The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,259

weightlessness in my shoulders and a fullness in my chest that I haven’t felt in ages.

She’s right.

I love her, even if I can’t say it.

But I will say it—next time I see her, I’ll tell her. She needs to hear it. She’s said it to me countless times, and I’ve never once said it back because I didn’t want to.

I didn’t want to believe that I could fall for someone after such a short amount of time, so soon after a tragic loss.

That’s not supposed to happen. People don’t do that. They mourn and they wait and they sure as hell don’t fall for the sister of the man who betrayed them in the worst way.

The second half of Ayla’s book paints a portrait of the two of us settled into a cozy little love nest back in Manhattan. Maybe in her mind, we never left the city. We stayed in the same place where we first began, trading wings for roots. In her version of our story, we weren’t without our ups and downs, but we persevered. When things got hard, we fought harder. When things were good, they were heaven. But the real beauty was in between the ups and downs. The raw, unfiltered, unrelenting love the fictitious versions of ourselves is one I hope to know with Ayla someday.

I admit it.

I really fucked up this time.

While I’m not in love with the fact that she wrote a book about me without asking ... I’m in love with her. And that means forgiving her. And fighting for her when things get hard. I’m not walking away this time.

Exchanging the book for my phone, I pull up her number and press the call button.

It doesn’t ring. Instead I get a tone and a recorded message. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

I hang up.

Surely there’s been a mistake or signals are jammed or something.

Trying again, I get the same message.

Fifty

Rhett

* * *

The final leg of Ayla’s book tour is tonight, in Washington, DC, at a shop in Georgetown. We had a home game earlier today, and when it was finished, I threw my things in my car, hit I-95, and drove three hours nonstop.

I stood in a line that was wrapped around the building for hours, and when we finally moved inside, I found a seat in the middle of the room amongst hundreds upon hundreds of overly excited, chatty women.

The bookshop owner introduced Ayla right on schedule, and the ladies around me went nuts, just like the last time. And just like the last time, the lights went low, Ayla read a passage from her book, Hard Hearted, and they opened the floor for questions.

A bookstore worker with a green button down shirt, thick black glasses, and a microphone walks around the room, nervously hopping between people with urgent, raised hands.

Almost everyone has a question tonight, including me.

“Hi, Ayla, I’m Deb from Alexandria,” the first woman says, clutching the mic with both hands and smiling big as a small spotlight illuminates her narrow face. “I’ve read your book four times so far, and I was just wondering if you could tell us when we can expect your follow up?”

“Hi, Deb! May seventeenth,” Ayla says.

The woman passes the mic to the lady beside her.

“I’m Candace from Parkersburg, West Virginia,” the second woman says. I’m not sure why they’re all feeling the need to introduce themselves, but if this is the precedent, this Q and A session is going to take for fucking ever tonight. “I was wondering if you could tell us what your second book is about?”

Ayla smiles. “Of course! It’s a love story for one, much like Hard Hearted. And in a broader sense, it explores the themes of fate and how everything is connected. It’s about not getting what you want, but getting what you need, and also acceptance and forgiveness.”

The room is quiet.

“Basically, it’s about a girl who meets a guy under false pretenses,” she adds, looking down at her podium. “And she falls in love with him, almost overnight. But he finds out who she is, and he’s really angry with her. They have to figure out how to move through the hurt and the betrayal and the pain because there’s still that undeniably powerful undercurrent of love that isn’t going away no matter how hard each of them try.”

The worker takes the mic and moves to a different part of the room, handing it to a white-haired woman in a