Page 2 of Meet Me Back Here

Somehow, my books found their audience from the very start, blowing up faster than I’d ever imagined. Susan got me an amazing three-book deal after that, the second of which I’m touring for now. Because the books kept selling, I thought she was doing well for me. I thought I was doing alright.

Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing at all.

Suddenly there’s a burst of applause followed by a hush. Someone from the bookstore must be starting the intro for the evening.

Standing now in silence, I feel unbelievably, exceptionally alone.

The door opens again, and I can hear the person in the auditorium more clearly now.

“Without further ado, I hope you’ll all join me in welcoming Mia Lane to the stage,” they proclaim.

“It’s go time,” Lori tells me, even though we both heard the announcement.

She steps aside, and I walk on surprisingly steady legs. We’re passing between the curtains and then bright lights blind me while applause rings in my ears. Just before I step out, Lori takes my hand and squeezes it.

Then, I’m on my own.

An hour later, I feel stiff, and I’m sure I’ll be running through every word I said until the early hours of the morning, but I made it through. I’m ushered to a signing table while the crowd who came to see me—my readers—forms a line that looks like it goes on forever.

I sign hundreds of books. I smile. I thank every single person I speak to. I remind myself to remember these moments, which I really am grateful for, no matter how shitty things might feel sometimes.

Lori checks on me regularly while booksellers hurry about, keeping things clean and making sure the line moves smoothly. They’re all so kind. It’s an emotional rush, and I try my hardest to keep up.

After what feels like ages, the last person steps up. On autopilot, I reach forward for my book.

“Thank you so much for⁠—”

And then I see it.

A plain silver band on the thumb of a pale hand with long fingers. It’s entirely ordinary, unassuming. But it makes my breath hitch and my heart stutter.

My hand still frozen in midair, reaching for the book, I slowly trail up its owner’s arm and torso to a face I know nearly as well as my own.

He’s taller, and his hair is longer, showcasing a wave in the strands that was kept hidden when he’d worn it shorter in college. It reminds me of when we were kids and those curls ran wild. He has a short beard now, just some stubble really, and it ages him a bit. But maybe that’s just from the seven years since I’ve last seen him. Behind black-framed glasses are the same green eyes I’ve known almost my whole life.

“Hi,” he breathes, and the familiarity of his deep voice squeezes my chest.

A sharp pang of longing lances through me, burning with how strong it is.

Forrest.

Before I realize I’ve moved, I’m flying out of my chair, ignoring it as it crashes to the ground behind me, and launching myself at my former best friend’s chest. Through the ringing in my ears, I faintly hear the book smack against the table when he drops it. My hands fling around his neck the same time his arm binds around my back, lifting me onto my toes.

Home.

“I’ve missed you so much,” I breathe against his neck, nearly sobbing. He’s warm and strong and so damn familiar. After a night—after months—of being surrounded by strangers, he feels so good.

“I’ve missed you too, Cam.” He whispers it so quietly, using the nickname forgotten over the last few years since I became author Mia Lane.

I have a thousand questions for him, an explanation for why I left, and an apology on the tip of my tongue for how I left him and shattered his heart with nothing more than a few words scrawled on a scrap of paper.

But then he squeezes me, and I breathe him in, and every word flies out of my head. Because I finally have him back, and I can’t lose him again.

CHAPTER ONE

it’s mine, and you can’t have it

SUMMER, 10 YEARS OLD