She followed after him, ready to be rid of this task, and on the road.
An hour later, her hair whipping around like the tail of rattlesnake, Samantha dug through her oversized bag looking for a hair tie. The top of the convertible was down, blowing her hair in every which direction, but Tristan didn’t seem to notice. His arm was braced out the open window, his aviator glasses darkening his eyes, but the rest of his expression looked very much like a man who didn’t give a shit.
She heaved a heavy sigh, hoping he’d hear it and take the hint. That he’d sense her annoyance and close the top. But he seemed oblivious, caught up in his own thoughts—his own world. They’d loaded the rest of her belongings without much hassle. Filling the trunk and half of the back seat with luggage, garment bags, and pillows. But they hadn’t spoken at all, beyond what was necessary. Which was just fine with her. She didn’t want to talk to Tristan. He was her means of getting from point A to point B. To bring her sculpture to Renee on her wedding day. That was it.
Samantha finally found a tie at the bottom of the bag and began braiding her hair over one shoulder. Her eyes focused on the horizon as she tried to settle herself down.
Traffic was light, which allowed them to fly down the highway. She kicked off her shoes and dragged one leg into her lap before slouching forward to retrieve her audiobook. It was impossible to find comfort. To be at ease sitting next to the man who’d stolen her first kiss. Her mind had been spinning ever since the moment she first saw him. Because the night she’d come home from the cabin, she’d made a vow. To forget Tristan Montgomery, to forget the kiss that had rocked her harder than an earthquake—and to never tell Renee her secret.
She’d been successful for the most part. Because most of the time she pretended he didn’t exist, and it worked. Except for those tiny moments, when a lingering snippet would sneak into her subconscious. Triggered by the oddest things: a falling star, a twig floating in a puddle of water, or even the scent of winter-mint gum. She’d always been able to stuff it down again, as effortlessly as pulling a wily hair. But now the subject of her reverie was sitting beside her, completely silent, yet very much present.
She opened her eyes and glared at his profile, unable to keep her gaze from lingering. His nose was crooked—not badly, but almost in a Matthew McConaughey kind of way. His jaw was square—chiseled, with a shadow of scruff that hadn’t been there last she’d seen him.
His hair was lighter now. Probably from driving around with the top down like this. It was about two shades darker than her own. Not brown or blond, but that shade right in between where she knew he must have been a towhead when he was little. But it was his mouth she couldn’t pull her eyes from. The soft, full shape she still remembered to this day.
She closed her eyes and turned back to window. She’d be kidding herself if she said he wasn’t handsome. He was honestly one of the best looking men she’d ever seen in her life. Strong features, strong body, bronzed skin, which only made his blue eyes more vibrant. But handsome wouldn’t be the first word she’d use to describe Tristan Montgomery. Big. That would be the word. Not big in size. Though yes, he was over six feet tall—much larger than Samantha’s five-foot-two-inch frame. But it was his sheer presence that made up the volume, more powerful than the roar of the mustang below them. More expansive than the wind blowing in her face.
But he didn’t remember. His words kept whirling in Samantha’s mind. The kiss that had been her first, which she’d unwillingly compared with every other kiss she’d had since, was too insignificant to take up his brain space. She leaned forward again, retrieved her laptop out of her bag, and sat it on her lap. She needed to write, to focus on anything but the man who sat beside her.
Her narrative was a diary of sorts, the way to get things out of her head so she could let them go.
Dear Renee,
She began as she always did—though Renee rarely ever received them. Samantha had hundreds of messages like this, if not thousands. Some were letters of excitement and joy, others fears and anxiety. But many were confessions. Too many. They were unedited, unanswered, unsent. Letters from a teenage girl who was confused, heartbroken, and needing someone to talk to. Letters from a drunken newly twenty-one-year-old woman, who for some reason was thinking of Tristan when on a romantic getaway with her boyfriend.
I can’t wait to see you! To see you in your wedding dress. To hug you!
I can’t wait to catch up on all you’ve been doing since leaving LA. I know we’ve talked nearly every day, but it’s different when I can see your face. I’ve missed you so much. So much more than I can say in this letter. So much—that I find myself sitting next to your brother for the next four days.
He says he doesn’t remember me; is that even possible? That he couldn’t remember the girl who was at his house more often than her own? But I guess that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that he showed up, and that I’m on my way to see you.
I miss you! I miss your stinky ballet shoes! I even miss tripping over your dance bag you always left by the front door. I miss us sitting on the couch, binge watching Netflix. I worry we’ll never do that again…
I know it’s silly, but I always pictured us growing old together. You’d live next door and come over to borrow sugar. But you’d stay awhile…so our babies would crawl on the living room floor together.
We’d go to cocktail parties, see romcom movies because our husbands never wanted to go. We’d always give them a hard time, but secretly we’d love it. Because it would be like old times, like sitting under blankets watching Netflix…
Six years earlier
Maple syrup dripped from the bite of waffle held midair on Samantha’s fork. A sea of breakfast foods covered the plate in front of her: waffles, eggs, toast. But she’d neglected to take a bite of any of it. Breakfast wasn’t her favorite meal on any given morning, but today the food was especially unappealing.
She’d tossed and turned all night long, barely able to get more than an hour’s rest. Her stomach was rolling with anxiety and guilt. The feeling that still lingered now. It was guilt over kissing Tristan, but also about holding back the truth from Renee. Samantha and Renee shared everything with each other. Everything. Last night was the first time in their Nine-year friendship that Samantha had gone to bed knowing she hadn’t told her friend the truth.
Samantha’s mom had once told her that the secret to a happy life was never going to bed knowing you’d been dishonest. At the time, she’d thought her mom was trying to convince her to confess about the cookies she’d stolen from the pantry, but the advice haunted her last night. Because an untold truth felt an awful lot like a lie. Like stolen cookies leaving a sour taste in the bottom of her stomach.
Tristan sat directly in front of her now, though she hadn’t looked up once. She felt bad ignoring him, because in spite of how upset she was about Renee, last night had been one of the best of her life. She was just afraid. Afraid that if she met his eyes again, even for a second, everyone in the house would know he’d taken a piece of her heart last night. They’d see the confusion whirling in her brain. Because last night she’d gone out with a boy, knowing he was the one she hated, but in just a few hours he’d made her question everything she’d believed for years.
It was like finding out Santa wasn’t real, and then playing each moment you’d sat in his lap over and over, wondering how you could’ve not known. The fake beard, the constant change in appearance, the fact he would wear such a warm suit in the middle of summer at the fourth of July parade. Being with Tristan had shattered her sense of self, her trust in her own judgment and everything she thought she knew about everyone. She found herself piecing memories of Tristan together, trying to make sense of it all, but then pulling them apart again because it never did. Because he wasn’t a dumb jock that hurt everyone like she’d always thought. That was a lie, and if anything, those lies had hurt him.
“Are you alright, dear?” Mrs. Montgomery’s voice called from the other side of the table.
Samantha startled from her thoughts, uncrossed her feet from under the table, and glanced down the row of chairs to her best friend’s mother. Mrs. Montgomery’s gold hair was tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head, her long neck poised elegantly as she sipped from a large mug of coffee.