by Rae Kennedy
TO BE
YOUR
LAST
rae kennedy
Copyright © 2020 by Rae Kennedy
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected]
FIRST EDITION
RAKE Publishing
www.raekennedyauthor.com
978-1-7333189-4-5
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TO BE YOUR ONLY
CHAPTER 1
Just as I turn to leave, I see him. Sitting in the back shadows. Watching me.
Even though we haven’t seen each other in years, I’d recognize him anywhere.
He was my first.
The first guy I went to bed with, my first love, my first heartbreak. And here we are, in a dive bar in Chicago, our eyes locked across a stage just like the first time I saw him at my sister’s wedding.
Two Years Ago...
The moon is a bright white spotlight and stars are just starting to dot the expansive navy sky as I walk across my parents’ back yard. The night air is warm but the breeze that washes through my thin, peach chiffon bridesmaid dress is cool, reminding me that though it’s the end of May, summer is not quite here.
I make my way toward the reception, just past the barn where people are gathered in groups. Some standing, chatting, laughing, yelling over cups of beer and champagne glasses. Others sitting at tables, eating dinner by the flickering light of the tiny votive candles in the centerpieces.
Tables are scattered around the yard, surrounding the stage and dance floor in the center, which is brightly lit by thousands of string lights crisscrossing overhead. Each strand had been painstakingly put up by my three older brothers yesterday. It’d taken them all day, a case of beer, and only one almost-fist fight. Impressive, really.
I make my way to the food table—it’s next to the dance floor, directly across from the stage. I peruse the buffet and my stomach grumbles, finally surrendering to hunger. I haven’t had much of an appetite these last few weeks.
My mom and I made all of the food, planning, shopping, prepping, and cooking it all in our century-old, tiny farmhouse kitchen. Beef short ribs, brisket, glazed carrots, potato salad, corn on the cob, giant slices of watermelon, and buttery cornbread muffins. It all looks wonderful, but nothing sounds good to eat. Maybe I’ll just wait for cake.
“How’s everybody doing tonight?”
I turn toward the voice—it belongs to a guy walking across the stage carrying a mic and a guitar. Mom had made a comment about the band being “unconventional,” but looking at this guy, I don’t see it.
He’s in a black suit, black tie, white shirt. Average height and build. His brown hair is curly and tousled back out of his eyes in a carefree sort of way, like he just rolled out of bed and ran his fingers through it. He has big dark eyes and even a little dimple in his chin. His face has a sweet, boyish charm to it, though he’s probably in his mid-to-late twenties. He’s cute.
He waves out to the guests and flashes a big white smile. He’s really cute, actually.
“Are you ready to have some fun?”
A couple of people hoot from their seats, and the guy on stage points them out and winks as he continues. Other guys all wearing the same black suits come on stage and take their places, but I’m focused on bedhead guy and his amazing smile.
“We’re Wicked Road, and weddings aren’t our normal gig, but we’re friends of the best man and are excited to entertain you and celebrate love.” He slings the bright red guitar over his shoulder and runs his fingers through his disheveled hair. His curls look like they’d feel nice and soft between my fingers. Wow. Chill out, Gracie. “I’d like you all to welcome, for their first official dance as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Tucker and Courtney Collison.”
Everyone claps as my sister and her new husband step onto the dance floor, hand in hand. Court is statuesque as she wraps her arms around Tuck’s broad shoulders and he gazes down at her, whispering something in her ear that puts a dazzling smile on her face. They’re perfect together in their happiness and all eyes are on them. My grizzly bear of a father is beaming at them. The apples of his cheeks bulge under his thick, red beard in a big grin that crinkles around his eyes. My mom is tucked into his side, wiping the occasional tears she’s been unsuccessfully trying to fight off all day.
They are so proud of her. The perfect daughter is now married to the perfect man, and together they’re going to make a perfect life. Everything about them—perfect.
Many people might say I’m perfect too. I'm just as blonde, blue-eyed, and bubbly as my sister—maybe more so. A cheerleader. Popular. Straight-A student. And that was all true—when I was in high school.
Since returning home from my first year at the university last week, everything has been so hectic and everyone so focused on Court’s wedding that they haven’t taken much notice of me. But that will all change tomorrow.
Tomorrow, everyone will finally find out how much of a failure I, Gracie Gallagher, truly am.
The music begins to play. It starts slow, with a simple bass line and rhythmic guitar. It’s familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
Then the drums start in, low and then hard. I dig the beat. I glance to the stage and whoa. The drummer’s arms are a blur of bright color. His jacket is discarded on the floor, the sleeves of his white dress shirt smashed up, revealing arms covered in tattoos in brilliant shades of red, orange, and green. He squints in concentration, a neon yellow mohawk on top of his head.
Okay, maybe this is what my mom meant by unconventional?
The man standing front and center at the mic has his head bowed. I assume he’s the singer but he hasn’t started singing yet and I can’t see his face. He sways slightly to the melody.
Just beyond him is the bassist. He’s in the same black suit and has the same dark eyes as the guitarist. But while the guitarist seems to have a partial smile while he plays, the bassist wears a scowl. He has the same brown hair, but his is shorter and slicked back. They even have the same chin dimple. The bassist, however, has a metal piercing above that chin dimple, another one in his septum, and in the bridge of his nose. Their faces are so similar, yet different. Brothers, maybe?
A deep, smooth voice pours into the air, overwhelming everything else. Chills immediately prickle down the back of my neck and raise goosebumps on my arms.
I snap back to the front man as he sings a cover of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time.” The tone of his voice is unique and haunting. It’s beautiful. I want to close my eyes and listen to him sing, concentrate on the steadiness and clarity, the ease with which he changes pitch, but I can’t look away from him.
He's in the black suit, skinny black tie. He holds the mic stand, black tattoos swi
rling out from his jacket cuffs, covering the backs of his hands to the knuckles. More black tattoos twist out from his crisp white collar on the sides of his neck, disappearing behind his ears.
He has black gauges and short black hair. His eyes are shadowed under heavy eyebrows, almost menacing. He has a square jaw and a square nose. His lips are pouty and pink, and so pretty.
He lifts his head and he looks out beyond the dance floor, which is now full of guests slow dancing. His eyes are surrounded by thick, black eyelashes. They are...mesmerizing. Hypnotic.
My eyes lock on his and it’s like he’s looking right into my soul.
Is he...is he looking at me?
Yes. Yes, he’s staring directly at me.
And I stare right back. I should look away, right? Act like I’m not caught in a gooey trance watching him.
But it’s like he’s singing to me. Only me. Each line, word, note, is meant just for me to hear. An invisible connection. There’s an undercurrent of melancholy in his voice. And desire. Need.
“Oh there you are, Gracie Lou!” Mom walks up to where I’m perched against the buffet table and I jump up, quickly tearing my gaze away from the singer and his eyes.
“You look so lovely, dear,” she says, smiling with that I’m just so proud of my grown-up baby girl look she’s started giving me since I left for college. I wonder if she’ll still give me that look after she finds out tomorrow.
“Thanks.” I smooth down my dress.
She sort of fusses over the now-askew table cloth and straightens it out. “Oh! The potato salad is getting low. I better go get the other batch from the house. It’s Tuck’s favorite, you know.”
“I’ll go get it. You stay and enjoy the party.”
“Are you sure, honey?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, thank you, Gracie Lou. It’s been so nice having you home again this week. You’ve been so helpful with all of this. I don’t think we could have pulled off everything without you.”
I offer a small smile.
“I feel like we just got you back and now you’re leaving again.” She’s giving me that smile again. The proud one. But this time she looks like she might cry too.
Shit.
“Uh...yeah.” My hair falls, covering half of my face as I turn and look away. I really should have told them earlier. I’d originally justified the secret so I wouldn’t take any attention away from Court and her big day, but with every passing week, day, hour that I’ve been hiding this, I can feel the weight of it pressing harder and heavier against me.
I trudge back up to the house, across the faded wood deck and through the back door, letting the screen door bang shut behind me. Inside, the house is warm. A single lamp is lit in the corner of the living room and down the hall. Light is glowing from the kitchen, but otherwise it’s dark. Dark and quiet and still. No band, no rowdy dancers or loud conversations. Not even the soft hiss of the wind—only the occasional snort or whimper from our elderly hound dog, who is currently napping under the dining room table.
I run up the stairs. The old wood planks groan and creak with each step. I flip the switch in my room and the light flickers twice before crackling on. I ignore my collection of dance ribbons and trophies, the pom-poms on my dresser, and the collage of photographs from high school on my wall—mostly selfies—to get to my phone charging on the bed.
Me: are you still coming to the reception?
Kyla: Yes! I just got here, sorry I’m late...Grandpa.
Me: No worries. I’ll be the one carrying a bowl of potato salad the size of Jupiter
Kyla: Do you need help?
Me: Nah, I’ll meet you down there in a few
On my way out, I pass the suitcase sitting at the end of my bed, ready and waiting to leave with me tomorrow.
It’s empty.
I race to the kitchen. The giant-ass bowl of potato salad is, in fact, only marginally smaller than Jupiter. It proves difficult to manage while opening the door to the yard. Maybe I do need help.
The air outside is fresh and I’m surrounded by crickets chirping as I huff it toward the party. Kyla waves at me from the buffet table. She’s been my best friend since we were awkward twelve-year-olds with braces and knobby knees. I’m glad we grew out of that phase.
She’s wearing a flirty emerald green dress that is stunning with her auburn hair and bright hazel eyes. Her shoulder-length hair has the perfect amount of natural wave—one side is tucked behind her ear, revealing a peacock feather earring that hangs to just above her collarbone.
“Hey!” She runs up to me and helps carry the bowl back to the food table.
“Hi, thanks,” I say, a little out of breath.
“Gracie, I’ve missed you!” She pouts and squeezes me around the middle. “You look great, by the way. I could never pull off the color peach. I’m so jealous of your complexion.”
I chuckle at her rapid-fire compliment. “You look beautiful, Ky. Love the earrings.”
“Yeah? I love them too.” She fluffs a giant feathered earring. “I saw them, and I was like, yes, these are perfect, because I’m going to be peacocking the hell out of tonight.”
“Peacocking?”
“Yeah, like when peacocks display their feathers to get a mate’s attention. Peacocking. It’s a thing. Anyway, tonight is the night I’m going to finally get Wes to notice me.”
“Tonight’s the night you make your big move?”
“Yep. I mean, he’s been pining over your sister for how many years? And she’s now officially off the market, so he has no choice but to move on, right?”
“Right. Totally.”
“But enough about Wes finally realizing we’re soulmates—I’m just so glad we get to hang out tonight before you leave me again. I’m so sad.”
“Um...” I need to tell someone already. “About my trip—”
“Are you so excited? I mean it obviously sounds like a lot of work, but you’ll have so much fun. I’m so jealous of all the adventures you’re going to have out in the world! We should celebrate tonight. Hey, there’s some champagne. Let’s sneak some champagne!”
Champagne is for celebrating. “I don’t want champagne.”
Kyla tilts her head toward me, a little crease forming between her eyebrows. The look isn’t because I turned down alcohol—that’s not new—but she can read even the subtle changes in my tone.
“I need to tell you something.”
She steps closer to me. “What’s up, G?”
“I’m not leaving tomorrow.”
“Huh? Why?”
“I...I lost my spot in the summer research fellowship.”
“How? What happened?”
“My grades last semester didn’t meet their requirements so they gave my spot to someone else.”
“Oh, Gracie, I’m sorry. That sucks.” She puts her arm around my shoulders. She always smells like citrus. “I didn’t know you were having a hard time in school.”
“It’s not... I just... Yeah. It hasn’t been great.”
“And your parents...?”
“I haven’t told them yet. But they’ll know tomorrow. Everyone will know. It will spread through the whole town, like every other piece of gossip does, and people will be talking about me behind my back again. The worst part about failing school is it was supposed to be my way out, so I don’t get stuck here.”
“Hey, I kind of like it here.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I love this town... I just want more. I want to see more, have more experiences. I’ve never even left the Midwest. But right now, what I really want is to run away.”
“Ahem—” Someone clears his throat behind me.
I jolt away from the food table. Jesus, Gracie, you’re completely in the way. “I’m so sorry, I—” I look up and am met with dark brown, smiling eyes. Bedhead hair. The guitarist.
I glance at the stage, which is empty. The band must be on a break.
“No need to apologize.” He flashes me bright whi
te teeth that stand out against his tanned, olive skin. He’s holding a plate full of food and eyeing the watermelon at the end of the table. The watermelon I had been standing so inconsiderately in front of.
“Hi!” Kyla steps up next to me, chin held high, chest proudly puffed, hand outstretched. “I’m Kyla. This is Gracie.”
“Hey Kyla. I’m Logan.” He shakes her hand and nods, then looks back at me. Before I know it, my hand is wrapped in his warm one. “Gracie...” He glances down briefly at my dress, and warmth rises from my chest to my ears. “Bridesmaid?”
“Yeah. I’m the bride’s sister.”
“Right!” He bobs his head like this should be totally obvious to him. I guess I do basically look like a miniature version of Court. “It’s nice to meet you, Gracie. You too, Kyla.”
It’s at this moment my stomach decides to let out the loudest, gravelliest growl known to man. I’m probably red as a beet right now. Please let it be dark enough he doesn’t notice.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Have you not eaten yet?” Kyla looks at me with her overprotective I-will-cut-a-bitch face.
“No, I keep getting distracted by this and that.”
“Shit, girl—” Logan gives me his plate so quickly I almost drop it before I realize what he’s doing. “Here.”
“You don’t need to give me your food, really.” Like, really, this is a little weird.
“I’ll get more, come on.” He waves me over to where he’s standing by the fresh bowl of potato salad with a heaping ladle full.
I eye the already-overflowing plate of food in my hands. “I’m good.”
He gives me a scoop anyway. And adds a couple slices of watermelon for good measure.
As soon as we sit at a table Kyla freaks out. “He’s hot. Ohmygod Gracie, he’s totally into you. Did you see him eye-fucking you out of your dress?” Also, something to note—Kyla does not know how to whisper.
I’m trying—unsuccessfully—to get her to chill out about hot guitar player when he walks up to our table, all nonchalant and running one hand through his wavy hair.
“Mind if I join you ladies?” He flashes his gorgeous smile.
“Um...”
“Of course, yes, you can! Here, take my seat,” Kyla chimes in, standing and pulling out her chair for Logan.