Page 1 of Rules for Second Chances

Chapter One

Action begins with the disruption of a routine.

—Truth in Comedy

The first minute of my thirtieth birthday party is everything I want it to be.

My mother-in-law’s house spills noise and warmth when I ease open the front door. Gusts of laughter cast an unexpected glow over the chic, pale (and frankly sort of sterile) decor, which has always given me the feeling of sharpened corners lurking everywhere. Tonight, bright GORE-TEX coats and trail shoes trashed by April mud soften the foyer’s pointiness. Much nicer.

Though I’m late, I dawdle my way through the jumbled footwear, seeking a patch of floor to toe off my boots.

This is my favorite part: right before I join in. Before the classic introvert’s fantasy of effortless conversations lit by the perfecttipsy buzz turns into the real thing: conversational faux pas that morph into awkward pauses that tumble me down bottomless crevasses of social death.

Before I remember how I’m always so lonely at these parties.

This time will be different,I tell myself, sliding into my black flats. I’m thirty, ugh; it’s past time I sorted out my socializing phobias. Besides, I’m interesting. I have topics of conversation picked out. How hard can it be to hold a glass of champagne and say something sparkling?

I pull my shoulders out of their self-defensive hunch and practice a smile that goes up on both sides, like both halves of me are happy to be here. None of the right-side-up, left-side-down smile that makes people ask whether I’m joking or serious.

“Liz! I can’t believe you’re late to your own birthday.” My sister, Amber, sweeps into the foyer to rummage through the outerwear. She looks beautiful with her streaky blond hair twisted into a pretty, puffy low bun. “Or maybe I can. Why did you let Tobin throw you a party, anyway? He should know you don’t like them.”

“I like parties,” I lie. And then, more truthfully, “He asked if I wanted a party, and I said yes. And I’m late because I got stuck at work.” Combing through my “ideas” folder in a sweat, pummeling myself into reaching for the brass ring one last time. “And then Mom called right as I got here to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and insisted on an encore when Dad got on the phone. Why are you leaving? It’s barely six.”

“Eleanor’s babysitter bailed. I have to pick her up from aftercare and take her home for dinner.”

“You could bring her here.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Ha. The only person who hates parties more than you is my kid.”

“Idon’thate parties, Amber!”

“Sure. You plaster yourself to me and your husband all nightbecause you’re having so muchfun. I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself, Liz. See you tomorrow night for auntie/niece time. Five thirty sharp,” she adds, swirling out the door in a gust of April cold.

I’m sure she meant to wish me a happy birthday. She was stressed and distracted; it doesn’t mean anything. Still, a chill wraps around my throat. Our parents are wintering in Arizona, and my best friend, Stellar, is away, so I was counting on Amber to smooth out any rough spots in my Very Successful Party. She’s never much liked me following her around, but we’re sisters, so she has to include me in the conversation when I materialize at her elbow.

But she’s gone. I’m down to just my husband as a social haven, I guess.

I hear him before I see him: a golden voice drifting down the stairs, slightly ahead of the golden man himself. Tobin Renner-Lewis is the human version of a cloudless day on a coastal mountain: longish, dark whisky hair still tipped with last summer’s sunshine, Viking cheekbones, rosy winter tan, eyes of glacier blue. His tall, lean-muscled frame speaks to a life spent paddling and mushing and lifting heavy things.

He looks unusually serious, a softcover textbook in one big, rough hand. Probably one of the business books he reads but won’t talk about.

“I don’t know if I’m in one place enough to get this going,” he says, phone to his ear. “But I appreciate the offer. Can I have a couple days to think?” There’s a tempered hope in Tobin’s voice I haven’t heard in a long time. I melt against the wall, eavesdropping harder.

Whatever he hears prompts a grin with a quirk that hooks my heart. I forgot he had that smile, rueful and real. For a second, I don’t think about how far apart we’ve grown, and only remember the man I fell in love with underneath the summer stars.

Everything about Tobin changes when he sees me, morphing from something true into something perfect. A photograph of stars instead of the real thing.

“DIZZY LIZZIE!” He tucks the book under his elbow and vaults one-handed over the railing. A gentle breeze of knockout-level pheromones and cedarwood beard oil wafts across my body. I feel it right through my coat, which I’ll have to return because this shit was supposed to be windproof.

“You got my note?” He knocks my toque from my head with his hug. I try to be soft in his arms. Happy the way he wants to feel we are, pretending our hearts have no doors we use to lock each other out.

“I thought this was going to be at our house.” When he offered to throw me a party, I mostly said yes because people think you’re weird if you don’t want to celebrate milestone birthdays in the loudest possible way. Also, I may have imagined a magical fantasy glow-up party that would make me belong, like in13 Going on 30. Perhaps I secretly hoped he’d decorate with a “Central Park in spring” theme, after my beloved Nora Ephron rom-coms. Then I’d know he saw straight into my heart, and we’d be okay again.

“It was, but my mom thought it made more sense not to carry everything next door.”

“Oh.”

“Wait till you see the food! Mom outdid herself. I’ll put in a day in her garden to pay her back.”

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