by Gia Riley
But, as I walk down the hall to the studio, I don’t see Chandler, and I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Opening the door, I peer inside. Her flowers are on the floor, but there’s no sign of Chandler.
Ms. Sue’s about to turn the lights off.
“Have you seen Chandler?” I ask her.
“In my office,” she says in a grim tone.
I’m across the studio in a couple of strides. What the hell could have happened between the lobby and here? I only left her alone for ten minutes, and now, she’s sitting in Ms. Sue’s office for some unknown reason.
“Hey,” I whisper, not wanting to scare her.
It takes her a second to turn around, and when she does, her eyes are red.
“What’s wrong, Chan?”
“You’re an asshole,” she says as more tears fall.
I imagined all the ways this night would end—how we’d both be so relieved to get the first show under our belt, that we’d celebrate until dawn.
“What did I do?”
“You and your stupid roses, Wirth.”
I’m so confused. “I didn’t know you weren’t a flower person.”
“It was the card,” she admits. “Not the flowers.”
“So, throw it away.”
She gives me a confused expression. Then, she stands up and walks over to me. Holding up the card, she forces me to read what I wrote.
I love you, Chandler Holmes.
“What’s wrong with that?” It’s how I feel. I thought she felt the same way, or I wouldn’t have said it.
“This card,” she says, “just changed my life.”
“They’re just words. I’m not asking you to say them back.”
She shakes her head. “They’re not just words.”
“Okay.” I’m not following, but I let her gather her composure.
Finally, she puts me out of my misery and says, “I love you, too, Wirth. I think I’ve loved you since I got off that airplane.”
Now, she’s gone and changed my life. Because hearing that she’s in love with me is the best feeling in the world.
“Ms. Sue’s working on the changes.”
“What changes?”
“My new housing assignment,” she says as she looks at the floor.
“What? You want to leave the apartment?”
She nods, and I can’t make sense of her decision.
“Why? Things are good.”
“Exactly. We’re good. We’re happy, Wirth.”
That’s exactly why she shouldn’t move out. Hell, if I had it my way, she’d move into my room with me. We don’t have to get a new roommate. I just want to be in the same bed as her at night. Not farther away.
“I’m not on board with this, Chandler. I think it’s a bad idea.”
“We love each other,” she explains. “I don’t want to mess this up. I want it to last. And living together makes that a lot harder. We haven’t dated like a normal couple. We’ve been thrown together and rushed through everything.”
“So what? Did you ever stop and think that maybe that’s our thing?”
She looks away again when she says, “I’ve never had a boyfriend, Wirth. And I don’t want another one someday. Nobody else could possibly feel as good as you do.”
“If we feel good, then why are you taking a step back?”
When I changed my life and moved home, I promised myself that I wouldn’t go in reverse ever again. That, if I found something that made me happy, I’d hang on to it. I’d protect that happiness like my life depended on it, before anyone had a chance to try to take it away from me.
I guess it’s time to hold myself to that promise.
Without hesitation, I’m on my knee in front of Chandler.
“What are you doing, Wirth?”
I take a deep breath, and with a gritty throat full of emotion, I look Chandler in the eyes. “Marry me.”
“You don’t mean that. You’re just caught up in the moment.”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m caught up in you.”
“But you’re not losing me, Wirth. Moving out is the right decision. It’s the best thing we could do for our relationship.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Chandler. The best thing we could do is make this permanent. You don’t want another boyfriend, and I don’t want another girlfriend. I might not have a fancy proposal or a big ring to put on your finger, but I know that I love you. I need that to be enough.”
“It is,” she whispers. “It’s always been exactly what I need.”
“Then, you have my word, Chandler. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life. I know I don’t make a ton of money, but we’d still have a good life.”
Her tears fall harder, and she covers her face with her hands. “I don’t care about money.”
I know. That’s part of the reason I was attracted to her in the first place. She’s never looked at me like a failure or told me that I wasn’t living to my full potential. She just wants me to do something that makes me happy.
“Chandler, we can have a long engagement if you want. I’m not asking to walk down the aisle tomorrow. Though I would if you decided that was what you wanted.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she cries.
“Do what feels right,” I tell her, hating that she’s upset. I want her to marry me because she can’t imagine life without me. Not because she’s pressured into it.
She’s quiet for a minute or two, and then she says, “Holy shit, Wirth.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, we’re engaged!”
“Yeah? You mean it?”
Nodding, she removes her hands from her face and chews on her lip. I don’t want her to regret this in the morning. But, as I hold her face in my hands, I see the truth in her eyes. She wants this. She wants me. She wants us.
“You have no idea how happy you’ve just made me,” I tell her.
“I have some idea,” she says with a smile.
She lets go of me, and I follow her across the studio. She picks up her flowers and then her bag. Smiling, she says, “Let’s go home, Wirth.”
Hearing her say those words does something to me. I pick her up and toss her over my shoulder, and then I run for the door.
“Put me down!” she yells.
But I can’t. Ms. Sue just left here with new housing instructions.
“We have to catch up to Ms. Sue.”
“I have her number. I’ll tell her I’ve changed my mind about moving.”
I like that idea. “I’m still not putting you down.”
“Are you going to do this for the rest of my life, Wirth?”
“Baby, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
Jovana Shirley, thank you for making my words stronger. You’re such an amazing editor. I am so lucky to have you on my team.
Marisa-Rose Wesley, thank you for creating another masterpiece. You nailed the vibe I was going for on this cover. I love how easily you transfer my ideas into art.
Judy Zweifel, as always, working with you is a breeze. Thank you for your attention to detail and meticulous eye. You make my work shine.
Emily Smith, I love tackling releases with you! Thank you for your patience and excitement. I love knowing you’re always ready to help me shine.
Sue Maturo and Halle Rogers, thank you for being my beta goddesses. With you two by my side, I was able to tackle this story confidently.
Kimberly Lucia, thank you for being my sarcasm sister for life. I love our shenanigans.
Kaitie Reister, thank you for always being willing to lend a helping hand. I love your excitement and positive energy.
A huge thank you to my reader group—Gia Riley’s Books. You guys are rock stars, and I’m so grateful for you.
Bloggers, I appreciate all of your support. Your promotion, likes, tweets, posts—it means everything to me. I couldn’t do this without you. No matter how big or small you are, your voice matters! Always reme
mber that.
Lastly, a massive thanks goes to every reader. Thank you for buying my books, for reading my words, and for sharing this journey with me. You make my dreams come true.
Gia Riley has been in love with writing romance since high school when she took her very first creative writing class. From the small but mighty state of Delaware, she’s a country girl at heart, traveling back to her roots in Pennsylvania as often as she can.
She’d rather pick truth than dare, bake than cook, and will always choose coffee over tea.
Just like life, her stories are real and full of feels. You'll probably need some tissues. You might even want to throw your Kindle a couple times. But she promises to put your heart back together.
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Sneak Peek of Until We Are Gone
Prologue
Meadow
“Open your eyes.”
The faint whisper is a little louder than the last time I heard it. That peaceful voice never leaves, and each time I hear it, I try to open my eyes.
I haven’t had any luck yet because I’m trapped, a slave to the medication keeping me asleep.
“I know you hear me,” he says. “Try harder.”
As I focus every ounce of strength on separating my lashes, he squeezes my hand again, encouraging me. I need to find out who’s been talking to me while I lie here, a prisoner to my own body.
“Just relax. Take it slow, Meadow.”
Meadow. I like that name. It reminds me of all the summers I spent in the country at Grandma’s.
My parents are devoted city people, working long hours at the office and spending very little time at home. When I was eight, they paid a fortune for a house they now barely live in. Despite the lack of activity, the cleaning lady comes every three days and runs the vacuum over clean floors. She dusts a mantel where the pictures never change and fluffs pillows on a couch that’s never been sat on.
Growing up, I didn’t have one of those moms who stayed home and baked cookies while I played outside. She didn’t serve a homemade dinner at five o’clock on the dot.
My mom inherited a real estate business, and from the day she graduated, it’s consumed every waking hour of her time. She works until she climbs into bed at night, and as soon as she’s awake, the phone starts ringing. Sleep is nothing more than an inconvenience, a blip in the day that keeps her from crunching numbers and closing deals.
Deals and brokers were all I heard about as we ate the same takeout night after night. On the rare occasions Mom had time to cook, she usually burned the food. Her mind was always preoccupied, and though she swore she loved me, it was no secret that she hadn’t planned on having kids. I knew that because I’d overheard a conversation—well, more like an argument—when tuition was due, and she had been too busy to remember to pay it.
“Tell my secretary to add it to my calendar,” she’d yelled. “I can’t keep track of everything.”
Not even her own daughter.
My parents forgot my tenth birthday. I turned another year older to the sound of a sobbing babysitter who had just broken up with her boyfriend. There was no cake, just a freezer-burned TV dinner. I bet my parents knew the birthdates of their clients’ children though, probably all their favorite things, too.
“We’ll celebrate double next year,” they told me. No makeup celebration or any attempt at gift-giving to make me feel better.
My parents are blunt. They don’t sugarcoat anything, not even for a child. That’s just how city life is—busy, reckless, and unpredictable. At times, I love the hustle and bustle, and other times, I long to be by the river, nestled in Grandma’s house without a care in the world.
Grandma’s farm was huge, and she had this claw-foot bathtub on the second floor, next to a bay window, that overlooked the cornfields. There was no air-conditioning in her old farmhouse, and in the thick of summer, that tub quickly became my favorite place to relax.
The porcelain was always cool to the touch, and once inside, my worries would fade away. All the anxiety I brought with me from the city would vanish, and I would be calm and at peace. There were no worries about school or parents, and all I had to do was wake up the next day, explore, and repeat. I liked that. Not thinking. Not worrying.
In the city, I worry about everything. It’s just how I am wired.
Not much has changed from my childhood. I’m still petrified of most things in life, always worrying about the outcome before the events even happen. But what scares me more than anything is finding out why I’m in this bed.
I know I’m not that little girl at Grandma’s anymore, but I can’t figure out who’s been talking to me or why he’s keeping vigil next to my bed.
Where are Mom and Dad?
I’m about to find out.
My eyes finally listen to my command and peel open, and the blurriness fades away.
I can see.
“She’s awake! Nurse, she’s awake!” he shouts.
I wish he wouldn’t yell so loud. It hurts my head.
By the time I turn toward his voice, all I can see is the back of his head as he claws at his messy hair. Even his shirt’s a wrinkled mess.
He glances over his shoulder once, too quickly for me to take in any of his features, and then he disappears into the hallway.
For a second, I panic that he’s not coming back, but less than a minute later, the same crumpled shirt returns, this time with a nurse.
She stands on one side of the bed, and he takes his place on the other, grabbing my hand again. I didn’t realize how used to his touch I’d become. But seeing his hand in mine for the first time is a little strange.
“How do you feel?” the nurse asks. Her voice is soft and cautious.
I take a second to glance at her badge. I don’t recognize the hospital or her name.
Each time I woke up, I would try to listen to the voices before I passed out again, but I don’t remember hers.
“Not so good,” I tell her.
My throat aches, and my lips are so dry, my tongue wants to stick to the roof of my mouth. I’m sure I’ve done a lot of sleeping already, but I still feel like I could sleep for a month. Maybe I have because one of the bruises on my arm is already turning yellow. I must have slept right through the black and purple.
Nurse Brittany smiles and says, “Welcome back.”
She adjusts the line poking me in the back of the hand. The medicine running through it is probably what kept my eyes closed every time I got close to opening them.
“How long was I asleep?”
“About a week,” she says, surprising me. “Your body needed time to heal, so the doctor wanted to wake you slowly.”
So, they did force me to stay asleep.
“I heard some voices,” I tell her. “But I couldn’t talk.”
“That’s perfectly normal,” she assures me.
I turn toward the man, and he whispers, “I can’t believe you’re really awake.”
“I heard you talking,” I tell him.
He swipes away a few tears, and that scares me a little. He’s not dressed like a doctor, and he’s certainly not acting like one. But why else would this stranger spend so much time in my hospital room?
“I knew you could hear me. I just knew it, Meadow.”
“Am I going to be okay?” I ask him, afraid to find out the truth.
My toes move, and so do my legs. I have control over my arms, and there’s nothing
holding me down anymore. I’m not paralyzed.
He brushes some hair off my forehead. It doesn’t hurt, but I wince anyway. I don’t think I like him touching me. Right now, all I want are answers.
After he’s finished taking in every inch of my face, he says, “You were in an accident. Do you remember any of it?”
“No,” I tell him. “But my stomach hurts a lot.”
Brittany lifts the thin sheet covering me and then parts my gown. There’s a bandage across my skin, from one hip to the other. Gently, she lifts the corner and pulls it back, careful not to snag it on any of the staples.
Staples.
There are so many holding my skin together.
She grabs a cotton swab and cleans around them, wiping away a little bit of dried blood and ooze. I imagine there was a lot of blood, probably more than I would’ve been able to handle, and for that, I’m glad I wasn’t awake to see it.
“I’m sorry if this stings, Meadow. I clean the incision twice a day,” Brittany says.
Either she didn’t speak to me when she cleaned my wound or I was asleep for her visits. I don’t remember hearing her voice at all.
She hits an extra-sensitive spot, and that little jolt of pain has me gripping the bedrail. I see a sharp flash of light and then hear booming thunder that rumbles my insides. Scrunching my eyes closed, I try to figure out where it is storming.
“What is it?” the man asks.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him.
I’ve felt the same surge of pain before. The last time I tried opening my eyes, the searing was so bad, I think I passed out.
“Was it from the accident?” Brittany asks.
“Maybe I dreamed it. Everything’s so foggy. But I feel like I’ve been here before. Like this either already happened or it’s happening again.”
Both Brittany and the man pause and stare at each other. It’s an awkward glance, and I don’t know what their silent exchange means, only that their expressions make my heart beat a little faster.
Before I can ask, Brittany says, “Tell us what you remember.”
I take a deep breath and gather all the dreams I had while I was asleep, unsure if they’ll make any sense or not.