exhale, pressing my forehead against the sun-warmed glass of the passenger window.

“Do you not like New York?” he asks. “I love New York, but I can only handle it in small doses. Too much and it’s just ... too intense. Everyone’s so serious there. Always wearing black and walking around like they’re somebody important when they’re nobody anybody’s every heard of.”

I chuckle through my nose. He’s right. New York is intense.

“I have no qualms with New York,” I tell him, staring ahead and letting my mind wander like it always does ... going to him. “New York was good to me once upon a time.”

I’d like to think there’s a version of Rhett and Ayla dashing around New York together, catching midnight movies and walking the city hand in hand late at night like the whole place belongs only to them. Maybe they moved in together by now? Maybe they took a trip together? Maybe they’re starting to think about the future because they’re just as inseparable as ever.

Regardless, the spirit of what we had, be it ever so brief, is still there. The second I step off the plane, I’ll feel it. It’ll sink into me, heavy at first, then it’ll wrap me up in a bittersweet embrace, kiss me gently on the cheek, and fade away, carried by a summer breeze.

Last I heard, Rhett left the Spartans. They let him out of his contract due to “interpersonal issues,” which I think was just code for everything that happened between him and Bryce and the decline of Rhett’s morale. I read on ESPN shortly after that that the Philadelphia Iron Kings signed him on. Other than that, I have absolutely no idea what he’s been up to.

I don’t know if he’s with anyone.

I don’t know if he’s happier now.

I don’t know if he moved on or if he ever thinks about me.

All I know is my life can be divided into two broken little pieces: life before I knew him—and life after.