جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 40

AvaThe Las Vegas Book Festival was held in a sprawling park just off the strip.Tents stretched across the grass, white canopies flapping in the desert wind. Authors milled about, clutching coffee cups and clutching their nerves. Readers wandered between booths, arms loaded with books, faces bright with excitement.I was scheduled to speak at 2 PM on the main stage.My talk went well. Better than well. The crowd was warm, engaged, full of questions about forgiveness and healing and the stories that save us. I read from my novel—the passage about Elena learning to be alone—and watched as people wiped their eyes.Afterward, I signed books for an hour. The line stretched around the tent, and I signed until my hand cramped and my smile felt fixed in place.Then the line ended. The crowd thinned. And I saw her.Mia.She was standing at the back of the tent, holding a copy of my novel, her eyes red. She looked different than I reme

ToriI didn't expect to see Derek at Ethan's gallery opening. I'd gone to support Ethan—we'd become unlikely friends over the years, bonded by our shared guilt and our shared desire to be better. The gallery was crowded, filled with the kind of artsy, well‑dressed people who made me feel like I was back in high school, performing for an audience that was always judging.I was standing near a painting—an abstract piece in blues and grays—when I heard a familiar laugh behind me.I turned and saw Derek across the room, I almost didn't recognize him.He'd grown up. Filled out. Lost the awkwardness that used to define him."Tori?" He looked surprised. "I didn't know you'd be here.""I could say the same."We found a quiet corner away from the crowd.Derek was different than I remembered. In high school, he'd been the funny one—always a joke, always a distraction. But tonight, he was calm. Present. He asked me questions and actually listened to the answers."How have you been?" he asked."G

EthanMarcus was right. I needed to move on. Not forget Ava—that would never happen. But stop living in the past. Stop drawing her face every night. Stop measuring every woman against a memory that no longer existed.So I tried. Her name was Vanessa. She was a graphic designer, pretty, smart, with a laugh that filled the room. We met at a coffee shop in Silver Lake, and for the first hour, it was good. Easy. She asked about my art, and I told her about the gallery show, leaving out the part about Ava.“You're quiet,” she said.“I'm listening.”“No, you're thinking. There's a difference.”I smiled. “Maybe.”She reached across the table and touched my hand. “Who was she?”“Who?”“The woman you're not talking about.”I pulled my hand back. “It's complicated.”“It always is.”We finished our coffee. I walked her to her car. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “Call me if you figure it out.”I didn't call.NextHer name was Chloe. She was a photographer, bold and loud and nothing like Ava

EthanI found out about Ava's wedding through Marcus. He sent me a text with a link and a single sentence: She looks happy. I hesitated. My finger hovered over the screen. Part of me didn't want to see. Part of me knew I needed to.I clicked the link. The photo was from a small wedding blog. Ava in a white dress, simple and elegant, her hair loose around her shoulders. She was laughing at something off‑camera, her eyes bright, her smile wide.Beside her stood Oliver. He was handsome in an understated way—kind eyes, warm smile, his hand resting gently on her waist. They looked right together. Peaceful. Like they'd found something that worked.I stared at the photo for a long time. Waiting for the pain. Waiting for the jealousy. Waiting for the familiar ache that had lived in my chest for years.It didn't come. Instead, I felt something unexpected.The Memories, I let myself remember.Not the bad parts—the betrayal, the guilt, the months of silence. But the good parts. The way she used

ToriSix months into dating Derek, I realized I was falling in love. Not the dramatic, obsessive love I’d felt in high school—the kind that made me scheme and manipulate and hurt people. Something quieter. Something that felt like coming home.We’d settled into a rhythm. Tuesday night dinners at his apartment. Saturday morning coffee at mine. Long walks through Echo Park, his hand in mine, talking about nothing and everything.He made me laugh. He made me feel seen. He didn’t try to fix me—he just sat with me, even on the days when I couldn’t find the words.“You’re different,” he said one night, tracing circles on my palm.“Different how?”“Softer. Like you’re not fighting anymore.”I thought about that. About the years I’d spent fighting—my parents, my reputation, myself. About the exhaustion of performing, of pretending, of being someone I wasn’t.“I’m not fighting,” I said. “Not anymore.”We were lying on his couch, a movie playing unwatched on the TV. The rain was tapping against