For Twice In My Life
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Synopsis
A second try at love becomes more than one woman bargained for in this delightfully funny and romantic new novel from the author of The Rehearsals.
Can one little lie lead to a big second chance?
Layla’s chaotic life transformed when she met Ian Barnett. Ambitious, committed, and thoughtful, Ian has been everything she'd dreamed of, and she knows he'd say the same of her. So when he breaks up with her out of the blue, Layla is stunned. What went wrong?
But then, Layla gets a call from the local hospital. Ian's had a biking accident. He's okay, but he needs someone—his someone—to get him home safely. As it becomes clear Ian doesn't remember he ended things, it also becomes clear that the accident has given him a new outlook on life . . . and Layla a second chance to get things right.
That is, until Ian’s younger brother comes to town. Matt is restless, unpredictable, and threatens to upset the careful balance Layla and Ian have rebuilt. As things get more complicated both at home and at work, Layla realizes she might lose her chance at real love—and real happiness—if she doesn’t come clean about the stories she's been telling: to Ian, to Matt, to her family, and most importantly, to herself.
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Print pages: 320
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For Twice In My Life
Annette Christie
There is a perverse pleasure in being able to pinpoint exactly where you’ve gone wrong in life. To take a failed moment and place it on your memory’s mantel, to be examined only in your darkest hours: On Sunday afternoons when the rain is coming down and you can’t stop listening to Sinatra sing “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning” or in the middle of the night when insomnia is your only friend and, frankly, he’s a bit of a dick. Or, perhaps, when you are on the verge of making another grave mistake and you aren’t sure you can stop yourself.
At least, that was Layla Rockford’s experience. And right now, her apartment was one big reminder of everything she’d lost. Of him. She dreaded being there as potently as she craved its hidey-hole comforts. And yet that was where she was headed, if she ever made it off this stretch of crowded Seattle sidewalk, because these days, when work was over, there weren’t a lot of other options. She couldn’t bear being at a restaurant surrounded by couples. Or being at a bar surrounded by couples. Even Sunday dinner at her parents’ house meant being surrounded by couples, which was why she’d opted out for the past two weeks.
She sped up, the wool pants she’d chosen that morning making her legs itch. In their original glory, they’d had a satin lining. She’d seen the remnants of the shimmery pink fabric when she bought them at her go-to vintage store in Belltown, and she’d vowed to replace the lining herself. It hadn’t happened yet. She silently swore she’d tear the pants off and throw them in the back of her closet as soon as she made it home.
Layla dodged a teenage couple making out under the awning of a coffee shop, and her heart hiccupped.
Thinking about Ian was like pressing on a bruise. A dull, familiar pain washed over her.
She sidestepped a man in a suit traveling by on a Segway and turned to watch his ponytail flap behind him. Ian had been keeping track of their Segway Man sightings. If he were here, he would’ve looked at her, a twinkle in his eye, and mouthed, Twelve. She could picture it: his single, playful dimple flickering as he smiled, his blond hair ruffling in the coastal breeze. Layla would’ve reminded him that when they got to twenty, they’d agreed to go on a Seattle Segway tour themselves, and Ian, laughing, would’ve protested that he’d never agreed to those terms, and she’d have reached for his hand…
She didn’t know why she was still counting. The number didn’t matter anymore.
Layla finally arrived at her apartment building—fifteen stories of brick stacked up to the overcast sky. She sighed, used her key card to buzz through the main entrance, and rode the elevator (which made just a little too much noise for comfort but not quite enough for her to track down the super) up to the eighth floor, avoiding her own eyes in the elevator’s mirror. She got off on her floor, unlocked the door of her studio apartment, and heaved an even greater sigh.
It was a space her best friend, Pearl Kaes, referred to as the Museum—or had back when Layla dusted and vacuumed regularly. And not just because it was clean but because everything in it was carefully curated and placed just so. Ian had helped Layla make sure of that.
To give the impression there was some separation between the bedroom area, the living-room area, and the kitchen, Layla put up lovely antique dividers Ian had gamely helped her carry home from a flea market—dividers that were currently closed and leaning against the far wall so Layla could watch TV from her bed more easily. Ian had also suggested hanging her large mirror with the art deco frame by the stub-wall galley kitchen to create the illusion of space where, quite frankly, there was none. It also caught the light from the lone kitchen window. It’d been a great idea.
These days, the mirror was covered in multicolored Post-It notes emblazoned with self-affirmations. And the Museum looked like it’d been looted—clothes were strewn over every piece of furniture; her mail had become a small mountain, overwhelming the entry table carefully placed by the door; the coffee table was currently host to a peanut butter jar with a spoon sticking out of it and a Nutella jar with a spoon sticking out of it (and a jar of raspberry jam, for which, regrettably, she’d had to move on to the forks).
First things first. Layla pulled the vinyl copy of Ella Fitzgerald’s greatest hits out of its sleeve and was about to lower the record player’s needle when her phone rang. Seeing Mom on the caller ID triggered a familiar wash of conflicting emotions. Layla swiveled the needle back to its resting place and put the call on speaker. She flung her purse and then herself, facedown, onto her bed and tried to shimmy out of the offending pants despite the awkward position.
“Hey,” Layla said, turning her head to the side so her voice wouldn’t be muffled by her rumpled sheets. She attempted to sound perkier than she felt.
“There’s my girl!” No matter how often Layla spoke to her mom, Rena always greeted her as though they had just been reunited after some dramatic tragedy. It was one of the best things about Rena. But today her mom’s enthusiasm sounded forced. Layla’s familiar guilt complex engaged.
Layla’s orange tabby cat, Deano Martini Rockford, emerged from the kitchen, hopped onto the bed, purring, and parked himself on her butt. Perfect. The pants stayed on. She’d adopted Deano after moving out of her parents’ place (for the second time), because living alone had been surprisingly lonely, and when she’d seen him on the local shelter’s website, he’d seemed surprisingly lonely too.
How could she have known that behind his big, soulful eyes lurked a manipulative misanthrope who demanded love on unpredictable terms?
“How was your day, Mom?” Layla finally managed. “You mentoring the next Jerry Lee Lewis?”
Rena was a part-time piano teacher, a saint of a woman who could listen to the atonal plunkings of children all day and still put her arm around their little shoulders and tell them they were coming along. She’d tried to teach Layla when she was little, but Layla didn’t have the patience to practice. She preferred to tap-dance around the piano making up lyrics to the songs her mom played.
“I hope not,” Rena said. “You know as well as I do that Jerry Lee Lewis was a pervert.”
Layla let out a surprised laugh, a bit strangled by the constant tightness in her throat. Deano, irritated by this disruption, let out a disgruntled meow and hopped off Layla. Somehow he managed to sound like a lifelong smoker whenever he was displeased. He glared at her from his new place on the floor beside the bed.
“You okay, honey?” The concern in her mother’s voice, so familiar to her—and so upsetting because it was so familiar—sharpened the ache in Layla’s chest.
With Deano off her back, Layla successfully shimmied out of her wool pants. Without getting off the bed, she grabbed a pair of nearby sweats with her toe, bent her knee, and flung them onto the bed where she could better reach them. Under Deano’s disdainful eye, she slid them on.
“Mm-hmm,” Layla replied, not trusting her mouth to open without letting an embarrassing sob escape. Desperate to change the subject, she said, “That guy came into the theater again.”
“Which guy?” Was it her imagination or did Rena sound a bit distracted?
“The one who drinks at Mowery’s every day—”
“But sometimes chooses the wrong door,” Rena supplied. “Oh, dear. What did he walk into?”
Layla worked for Northwest End, a sleeper theater company in downtown Seattle. Northwest had been chugging along for ages with a small but loyal following, one killer review away from really breaking into Seattle’s bustling art scene. Or one bad review away from shutting off the lights, although no one wanted to think about that. Layla’s job title was technically office administrator, but most days she thought of herself as the human fire extinguisher. Usually the fires were figurative—except at last year’s cast party, when an actor decided to show everyone how flammable powdered coffee creamer was. The answer? Very. Powdered coffee creamer was very flammable. Luckily, Layla was in charge of getting the theater’s actual fire extinguishers checked every year and knew exactly where they were.
“We were striking a set,” Layla said. “And as the fake walls were being carried out, the guy came in and started yelling, ‘What the hell happened to the bar?’”
Rena chuckled softly. Appreciating that her mom really was her best—and, right now, only—audience, Layla sat up and continued. “It took me ten minutes to convince him to head next door.”
“I’m sure he was relieved when he made it.” There was a pause and muffled conversation. “Your dad wants me to ask you how Deano is.”
“Same as always. Tell Dad Deano misses him.” Layla’s smile faltered, despite her unending appreciation of how obsessed her cat and her dad were with each other, as the effort of pretending to be okay wore her down.
As though Rena could hear it happen, she asked, “How are you really? You’ve missed the last two family dinners.”
The words caught in the lump in her throat as Layla lied, “I’m sorry, there’s just been so much going on.”
The truth was, she just couldn’t go. Not when that meant being squashed at a table with her four siblings and their four partners. Not when that meant fielding insensitive questions about why Ian had ended things (for the thousandth time, she didn’t know why). And not when that meant letting her parents see how miserable she was, which would make them worry about her “unstable behavior” all over again. So Layla had opted out. She’d opted to stay home, drink something called Chardon-Yay! straight from the bottle, and hang out with her grumpy cat instead.
“Well, we miss you.” Rena persisted: “Can I volunteer at Northwest End and ease things that way? Or maybe you need some help paying bills, just for now?”
Shame blazed Layla’s cheeks. Financial trouble was a ghost that would forever haunt her. She picked at her flaking nail polish and mouthed, Can you believe this? to Deano. He could not.
But also. Thanks to the Sunday Chardon-Yay!, she had indeed done a teensy bit of online shopping.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, kicking two boxes of recently purchased go-go boots and a hatbox containing a 1940s fascinator under her bed. “Work’s fine, my finances are fine, it’s all fine.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“I should go feed Deano,” Layla said at last, looking at her cat, who yowled in response. He barely knew his own name, but the darn creature was well acquainted with the words food, feed, and, more bafflingly, frangipane (this one thanks to The Great British Bake Off). If he didn’t get some kibble within seconds of hearing any of those F-words, he had a fit.
“You’ll be at Sunday dinner, right? You’re not going to miss it three weeks in a row, are you?”
“I’ll be there,” Layla said, already flipping through the reasonable excuses she’d use once the time came.
Rena issued an audible sigh of relief. “I’m so glad. Have a good week, honey. We’ll talk soon.”
“Yep. You too.” Layla summoned enough energy to return to the record player and start Ella’s crooning, then meandered the short distance to the kitchen. She filled Deano’s bowl and began opening cabinets at random, pretending to decide what to make herself for dinner but knowing full well she’d resort to one of the frozen pizzas with Paul Newman’s face on the box—even on cardboard, the man knew he had beautiful Joanne. Smug in-love bastard.
Dodging Deano on the way to the fridge, she tripped over a teal-green velvet slingback he’d apparently pulled out of her closet.
And just like that, she tumbled into the memory of the night her life had gone from black-and-white to Technicolor.
Layla had first laid eyes on Ian Barnett while wearing that very shoe at Winston and Tux, a chic rooftop bar overlooking South Lake Union. After noticing Ian—tall, blond, handsome, smiling Ian—Pearl had dared Layla to pick him up without saying a single word. But Layla had only just moved back out of her parents’ house in Bellevue, had only just upgraded her financial situation, going from the horrors of credit card debt to the quieter, creeping dread of just student-loan debt—and her heart still felt too bruised for something romantic. She was about to remind Pearl she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend when two guys, dangerously close to the balcony’s edge, started shoving each other, punctuating every push with monosyllables like “Bro,” “S’up,” and a high-pitched “You want this? A piece of this?”
“Maybe we should get out of here,” Pearl suggested, shifting gears. She was bored by even the scent of toxic alpha conflict.
Layla wasn’t interested in witnessing any barbarism either. But in that moment, her feet, which were encased in the 1960s teal-green velvet slingbacks she loved so much, were stuck to the spot. She couldn’t look away from Pearl’s tall stranger, who had unexpectedly stepped in to gently push the bros apart.
In the glow of the globe string lights scalloped overhead, she saw that his carefully parted hair was more of a sandy blond than a blond blond. She saw that his jaw was so sculpted it might’ve been formed in the palm of Zeus himself.
In addition to his Instagram good looks, she was struck by his demeanor—the way he took control, speaking with authority until the bros looked sufficiently chastened. When the handsome stranger finally turned away from them, his eyes met Layla’s. Her debt, her worries, her fresh start—suddenly none of it mattered. Layla knew this was fate.
Pearl settled back into her seat. “Go get him,” she whispered.
Layla dug around in her purse and found the pen she’d accidentally stolen the last time she’d been at the bank. As though in a trance, she grabbed a semi-soggy cardboard coaster off their table and scrawled, Thanks for saving us from a bro fight—you’re a hero, followed by her phone number. She strode over to him, as sexy and smooth as she’d ever been in her entire twenty-six years of existence, and slipped the coaster into his hands with one gentle squeeze. Then she turned and walked away.
It felt as though the room had stilled, the rowdy crowd parting to let her return to her table with grace. Reaching Pearl, Layla released the breath she’d been holding and let her smile fall just enough so she could hiss, “Let’s go before I pee my pants.” Pearl had laughed, delighted and proud, and grabbed their purses.
Ian called the following day and asked her to go to Bite of Seattle, the summer food festival. If she’d been intrigued at the bar, she was fully smitten at the festival. It was overwhelmingly crowded, and he’d offered to hold her hand early on so they didn’t lose each other. Her palm tingled when her skin met his. He was everything all her exes hadn’t been: considerate, attentive, kind. She felt safe with him.
They’d had almost two precious years together. But two weeks ago, it all came screeching to a halt. They’d gone to a tiny Italian bistro to have Layla’s favorite dinner: dessert. Layla should have known there was something wrong. Ian barely touched the tiramisu and only dabbed his spoon in the gelato. Normally he’d check his work e-mail whenever there was a lull in their conversation—he worked in finance, and his clients were relentless—but he didn’t once look at his phone. He didn’t seem to look at anything at all. He’s having an off night, she remembered reasoning. Who doesn’t have off nights?
But when she pulled up to his building and parked in one of the guest spots in the tree-shaded lot, he’d turned to her, grave. Instead of grinning and asking her to come up the way he always did, he simply said, “I love you, Layla. I’ve loved being with you.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes and down over his late-night stubble. “But we’ve been trying for so long to make our schedules work and we still barely see each other. My hours are endless, and yours are erratic. Doesn’t it feel like we’re trying too hard? That it shouldn’t be this hard?”
She was embarrassed to remember how her chin had trembled—at least a three on the Richter scale—when she replied, “You’re breaking up with me because you don’t see me enough? So now you don’t want to see me at all? That doesn’t make any sense.”
He’d apologized, he’d agreed, but he hadn’t changed his mind. He climbed out of her car, settled the seat belt carefully, and said so softly she could almost convince herself later she’d made it up: “What am I doing?” Then he shut the car door.
In the absolute quiet he left behind, she became breathless and speechless, and here she was, two weeks later, still both.
Layla picked up the green slingback. She considered throwing it out the window. She considered finding the other shoe, lovingly wrapping the pair in tissue, and donating them to a secondhand shop. She considered taking a photograph of it and posting it online as a beacon for the one who got away.
In the end, she carefully put it back in her closet.
Chapter Two
Clipboard in hand, Layla stepped over the extension cords blocking the door to Northwest End’s dank basement. It was once again time to do inventory for concessions. Not her favorite task. Not that she had a lot of favorite tasks these days. Although she was employed by a crackerjack theater that had a reputation for taking risks with classics and for being experimental as well as relatable, work was…work. At least she got to hang out in a historic—if dilapidated—building with coworkers she loved. Still, she’d be keener to throw herself into her job if she could do something that was actually creative and not just a series of tedious, Sisyphean chores.
“I come in peace,” she called, hoping to placate any ghosts lurking among the bottled sodas and king-size candy bars.
She flicked on the weak lights but knew she’d still have to use the flashlight on her phone to see the stuff at the back of the shelves. When she pulled the phone out, she saw Rena had texted: Lasagna or chicken for Sunday dinner? Reflexively, Layla winced, knowing the subtext: You’re still coming, right? You’re not disappearing again?
There was also a message on their family text chain, which Rhiannon, Layla’s oldest sibling, had named “Rockford Peaches.” Layla kept that chain on mute since, with seven people, it could get rowdy. The indicator was currently at forty-two unread messages. Layla simply did not have the emotional reserves to click on it and catch up.
After a few deep breaths to collect herself, Layla returned to the banal task at hand: counting the snacks.
“Layla!” a voice hollered. “Are you down there?”
Layla could see a backlit figure at the top of the stairs: Manjit, the theater’s artistic director. Since Layla reported to Charlene, the general manager, having Manjit look for her was unusual. Layla flicked off the lights and jogged back up the stairs.
“Hey, Manjit. What’s up?” Layla forced a smile. Pretending to be cheerful with her boss, with her mother, with everyone she encountered during her day, was exhausting.
Manjit was dressed impeccably, as usual, in a perfect skirt suit with just the right creative bursts of color. Layla had to stop herself from smoothing down her own loud orange 1960s minidress with white daisies for pockets. She mentally debated whether she’d achieved the Carnaby Street glam look she’d been going for. Next to her boss, she felt a bit like a kid on her first day of kindergarten. Fashion was full of fine lines.
Manjit scooched herself and Layla out of the way just as a pack of crew members juggling tools streamed by. She pushed her dark wavy hair out of her face and grimaced at the sound of a piece of the set hitting the stage. “Some of the items for the silent auction have fallen through.”
“For tonight?”
Manjit nodded grimly. “Charlene’s already begging for favors from nearby hotels and spas. Any chance you and Pearl can go charm our friends down the street?”
Manjit didn’t need to ask twice. Layla loved browsing the neighboring shops.
Pearl was waiting for her by the lobby doors holding Layla’s red mod raincoat and her own sleek black one. Her thick dark hair, which she’d inherited from her stunning Chinese-Filipino mom, was tinted blue-black these days, and it spilled over her shoulders and honeydew-colored crop top. Pearl, too, put fashion above finance. That was part of the reason why they’d become instant friends when they met at the UW School of Drama ten years ago. Layla knew Pearl’s fashion risks were not only an expression of who she was but also a way for her to stand out in her family, where her twin brothers soaked up most of the attention.
Layla knew how that felt.
“Ready to blow this Popsicle stand?” Pearl shook Layla’s red coat at her.
“Goodbye, ghosts,” Layla called. The comment was for Pearl’s benefit, proof Layla could still be facetious and light, that she was okay.
The weather had turned ugly; a gale-force wind propelled Layla and Pearl forward as soon as they hit the pavement. Layla didn’t even need to pull up her hood—the wind slapped it onto the back of her head. Rain hit her freckled skin from what felt like every direction.
“Are we sure there isn’t a tornado warning?” Layla asked, wishing she could be at home in bed. She remembered snippets of last night’s dream: She and Ian had been back at the rooftop bar and she’d asked him, “How’s this going to end?” Instead of answering, he’d smiled, his sexy dimple on full display, and then leaned in to press his lips against hers…
Pearl yanked her sleeve. Layla hadn’t even realized she’d stopped walking.
“Suck it up, buttercup,” Pearl said. “This isn’t a tornado, this is—”
“A Tuesday in Seattle?” Layla supplied.
Pearl gave her a puzzled look. “Pookie, it’s Friday. Get your head in the game.”
They made their way to the cozy wine market half a block down. Every store in Northwest’s neighborhood was older, all of them cared for by their owners like longtime friends, maintained with fresh coats of colorful paint. Layla and Pearl asked the owner, Toni, for a wine donation; she stepped into the back to choose some bottles, and they settled in to browse as they waited for her to return.
Running her fingers along a shelf of rosé, Pearl surprised Layla: “Sometimes I’m so tired of dating, I wish I could just fall in love with one of my roommates and be done with it.”
Pearl wasn’t usually so cynical. “Which roommate would you choose, though?” Layla ticked people off on her fingers, trying to lighten the mood. “The guy who makes his own cheese and then doesn’t clean the kitchen afterward? Or the one who keeps trying to convince you to call him King Snake?”
“Nickname guy thankfully moved out. He’s subletting his room.” Pearl dropped her hand and coyly turned to admire the whites. “Or rather, his curtained-off section of the loft.”
There was something she wasn’t saying. “Pearl,” Layla pressed. “Who moved in?”
Pearl shrugged. “Just some sculptor named Devin who may or may not resemble Elliot Page.”
“So, basically your type.”
“One hundred percent my type,” Pearl confirmed, whirling back with a grin. “You should come over and meet him. Someone needs to drink all my tequila and perform every Shakespeare monologue we can remember from college.”
“I’ll come by soon,” Layla promised her, wanting to mean it. She loved the loft. In fact, she’d lived there for years, from her college days to…the days she’d rather not think about. The last time she’d been by, and, yes, gotten drunk and performed Viola’s monologue from Twelfth Night (terribly, it was worth noting), was just before Ian broke up with her. She’d been so happy then, so tipsy and carefree. God, she missed being tipsy and carefree. These days she managed to achieve only half that equation.
“Please tell me that sad little look on your face isn’t because of someone whose name rhymes with Schmian Shmarnett.” Pearl narrowed her eyes.
“I…” But Layla had nowhere to go with that sentence. Because thoughts of him clung to her like a shadow. She missed the way he towered over her. How he always pulled her to his chest when he greeted her. She missed the way he laughed at her jokes, like when she admitted she thought flavored club soda tasted like millennial disappointment. She missed splitting appetizers at Purple Café and Wine Bar and how he’d work beside her while she watched Cary Grant movies and how it didn’t matter that he wasn’t watching her favorite films because she could feel the warmth of his body next to hers.
“I’m so sorry,” Pearl said, frowning. “Breakups are the worst. The only way over them is through them. And that means excavating nine hundred layers of crap.”
“Yeah,” Layla agreed idly. She was achingly aware of how tiresome it was to be around someone who was perpetually moping, but she didn’t know how to pull herself together.
“And I realize”—Pearl continued gently. . .
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