I DANGLE MY feet over the end of the dock, looking at the empty slip. Second Chance is gone, and Walker with it.
This isn’t right. He can’t be gone. Not now, knowing what I do. Not after I found my way to him a second time. On my own, with choices I made. Just like with taking pictures, and even with Matt. I made the same choices over again without even knowing it. This is me. It’s been me. I’ve spent this whole time trying to find myself when I was here all along. I trust it, finally.
I trust it enough to know the choice I would’ve made next, because it’s the one I make now. I stand up and I walk home, and when I get there, I show my family everything I didn’t let them see before.
TWENTY-SEVEN
A FEW DAYS later, I stand in front of the mirror, studying what I see. There, finally, is a reflection I recognize as me—one that I’m happy and proud to show today at the Harbor Festival.
“Liv,” my mom calls, “are you ready? We need to get going! The award ceremony is in half an hour.”
“Be right there!”
I take one more look in the mirror and realize something is missing, then pick up my Saint Anthony medallion, with its new chain, and fasten the clasp behind my neck. The patron saint of lost things rests on my chest, close to my heart, where he belongs. Now I’m ready.
I go downstairs, and my parents and Sam and I get into the car and make the short drive to the harbor. I try not to hope too hard that Walker might be back—that he’ll get to see this, and I’ll get to see him. He’s been gone for three days now, and in that time I found out that he’d done something maybe even more incredible for me than saving my life.
When I’d called Coast Magazine after I told my parents everything, I found out that my entry had been hand-delivered, the day after the deadline, by a young man who was very insistent that it be accepted. He’d explained my situation, and how hard I’d worked on the project, and how much it had meant to me. And to him.
The secretary had taken it, and the editor had accepted it, and now here I am, about to receive recognition for it at my first mounted photo show.
I scan the faces of the little crowd standing under my tent. The photo editor is there, and a reporter from the local newspaper. Even Dana Whitmore is there for a follow-up interview afterward. Paige stands with my family and gives a little wave. I wave back. We are headed in different directions, which might have happened before—she’s going away to school in the fall, and I’m staying here to work an internship I was offered by the magazine. But her friendship has meant enough to me to hold on to, even as things shift and change. And Jules is there too. She stands behind everyone else, but when I catch her eye, she smiles, and I know, really, she’s standing with me.
My heart is full. Almost.
And then all of a sudden it is.
I see Walker, making his way through the festivalgoers, cutting a path straight to where I stand, looking for me, like I’ve been looking for him. And then our eyes meet.
And we find each other again.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE MORNING AIR is crisp in a way that carries a hint of fall approaching. An ending and a beginning at the same time. I breathe in deeply as we motor out of the harbor, and I can feel it. Change in the air. Sam has already gone back to school, and Paige left yesterday. I start my internship in a few days, so we’ve decided to take the boat out, because soon we’ll be busy.
Sailing has become our weekend routine, though it’s anything but. Every day out here is different. The ocean and the winds, the clouds and the sky. They all make up the ephemeral landscape that we sail through. I try to notice it all, try to capture the details and moments that are here today, but may not be tomorrow. I try to remember the things that are fleeting, but carry something lasting within them. The smell of the salt air, the feel of the wind as it blows tangles into my hair. Walker’s hands over mine on the wheel as we cut our own path through the deep blue of the ocean.
The breeze swirls around us, and he brushes a flyaway strand of hair from my face, and then we both lean in—to each other, and everything that’s here, now, between us. We come together for a kiss. And here, on the water, when his lips meet mine, I know what I was feeling in that picture that day, and it was this—the feeling of being perfectly who you are, and exactly where you want to be.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get my memories back, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve stopped chasing them.
I don’t think about the past, or before or after.
Instead, I choose now, and the wide-open future that unfolds in front of us, beyond the horizon and the endless sky.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With each book I write, I am more grateful to the amazing people who are there for me every step of the way, from the beginning glimmer of an idea to the finished book sitting on the shelf. I am beyond lucky in life to have you all!
First, I’d like to thank my most favorite people in the world—my family. Thank you for understanding the time it takes to write, and for being there to make the absolute most of the time when I’m not writing. This life is big and beautiful and so much fun because of you!
Next, huge thanks to my agent, Leigh Feldman, who is always there with her invaluable wisdom, guidance, and support.
Of course this book would not be the book it is without the insight and dedication of my incredible editor, Alexandra Cooper. Thank you for your faith in me, and for the energy and heart you put into making each and every page better.
Many thanks to the entire talented team at HarperCollins—Rosemary Brosnan, Alyssa Miele, Kathryn Silsand, Mark Rifkin, Kristen Eckhardt, Bess Braswell, Audrey Diestelkamp, and Olivia Russo. Your kindness and support are beyond amazing. Erin Fitzsimmons, who created this gorgeous, evocative cover, I am forever your fangirl.
To my readers, it is your love for books and reading that always encourages me to continue writing—especially on the hard days. The fact that you’re willing to come along with me for a story, or to take the time out of your day and write to me means the world, and I cannot thank you enough for your kind words, support, and enthusiasm. You are the very best!
Of course there would be no story to read if I didn’t have the encouragement of friends who are both brilliant and kind: Sarah Ockler, who has talked me off the proverbial edge too many times to count, and on whose living room floor this story began as a set of index cards. Morgan Matson, who always comes to the rescue with much-needed perspective—and Starbucks—when the going gets hard. And my fabulous bacon crew—Carrie Harris, Elana Johnson, Stasia Kehoe, and Gretchen McNeil—I cherish your wit and wisdom more than you could ever know.
My love and gratitude to you all.