“I was so worried when you didn’t call,” I replied, my lips at his ear. Despite being out in the cold, he was so warm, warm enough that I squeezed him tighter, as if his warmth could eliminate my own shaking.
“I barely made it to the halfway point and didn’t get a chance. I’m sorry.” He pulled back so I could face him. It had only been ten hours since I’d last seen him, but each time he returned it was like he’d been away on a long trip. I held his face in my hands, peering up into those soulful eyes I loved so.
“What are you doing back so soon?”
“Show was canceled. Whiteout conditions in Denver. And in Wyoming, for that matter.” His lips looked cold, so I rubbed them with my thumb.
“Why do you look so happy about that?”
“Because that meant I got to come home.” He gave me a lip-smacking kiss, and I rubbed my hands up and down his back, warming him as much as I could. “Don’t get me wrong, I was looking forward to the show, but I was relieved when Bobby texted that it was canceled.”
I grabbed his backpack while he reached in the back for his keyboard and we walked inside, hand in hand. Adam gave Casey hugs and sank onto the couch after she’d gone to bed. I collapsed right beside him, snuggling up against him, my legs over his outstretched ones. I didn’t want to let him go. I didn’t think it would be possible for us to get even closer than we were after everything, but each day there was a new layer exposed and explored, longer talks about our pasts and our futures.
“I’m sorry your show was canceled,” I said as Adam put his arm around me and sighed.
“Don’t be. The minute I got in the car and started the drive to Colorado, I was ready to be home again.”
I leaned back so I could look into his face. “But you always look so happy when you come home. You have the biggest smile.”
He smiled softly as he looked down at me. “Yeah, because I’m home. With you and Casey.” His fingertip brushed the tip of my nose. “I love the band, but the band isn’t everything to me.”
My heart turned over in my chest. “What are you going to do in the off months?”
“Tutor, probably. Maybe even start composing music. I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy, and I bet I could get some easy freelance work here and there until we figure out what we want to do.”
I loved the sound of that we in his sentence. Even though I was a planner by nature and ingrained habit, I loved the idea of figuring things out with Adam. He and Casey had come into my life when I was without a tether. I understood why my sisters went off and made lives of their own; why Angie had joined a commune and why Layla was swimming with sharks. They needed to build a family that fit them. And I’d needed the same.
I cozied into Adam’s shoulder. “Isn’t it crazy that this all started way back in high school?” I asked him.
“I know,” he agreed quietly. “What if we had never shared that beer?”
“What if I hadn’t been nearly drowned by beer?”
“Ah,” he said. “Not my favorite memory.”
“No?” I asked. “It’s one of mine.”
“Why?” He sounded like he couldn’t believe me.
“Because if it hadn’t happened, we might have kissed. And then what? I don’t think we would be where we are now. Neither of us was ready for something like this back then. You had to go off to Colorado and play your music. I needed to travel the world. We might have kissed and gone our separate ways, or worse: we might have kissed and changed our plans for each other. Probably end up resenting each other.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You know, I think you’re right.”
“I am.”
“Except one thing.”
“What?” I sat up straighter so I could face him.
“There is no way,” he leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to my lips, “that I would have,” another kiss, “kissed you,” he gave me a deeper, more toe-curling kiss, “and been able to walk away from you.” He cupped the back of my head, angling it as his tongue traced the seam of my lips. When he pulled back, I was breathless and my chest heaved. Somehow, we’d ended up horizontal on the couch, with him hovering over me. Every single one of my limbs turned went loose.
“Oh,” was all I managed.
“Yeah,” he said with a wicked grin as his head descended again. “Oh.”
The end
Coming Soon
One Little Lie is the first book in a series of standalones, each featuring a different character you have already met in this novel. The next book, One Big Mistake, Keane’s novel, releases in the fall of 2019.
If you would like to be notified as soon as the next book releases, please subscribe to Whitney Barbetti’s newsletter at http://www.whitneybarbetti.com/signup/
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To read the first chapter of The Weight of Life by Whitney Barbetti (a standalone), keep reading!
Acknowledgments
As always, the first line in my acknowledgments belongs to my family. I spent many hours, days, weeks missing out on time with you to nurture this baby. I love you all.
To my people, the ones who were there during the process that was this book. I have so much more to say, but some things are private, and will be said to you in your signed copies. To keep it brief:
Sona Babani, for being there, always. I’m so glad you were a bitch to me a hundred years ago when we met for the first time.
Jade Eby, my beebee, for cheering me on.
Whitney Giselle Belisle, for being my eagle eye. Thanks for catching the extra nipples.
Talon Smith, for telling me what you did. I’m not sure I would have finished this book if you hadn’t.
Megan Martin, for coming in and pointing out some really unfortunate typos and lifting my spirits.
Christina Harris, for lifting me up when I needed it so.
Kristen Johnson, for your memes and your snark.
Lex Martin, for everything, always. Including the blurb for this bad boy.
Debbie Snyder, for being my only friend in Idaho. You get your own pizza place in this book!
Thank you to KP! If commas were worth ten cents, my books would cost a billion dollars before you got your hands on them. Thank, you, so, much.
To the author groups who keep me sane: ST and TW. I’m so honored to be included in these groups and to have your support.
Thank you to my Barbetti Babes—I love each one of you so freaking much. If I could, I’d buy all of you tacos, and nachos. Thank you for traveling far and wide to meet me at signings, and for giving me all the feels with your love and support.
I have one million bloggers to thank, for going out of their way to pimp my books AND me! I value your support and your time, so I thank you for all the times you shared my books with your followers. I know many of you also gifted copies of my books to your friends and/or hosted giveaways for my books. I truly thank each of you. I am AWED by you. You give so much of yourself for authors like me, and I hope you know that you are so deeply appreciated.
Thank you to all my readers. One of the best things about being an author is the relationships I form with the readers who reach out. I love getting to know you on my Facebook fan page, in my reader group, on Twitter or Instagram or email and, if we’re lucky, in person at a signing or at an Applebees or on a London train or wherever we both happen to be. You rock my world.
Finally, thank you to my Savior and Lord, Jesus Christ, for giving me strength when I am weak. I was weak so many times while writing this book and was lifted each time by Your grace. Psalm 34:4
The Weight of Life Synopsis
Mila
“Don’t let go.” Those were my first words to him, as I hung over the side of a London bridge. The words I would soon say again, in a moment that didn’t involve bridges, but something much more fragile: my heart.
He held onto me for three weeks, in a time when I n
eeded to be held. Needed to connect to someone who understood how loss tunneled unrepentantly through the fabric of your soul.
Although he said he'd stay, we both knew he wouldn't. I had already survived one loss—I didn't know if I'd survive another.
Ames
She spun into my life like a tornado of smiles and chatter and everything else I'd long avoided, with a persistence that I admired, albeit begrudgingly. She broke down each neat wall I’d constructed without even trying. Her presence alone caused me to remember what it felt like to smile, to look forward to what the day would bring.
But it was only supposed to last three weeks.
“Don’t let go,” she’d pleaded.
I’d promised her I wouldn’t—but I would. I didn't have a choice.
Read Chapter One of The Weight of Life
CHAPTER ONE
MILA
Cars passed me and I reached my arms out, letting their lights flash over my body, illuminating me in the pitch-black night, as though they could provide the warmth my arms had been missing for so long.
I tried to imagine that each pass of light had a physical effect on my limbs, like I was experiencing a life renewal on that bridge, washing me of my grief.
But when the lights stopped for a moment and all that enveloped me was silence, everything as it was before, the pain of the memories sliced through me again.
I closed my eyes, curled my fingers into fists, and pulled my arms to my center, holding myself the way he once had.
Someone brushed past me and muttered an accented, “Sorry.” I was jolted from the absolute silence of that brief pause in my existence and looked out over the dark abyss in my view.
Westminster Bridge, London, was a magical place—for me, at least. From the side where I stood, legs braced against the railing, it was as if I was on the edge of the world I’d known; a world full of heartache and love and angst, and I was facing the beginning of something new.
Someone else brushed me from behind and I grabbed the straps of my backpack more firmly, reminded that the new world I had found myself in was still occupied by the same people of old, people willing to dip their hands into bags that didn’t belong to them and help themselves to the contents anyway.
Below me, the dark vastness of the River Thames glided past, under the bridge, and out the other side. There were murmurs of the other people walking on the bridge, people who walked it without the intention of stopping and inhaling the atmosphere like I did. I reminded myself that while the world continued moving, I was still here—hands gripped like vices on the railing, forcing myself to stand completely still. In ten, twenty years, I wanted to remember what it felt like to stand by the side of a bridge three months after losing the man I’d loved. A bridge we’d planned to visit together, one of many plans that were now forced to be buried in the darker parts of my mind.
But I’d walked the bridge for him, for Colin. I could think of him without crying now, which was a triumph in and of itself. My chest still ached for the piece he’d unknowingly carved from me, and the regret that lived in its recesses was a near-constant reminder.
I pulled up my phone and checked the time. It was seconds from the new hour, which meant Big Ben would chime soon. I smiled at the background photo: Colin and I hanging off the edge of a cliff, safely roped. I remembered that trip—I remembered all our trips. I pressed my finger against his chest in the photo, and vowed to continue my own pursuit of happiness, despite the grief I carried.
I could hear my brother’s voice now. “Mila, you obeyed his final wishes. Don’t regret giving him the last thing he asked of you.”
Big Ben punctuated the silence with his first chime and I let out a sigh and chewed on my lips. What my brother said gave me little comfort. I’d never forget that I didn’t get the goodbye I wanted.
The bell chimed again and two men laughed, capturing my attention away from the water. I looked up at them, the men in dark hooded jackets, hands tucked into the pockets of running shorts as they approached. One had dark blond curls that battled against the light breeze brushing past us on the bridge. He looked like he belonged on the beaches of California, surfboard in one hand and sunscreen in the other. He had a handsome face, strong features and wide lips.
I turned my attention to his companion, a man who was attractive too—but in a different kind of way. In a way that made me unable to turn away.
His mouth was more serious than the blond man’s, and his hair was dark, thick—short on the sides and longer up top. His jaw was clean-shaven, revealing his strong jaw line and full lips. His eyes were cast down, so all I saw was a set of thick lashes as he listened to the blond man talk.
They couldn’t have been much older than I was, somewhere in their mid-twenties, but something about the darker haired man caught my attention so much that I didn’t realize just how long I was staring at him until his head lifted and his gaze collided with mine. His mouth went slack and a wrinkle formed between his eyes as he took me in.
I should’ve looked away that second, but there was something about his face. The way his eyes held mine in equal measure, the way he fumbled in his steps, just barely, not enough to attract the attention of the man who walked beside him, but enough that I noticed—it pulled me in. As he moved closer, quiet enveloped me, as if the sound of traffic had been sucked up by a vacuum.
His eyes sharpened. I’d expected brown irises, but his were a light blue-green—maybe hazel. Their lightness contrasted against the dark eyelashes that framed them. He was even more attractive like this, his gaze fixed. It was as if helium had filled my belly, with how light it felt, and my hands tightened on the railing.
He and his companion paused mid-step, ten feet from me, and I didn’t know what to do. Should I have averted my eyes and pretended I wasn’t staring, or keep staring until he broke contact?
But I didn’t get a chance to choose between the two choices, because a sound to my left jarred me, just before someone bumped painfully hard into me. The noise was back again, with a bang in my ears.
Against me, two people struggled with something—a purse or wallet, maybe. “Let go!” the woman yelled as she yanked on the strap. Each time she pulled, the man leaned back harder across my body, pinning me to the railing. He smelled sour, like he’d rolled around in fish. I winced as the scent assaulted my nostrils, and held onto the railing. The back of the railing pressed hard against my spine, leaving me biting down on my lip, leaving me without enough air to yell.
Everyone within a half dozen feet of us paused, taking in the commotion. And then of those people, half of them continued on their walk, clearly desensitized to muggings.
When no one moved to help the poor, elderly woman, I tried to yell at the mugger, but I couldn’t fill my lungs to do more than squeak.
The two men I’d seen stepped in, and the struggle intensified.
The mugger tugged again as others’ hands closed over his shoulders, pressing me so violently hard against the railing that the wind was knocked out of me. I chanced a glance over my shoulder at the water below, knowing I was a breath from tumbling over the side of the bridge.
The final tug was strong enough to loosen the woman’s hands. Any second and he’d have the purse completely in his hands. So, I did something stupid: I pushed his shoulder, jolting him enough that he stumbled back again, and leaned far enough that I flipped right over the rail of the bridge.
I wasn’t sure if I screamed. I wasn’t sure if I shouted for help. I wasn’t sure of anything except grasping desperately for that railing as I backflipped over it, as if my life depended on grabbing it—which it probably did.
My chest slammed against the other side of the railing, but my hands held firmly above me. It was enough to send panic like a lightning bolt through my body. My legs felt tingly then, and I waited to lose my grip and slide right into the murky water that awaited me below. Gravity weighted down my body and I felt my sweaty hands slip.
Just then, a hand closed over m
y wrist, and tugged it up.
I looked up at the dark-haired man I’d made eye contact with a minute before and my lips trembled open. “Don’t let go,” I begged.
“I won’t. I promise.” His other hand closed over my wrist and he pulled, maneuvering me up a few inches.
“I’m going to fall,” I gasped, looking over my shoulder. The water, which had felt like a dozen feet below me when I was on top of the bridge, suddenly looked like a hundred feet away now that I dangled above it.
“You’re not going to fall.” He gritted his teeth, his face determined. “I need you to swing your leg up and hook your foot in this molding.” He nodded at the decorative molding holding up the railing.
“I can’t. My legs aren’t working.” Panic was setting in. My legs were going numb from it. With a calmness I didn’t completely feel, I whispered, “Just let me fall.”
“What? Are you mad?” He shook his head, and a crease took up residence between his eyebrows. “I’m not letting you go,” he bit out in his thick English accent.
“It’ll be okay. It’s not too far. I can swim.”
“You are mad. You’ll drown before you make it to the side.”
“I can swim.”
“You just said your legs aren’t working. And a frail thing like you won’t be able to paddle your way to land.” He shook his head. “Why am I even arguing with you? Sam, help me.”
The blond man—Sam—appeared beside him, and he reached down, wrapping around my other arm. “On three,” Sam said, looking at his friend.
The three seconds they counted felt like a lifetime, but sure enough with their combined strength, they towed me up. The man with dark hair hooked an arm under my legs to haul me over the railing, but my legs collapsed as soon as my feet hit the ground.
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