When Georgia went to jail, she signed the entire Eubanks Plantation over to Shelby. It was hers to keep and do with as she wished. It didn’t make up for everything she’d done, but at least it was something, and Shelby knew exactly what she wanted to do with it as soon as she’d received the papers in the mail from her mother’s lawyer. Her mother hasn’t tried to contact her since then, and I worry that someday Shelby will regret not making amends with her, but I’m not going to push it. If that day ever comes, I’ll be right here by her side, giving her the strength she’s always given me.
Eighteen months ago, the Eubanks Plantation became the Rylan Edwards Camp for Children of Veterans and Deployed Soldiers. Since opening day, we’d had full registration for every session. We’d kept on all of the original staff that worked at the house, the grounds, and the stables, and we hired a few therapists to talk to any families who needed it. The house was turned into sleeping quarters for the kids, I split my time between helping out with group therapy and giving horse riding lessons, and Shelby provided dance lessons in between throwing charity functions to help raise money to fund the camp. I initially protested when she first told me she was going to organize one, not wanting her to do something that had made her so miserable in the past, but it was a wasted effort. Nothing about this camp or helping these children could ever make Shelby miserable.
As Shelby finally gets the kids turned around and back to practicing the moves she’d already taught them, she tries once again to lift her hand and crook her finger at me. Pushing away from the doorframe, I walk through the middle of the room, avoiding flailing arms and kicking feet as I go.
When I get to her, I look down, and just like every time, I’m filled with amazement, love, and happiness.
“I don’t dance, Legs,” I tell her with a smile.
“Nice try, buddy,” she laughs.
“This song makes my ears bleed.”
She laughs again and that sound is still the best thing I’ve ever heard. Well, almost.
A loud, happy screech can be heard above the music and I laugh as I look down at our daughter, her pudgy legs dangling down out of a pink carrier against my wife’s chest and secured over her shoulders.
“See? It makes her ears bleed, too,” I inform Shelby.
“Cameron Rylan James, tell your father to stop being such a sissy and dance,” Shelby says to our daughter’s head. “You can say no to me, but you can’t say no to this adorable face.”
Grabbing Shelby’s hip and tugging the two of them close, I grab Cameron’s little hand and hold it out to the side, moving my feet and dancing all three of us to the music.
“Is it too soon to buy Cameron her own pony? What about a car? Something big and safe, like a dump truck. I should also stock up on a few shotguns and a couple extra padlocks. I don’t like the way that Southerland kid keeps looking at her,” I tell Shelby, looking down at Cameron and making a goofy face until she makes that loud, happy screeching sound again.
“Everett Southerland is six and he’s a sweetheart. Our daughter is seven months old. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need a pony, a dump truck, or a father with an arsenal to scare off boys just yet,” she reminds me as we continue dancing.
“A father always needs an arsenal, Shelby. Always.”
She laughs and shakes her head at me.
“You doing okay?” she asks softly.
I lean down and kiss the top of my daughter’s head, her soft silky hair the same strawberry blond as her mother’s, before coming back up to kiss Shelby. The entire room erupts in a chorus of eeeeeew’s and I quickly pull back with a laugh, looking around the room before my eyes come back to Shelby’s.
I still don’t know if I’ll ever be fully healed, I’ll always miss my friend, and I’ll never be able to completely erase the bad memories, but now I have two people in my life who make it all go away. I was given a second chance and I will do everything I can to make sure I don’t take it for granted or piss it away.
“I’m doing okay,” I reassure her, squeezing my hand around her hip. “Better than okay.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my agent, Kimberly Brower, for believing in this story, and for helping me through all the hundreds of rewrites and different versions of The Story of Us until everything clicked and it became something I’m so incredibly proud of.
Thank you to my absolutely amazing editor, Michele Bidelspach, for falling in love with Shelby and Eli and seeing their potential when their story was only a few chapters long. Thank you for helping me bring this story to life, and helping me make it the best thing I’ve ever written.
Thank you to Joanne Christenson for always being around to answer my military questions, even if speech to text hates you!
Thank you to CM Foss for answering my horse stable and farm questions, and for fictionally teaching me the correct way to toss a bale of hay.
Thank you to Jessica Prince for months and months of plotting phone calls, and for not wanting to kill me every time I changed my mind about how this story should go.
Thank you to the best beta readers in the world: Michelle Kannan and Stephanie Johnson. People always ask me how they can become a beta reader for me, and I tell them I have only used two people for almost every single book I’ve written, and unless they get hit by a bus, that will never change. Please, don’t ever get hit by a bus. I could never write another story without you kicking my ass when something sucks, and giving me a huge ego when something is good.
Thank you to all of the members of Tara’s Tramps for your unwavering support, and for all of your posts that make me laugh when I’m sad, or run out to the store to stock up on eye bleach.
Thank you to the fabulous women of FTN. For your support, your love, your help, and everything in between.
Please see the next page for a preview of Tara Sivec’s new novel, coming soon.
A poignant, breathtakingly romantic new book about the power of first love and the promise of second chances.
Prologue
Dear Everett:
If you’re reading this, I’m dead.
Sorry, that’s probably not the best way to start off a letter to my best friend, after what is surely my sudden, and horribly tragic death that you’ll never, ever be able to move on from, because I was such an amazing person, but there it is. You know I’ve never been one to mince words. And while we’re on that subject, you’re an asshole.
It’s been four years since we’ve seen you. FOUR. I get it, believe me, I do. The first time I met you, when we were ten-years-old, you told me you wanted to be a doctor. For sixteen years I listened to you talk about how you wanted to do something with your life you could be proud of. We’re all proud of you, Everett. Proud that you accomplished what you set out to do, proud that you took charge of your life and did something for yourself. But you can’t stay away forever.
I don’t know what happened between you and Cameron the night you left, but I know she hasn’t been the same since. Neither one of us has. The Three Musketeers has been missing one of its members for four years and if you aren’t here already, it’s time for you to come home.
Yes, I’m guilting you into coming home because I’m dead.
Finished.
Gone.