Page 4 of True Fate

An arm circled his waist, and Justin glanced down to see a set of midnight-blue nails settle into the crisp folds of his shirt. “Definitely that one, darling,” Samantha murmured, withdrawing her hand when Justin didn’t cover it with his own. “The tall one looks like she’d eat you up and spit you out. Goodness, is that straw in her hair?”

Brent lifted the scrolled flyer in a lazy salute. “Sam, my girl, I’d enjoy being eaten up and spit out.”

Justin thrust Brent’s glass at him, patience thinning. “Sell art. Make money.Please. This festival will cycle more people through here than we’ll see all year. I promised Oliver I’d unload at least one painting. He’s getting desperate.”

Reaching to finger the glittering opal nestled in the hollow of her throat, Samantha gazed around the room, her expression less than enthralled. “Justin, when my editor asked me to do a piece on your South Carolina gallery, I thought it might be fun—like that time in Charleston when we previewed the Spoleto exhibit behind the scenes. ANew York Magazine-meets-Southern Livingspin. Magnolias and mint juleps.” A lazy breath slipped past her lips. “When this town needs an art gallery about as much as it needs a nuclear spill.”

Justin turned away as the familiar ire circled.

He could make fun of his art-in-the-cotton-fields folly anytime he wanted—and he often did—but he’d be damned if an outsider was going to ridicule what he’d built here. A gallery that was proving successful, with a lease costing one-tenthwhat he paid for his one-bedroom walk-up in Prospect Park. On days when the subway was shoulder to shoulder, when he stepped in dog shit walking home, when his umbrella blew inside out and the annual winter ritual began—cracking open windows because the radiators cranked 24/7 for months—he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t come back where he belonged.

Where he hadroots.

But facing that meant confronting a complicated past, one he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

He’d grown used to thinking more and feelingless.

Brushing aside Samantha’s hand and her apology, he crossed to the bar his brother Ransom had built last summer for events just like this.

And there she was.

The past, stitched into his present.

chaptertwo

Torn–Natalie Imbruglia

LAINEY

Lainey hadn’t beenthis close to Justin True since he’d left her on the sagging porch of her ramshackle house in 1981, clutching a box of cassette tapes she’d been keeping in his car.

The bad news was, the hazel flecks swimming in his eyes weren’t a memory glitch, nor was her recollection that they were more gold than brown. He’d lost theOutsidershaircut, the ripped jeans, the earring,andthe charmingly chipped tooth. He even smelled different, his cologne effortless and expensive, hinting at a sophistication he hadn’t had before.

The fantastically cute boy had become a devastatingly handsome man, one who was likely out of her league.

Maybe he’d been out of her league back then too, and she just hadn’t known it. Crazy to think it had been years since they’d talked, when a day apart had once felt excruciating.

Flustered by his unwavering stare, Lainey gestured toward the bar. “That looks like Ransom’s work. I heard he’s a furniture maker now. Do you remember the elaborate bench he made for the church—the one that collapsed the second Reverend Delmar sat on it?”

Justin’s gaze lingered before shifting, a threadbare smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Ransom’s doing this sustainable harvest venture, milling the lumber himself. The bar’s reclaimed oak from that abandoned cotton mill outside town. The one Campbell inherited from his mother.”

“Sustainable harvesting,” she murmured, lifting the plastic cup she hadn’t realized she was still holding to her lips. The True boys—Justin, Campbell, Dallas, and Ransom—had all been her friends at one time. One of them so much more.

Her mind buzzed with things she wanted to say, but she didn’t have the courage. Not with the air sparking like it had before, back when she’d hadeveryreason to share her secrets.

“It’s empty.”

She frowned, caught up in memories. “What?”

With a bemused smile, Justin took her cup and navigated through the crowd, tipping his head in acknowledgment to comments, shaking off one enthusiastic back slap. He paused by a painting she was certain was his, shook his head, then traced his finger down a bold crimson stroke, his expression pensive.

She wished that touch to canvas hadn’t sent a shiver through her.

At the bar, he flipped his jacket aside, shoved a hand deep into the pocket of his slacks, and bounced onto his toes—a restless habit she remembered. Back then, the pockets had been worn denim, often with holes at the knee or in the seat. He still had an amazing body: long and lean, now with an added layer of what looked like solid muscle.

On his return, he held her gaze—steady, unperturbed—and handed her a drink as if nothing were out of the ordinary, as if they’d shared even a single conversation in the last thirteen years.

She marveled at his poise, when she felt as raw and exposed as she had at seventeen.

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