by Amelia Wilde
When He Saw Me
Amelia Wilde
Contents
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
Epilogue
Before She Was Mine - Excerpt
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Connect with Amelia
Also by Amelia Wilde
To Kayla, who basically gave me permission to write this book, even though she didn’t know it.
And to all my readers, for sticking with me when the going gets tough.
1
Eva
This party is a mistake.
Not on my wonderful, gorgeous friend Whitney’s part, I mean. She should throw parties. She should throw parties every Thursday of her life, until she’s ninety-three and causing a ruckus in her retirement community.
It’s a mistake for me.
I know it already, and I still feel the zing of the hard wood of her apartment door in my knuckles.
The thing is, when you make a mistake, you should own up to it and then get out of that situation. You shouldn’t stand there, lingering in the hallway with a fake smile plastered to your face as if you didn’t throw yourself into the shower forty-five minutes ago with your heart pounding and then let the hot water blast you in the face for a solid five to clear your head.
You know. Like I did.
To be real, I knew this was a mistake way before I knocked. I knew it when I stepped onto the subway. I knew it when I stepped out of my apartment. And yes, I knew it when I stepped into the shower.
What am I doing?
I can still make my escape.
I turn away from the door, arranging my expression into something I hope resembles oh shit, I forgot something very important for my Friday night plans, and at that moment, the door swings open and Whitney, my fireball friend from back in high school, shrieks, “Eva!” She launches herself at me with such force that her hug almost takes us both to the carpet. “Sorry,” she says with a laugh, releasing me in the nick of time. “I’m so glad you could make it. So glad. It’s been way too long since we went to Vino, or anything else. Come in, come in! Everybody else is here.”
“I—” I motion vaguely toward the stairwell, but Whitney doesn’t even see it. She’s too busy steering me into the apartment. It’s nice. It’s bright and clean...
...and full of people.
Not full. There’s room to walk. But there are four couples, and as nice as the place is—the countertop still has that original sheen to it—it’s not huge, and my heart goes right up into my throat.
Whitney closes the door behind us. “Everybody, my famous book writer friend Eva is here!”
I feel the rift in the conversation like it’s the ground dropping out from under me and swallow down the urge to throw up. Instead, I opt for a weird little wave and try not to look anyone in the face. While I simultaneously try to pretend I’m not sweating. It’s real cute.
Whitney steps into the kitchen and I follow her. There’s no way I can face the crowd in the living room, which looks—from the corner of my eye—like it’s all couples. I recognize Summer Sullivan. The man next to her, beer in hand, is her husband Dayton. And there’s Wes, Whitney’s husband. They’re the most opposite people I’ve ever seen attract in my life.
The rest of the guests are people I’ve never seen before. At least, I think I haven’t. I’m not going to look.
I focus all my attention on Whitney, who is already having a conversation I’m not part of.
“—back to selling insurance part-time, just for the benefits. I’m sure you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing, but it gives me a certain...peace of mind. A few hours three days a week isn’t so bad, and it gives me time for rehearsal.” Whitney opens the oven, lifts out a tray of appetizers, and breathes in deep. “These are like a fancy version of Pizza Rolls. You have to try one when they’re a little cooler.”
“Rehearsal.” I latch on to the most important word Whitney spoke. “You got a new show?”
“I did.” Whitney beams. “Off-Broadway, but I got the lead, and it’s contemporary. A workingwoman. There’s a wealth of creativity in the classics, but when it comes to reflecting the rich life experiences of—” She seems so happy, and so confident, and so settled in her life, as if smooth sailing is guaranteed. It’s making me feel insane.
“Eva Lipton.” The voice comes from just off my shoulder and I don’t recognize it, which makes a muscle in the back of my neck tense. “I am so thrilled to meet you. I never thought—”
Well, I can’t stand here staring at Whitney like a total asshole.
The woman who has approached me is petite and blonde, her hair piled on top of her head in the kind of messy bun that looks best with fine, blonde hair. I will never know such riches. She smiles up at me, almost grimacing.
“I don’t want to, you know, attack you at Whit’s party, but I—”
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
She leans in.
“I am the biggest fan. I just love your books so much that I can’t even...” Her hands go to her chest. “I can’t stand it. My heart...” She closes her eyes as if it’s causing her actual pain. “My heart can’t take much more of a wait, if you know what I mean. I know your third book isn’t supposed to publish until next year, but nine months is such a long time from now, and—”
“Eva, this is Christine.” Whitney butts in, and I’ve never been more grateful to anyone in my life. “But I could never forgive myself if I interrupted the blooming of this beautiful friendship for even a moment.” Then, with a little bow, she goes back to the plate of fancy pizza rolls and I’m left in Christine’s clutches.
She’s still smiling hard at me, and clearly she’s moved past being sorry for attacking me at the party and is now firmly in drinking-my-blood territory. Part of me loves her. Part of me thinks, You know what? I could be friends with this woman.
But the other part of me is desperate for her to shut up.
She does not shut up.
“The Miracle Girl literally kept me up all night.” Her hand flutters at her chest. “Like this, the whole time. My husband was pissed, but I couldn’t stop reading. I ate that book alive, and then I bought a second copy because I pretty much destroyed the first one—”
Thank you. I’m so glad to hear you loved it. Fans like you mean the world to me. It’s all true. It’s all so true. Without people like Christine, I’d be nowhere. But the awful truth is that even with people like Christine, I am nowhere. All the words I should say stick in my throat. Is my throat swelling up? Please, say that my throat’s not swelling up.
“—the way, Whitney didn’t give you away. She only said her writer friend Eva from school was coming, and I recognized you from a picture and then that book jacket.” Christine raises both hands in the air. “Seriously, though, I totally respect your privacy and I would never post, like, any pictures online or anything. Not that I’ve taken pictures of you.” She laughs nervously. “Oh, God, I’m making myself sound like a total creep. Listen, all I wanted to say was that The Miracle Girl is pretty much my favorite book of all time and of course my all-time favorite thriller a
nd nobody can do it better than you.”
I smile my press interview smile and reach for I couldn’t be happier that you loved The Miracle Girl, but Christine is. Not. Done.
“I know you’re going to outdo it with the next one, which would be unbelievable. I mean, it would really be unbelievable if you wrote a better book than The Miracle Girl, but I have total faith that you can do it. And I’m waiting with bated breath.” She chuckles. “I hope that’s a little bit inspiring, anyway, just knowing I’m living my day-to-day life spending every spare moment daydreaming about this new book of yours. And...if you wanted to drop any hints about what the title’s going to be, I would guard that secret with my life.” She’s so hopeful it nearly kills me. “Have I said it enough? You’re the best.”
At this point, it would almost be better if she kept talking, but the hum of conversation from the living room does nothing to fill the silence.
It stretches out, and out, and out.
I open my mouth.
Time to say something. Time to say all the right things to this lovely woman, who is devoted to my work, who will probably buy not one but two copies of my book the moment it’s available for preorder, who has absolutely no idea I am the book world’s biggest fraud.
“I...”
Christine is breathless with anticipation. She is actually holding her breath.
“...have to go.”
She’s already nodding by the time she understands, and then I have to watch her face fall from excited hope to utter confusion. Her expression careens into disappointment. I can’t take it anymore. I turn on my heel and go.
But I can’t go to the door of the apartment. I just got here. I can’t abandon my friend’s party like an asshole—or worse, like a diva. Like I can’t handle being approached by my own readers. They’d all think I was pissed, and I’m not. I’m not.
I brush past Whitney to the sliding doors leading to her tiny balcony.
“Eva?”
I don’t stop for Whit. I yank open the door and step outside onto the little balcony. It smells like fresh wood, like it was built only yesterday. There’s enough room for two patio chairs and the tiniest patio table I have ever seen, upon which is perched a bright bouquet that looks a little lopsided. It’s totally Whitney. And I’d compliment her on it, but I’m too busy grabbing the railing and trying to breathe. While, of course, pretending to look out over the block below.
The sliding door whooshes behind me. “Girl. What’s going on?”
I stand up straight and dig through my purse, not knowing what I’m looking for until my hand makes contact with a pen. “Nothing.” I work that press-interview smile hard and whip out the pen. “An idea. Struck me. I’ve got to get it down before it flies right out of my head and into the ether. Nothing ever comes back from the ether.”
“Eva—”
“You know how it is, when you’re deep in the writing process and you have that one idea that’s going to smooth everything out and make it sing. Okay, maybe you don’t know exactly how it is, but I’m sure similar things happen during shows. When everything is gelling except that one guy who keeps singing off key...” I scribble a random mark onto the first available page in the notebook.
Whitney steps onto the balcony. “Eva.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
I look up into her face, and there is nothing but concern written there. She’s not looking at me to be her favorite writer. This is my oldest friend. To her, I’m still Eva Lipton, no matter how many books I write.
Or don’t write.
“Yeah.” I try to make the word light and it hitches coming out of my mouth. I wave my hand in the air to bat it away. “I need a minute to write this down. And pull myself together a little bit. The adrenaline from the inspiration can be a little overwhelming.” I put the pen to the notepad and jot...something...down.
Whitney doesn’t say anything. “I...don’t believe you.”
“It’s really—”
“I don’t expect a phenomenal acting job from someone who’s not a professional, but Eva, those were the least convincing sentences I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth. And I was there when you told me you definitely didn’t have a crush on Rob McKenzie.”
“I didn’t have a crush on Rob McKenzie.”
Whitney rolls her eyes. “Okay.”
“I do have to write down this idea.”
“Eva.”
“A minute, Whit, I swear. One minute.”
Someone calls to her from inside—Wes?—and Whit turns her head an inch, eyes still on me. “I’ll be right there.” Then she stabs a finger in my direction. “You can stay out here. For a minute. Then I’m coming back.”
2
Bennett
“Who’s that?”
I came to the kitchen to get another beer, and life has rewarded me with the most incredible view. Auburn curls spilling over her back. A little black T-shirt that hugs her waist and slips down over her hips. Eyes wide, looking a little trapped.
In other words, my favorite thing in the world: a mystery.
I didn’t expect to find one at Wes and Whitney’s apartment. Wes is an Army buddy from back in the day. We have a closeness borne of getting blown up together. And then…you know, the part where I went to Afghanistan for a year and a half and found out why. That’s another story, and right now it doesn’t matter at all. No. What matters is this mystery woman.
“Whit, who is that?”
Wes’s wife, Whitney, with her usual mess of dark hair and a black dress with a huge floral pattern that would look ridiculous on anyone else, looks at me while she shuts the door. She’s scowling. “My friend Eva.”
“What’s she doing on the balcony?”
The scowl turns to something more quizzical. “I see that look on your face, Ben. Don’t do it. Don’t get into it like this. I don’t know what’s going on with her.”
“I’m not getting into anything.” I crane my neck to look around Whitney, at that fall of auburn, the slope of her shoulders. “Why is she out there, though?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to find out.”
“Ben—”
“I just want to know why she’s on the balcony by herself in the middle of your party.”
Whitney sighs. “You know that’s never how it happens.”
“A simple conversation?”
“No conversation with you is ever simple. And really, what is a simple conversation?” She cocks her head and looks at me through narrow eyes. “Is it the content, or only the emotional landscape upon which—”
“Nice try. Let me through.”
Whitney opens her arms wide, blocking my path. “Don’t do it. She’s not one of your projects.” The light from outside beams in around her like she’s an avenging angel. And she can be an avenging angel, according to Wes. Whitney really is a force of nature.
But Eva, standing outside, is a law unto herself. A law of physics. Like gravity. Nobody blames a rock for falling to the earth. I can’t even blame myself for trying to be at her side. It makes no sense, but I don’t have the luxury of an apple tree to sit beneath until understanding strikes.
And anyway, the only way to be inspired by anything is to get the facts. All of them. Especially the ones people don’t want you to have.
“Whit. I’m going to go talk to her. It’s the right thing to do. As a human.”
She gives me one more long look then drops her hands to her sides. “Well...I’ve done my part. I have tried my hardest, yet I am screaming into a void and the only echo—”
“Whit. It’s just a conversation.”
“Sure it is.”
Wes comes into the kitchen then, opening the fridge himself for another beer. “Is Powell giving you a hard time? I’ll punch him if he is.”
“Not me.” Whitney moves past me and slinks her arm around Wes’s waist. “He’s going after Eva.”
Wes considers this. “She could use a
good—”
Whit slaps him. “Oh my God. You are filthy. She is going through something. I don’t know what, and you’re in here making jokes about—”
“Conversation,” Wes finishes, a lopsided grin on his face. He dips Whitney back and kisses her until they’re both laughing. It hurts to see it. Not that I’ll ever admit that to either of them. For a moment, I consider getting to the bottom of that feeling, but...no. Out on the balcony, there’s a woman who’s far more arresting than my sorry soul could ever be.
I leave them in the kitchen, Whitney pulling Wes over to the stove to show him her latest batch of appetizers, and open the sliding door.
“I’m almost done, Whit. I’ll be right in. Save me a plate.”
I shut the door behind me, closing us off from the ebb and flow of the chatter inside. I didn’t realize that Wes and Whitney had air conditioning until I stepped out into the early evening heat of the balcony. We’re going to be heading into July in a couple of weeks, and the summer has already baked itself into the wood. “Save you a plate of what?”
Eva turns with a start. “You’re not Whit.”
“Very astute observation. I’m Bennett Powell.”
“The shrapnel guy.” Yes. I am the man who was in the Humvee with Wes and Dayton when Wes drove it over an IED. And yes, I am the one who spent almost two years of my life finding out why that IED got there in the first place. Apparently, word has gotten around. To Eva, at least. She doesn’t wait for me to answer before she gives a sharp little sigh and turns back toward the railing. Eva looks so melancholy, with her forearms on the wooden railing, and so much like a magazine model that I wish I had a camera. I’d tell her how fucking delicious her jean shorts look around the curve of her ass, but now’s not the time.