The Life We Almost Had

by Amelia Henley

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A beautiful and emotional love story that asks, how far would you go for a second chance at first love?
This is not a typical love story, but it's our love story. Anna wasn't looking for love when Adam swept her off her feet but there was no denying their connection, and she believed they would be together forever. Years later, cracks have appeared in their relationship. Anna is questioning whether their love can really be eternal when a cruel twist of fate delivers a crushing blow, and Anna and Adam are completely lost to one another. Now, Anna needs Adam more than ever, but the way back to him has life-changing consequences. Is a second chance at first love really worth the sacrifice? Anna needs to decide and time is running out…

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Seven years before

The date I met Adam is forever etched onto my mind; it should have been my wedding day. I tucked my hair behind my ears; rather than being strewn with confetti, it was greasy and limp. Unwashed and unloved.

The plane taxied down the runway before it rose sharply into the sky, a frothy white tail in its wake. Out of the window was nothing but cloud, as thick and woolly as my thoughts. Each time I remembered the way I’d been dumped, virtually at the altar, my face burned with the shame of it.

Goodbye.

I wasn’t sure if I was saying farewell to England or to the man who had broken my heart.

Fingers threaded through mine and squeezed. Tears threatened to fall as I gazed down at my ringless hand. Ridiculously, one of the things that had excited me most about my honeymoon had been the anticipation of the sun tanning my skin around the plain gold band I’d chosen. Knowing that even if I removed my jewelry to go into the sea, the thin, pale strip of skin circling the second finger of my left hand would act as a clear indicator that I was married.

That I was loved.

“Stop thinking about him.” Nell clicked open her seatbelt as the safety light went out, and signaled to the cabin crew for a drink. I smoothed out the creases in my floaty linen dress and it struck me I was wearing white. Miserably I fiddled with the neckline, not embroidered with tiny pearls that shimmered from cream to lilac to pink under the lights, like the dress I had picked out. It was hard not to cry again remembering the perfectness of that day. Mum covering her mouth with both hands when I glided out of the changing rooms and twirled in front of the many mirrors. Everywhere I looked I had beamed back at myself.

“That’s the one,” Mum had whispered like we were in a church, not a bridal shop, but I didn’t need her to tell me that. I knew it was the one.

It was such a shame he wasn’t the one.

“It won’t always hurt this much,” Nell said; not that she’d know. She was usually the one breaking hearts; hers was still intact. “You’ve had a lucky escape. He wasn’t good enough for you. Besides, twenty-four is too young to be married. This isn’t the 1950s.”

“If it were the 1950s, I’d have been married years ago and popped out a couple of kids by now.” My throat swelled at the thought. I might have been young but I couldn’t wait to be a mother. Would I ever have children? I’d thought my future was mapped out, but now all I had was doubts and fears and a mountain of wedding gifts to return.

“I can’t see you slicking on lipstick and tying a ribbon in your hair five minutes before your husband gets home. And that’s after a day cleaning windows with vinegar and beating carpets.”

“I know who I’d like to beat,” I muttered darkly.

“I’ll drink to that.” She flashed a smile. “And from now on, the only vinegar will be on the chips he told you that you shouldn’t eat.”

“He was worried about my health.”

“Bollocks was he. He was worried you’d realize you’re a normal-sized, goddess of a woman and leave him for somebody who didn’t keep calling you chubby. Anyway, let’s not give him a second thought. I’m ready to get this party started—”

“Nell—”

“I know, I know.” She caught sight of my expression. “This isn’t what you wanted. I’m not the one who should be here and you’ve no chance of joining the mile-high club now—”

“Nell—”

“But. You can either spend the next ten days crying by the pool or try and make the best of it. I know you loved him, Anna—”

“Nell Stevens.” Her concerned eyes met mine and I knew she was worried she’d pushed it too far. “I just want to say… thank you. Not just for persuading me to come but… for all of it.” Nell had dropped everything when I had called her at work, sobbing uncontrollably two weeks before my big day. She had kept me stocked up on vodka and ice cream while she phoned around the guests, explaining it was me who had had a change of heart. It was Nell who had talked me out of confronting Sonia Skelton when the rumors about her and my fiancé surfaced, and her who confiscated my phone at night so I couldn’t drunk-text the cheating scumbag at 3 a.m. She allowed me to retain some dignity, on the outside at least. Humiliation still stung each time I thought of him, and I thought of him often, but oddly my feelings around him were tangled in a mass of embarrassment and regret, underpinned with a slow, simmering anger. I’d wasted three years of my life. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it was him I actually missed or the idea of him. If you have to ask yourself “is it love,” it probably isn’t, is it?

Our foreheads touched and again her fingers entwined with mine. There was no need for words until our drinks were delivered. Nell dived on the miniature bottles with a “woo hoo.”

“You’ve a lot to be grateful for.” She unscrewed the gin and fizzed tonic into my glass.

“Alcohol?”

“That goes without saying. But the travel agent didn’t have to let you change the name on the ticket. Now you’ve got someone to rub sun cream on your back without expecting to get laid, and someone to hold your hair back when too much Sex on the Beach makes you sick.”

“I’m not going to have sex on the beach or anywhere else… Oh.” I realized she was talking about the cocktail.

“You never know. We might meet two nice boys.”

“No boys.” I swigged my drink, bubbles tickling my nose. “No boys ever again.”

I raised my glass, arm hovering in the air until she raised hers.

“This will be the adventure of a lifetime,” she said, and we clinked. She turned out to be right.

But rather than flying away from something, I was flying toward something.

Toward him. To Adam.

I just didn’t know it then.

By the time the coach dropped us off at our hotel on the Spanish island of Alircia, it was nearly midnight but I still called Mum to let her know I’d arrived; she’d only worry otherwise.

“We’re here.” I tried to keep the sadness out of my voice but Mum heard it anyway.

“It’ll get easier, Anna,” she said, but I knew being alone hadn’t got easier for her. “Better with no one than the wrong one.”

“I know.” I did know. I’d accepted his proposal for myriad reasons: because of what I’d been through, was yet to go through, but none of them the right reason. The only reason.

Love.

I told Mum I’d speak to her soon. Nell and me hovered near the pots of exotic plants and flowers, waiting for the driver to empty the luggage hold; Nell plucked a bright pink bougainvillea and tucked it into my hair.

“It’s so beautiful here,” she exclaimed, but I barely registered the fairy lights twisted around the thick trunks of the palm trees that circled the pool. We wheeled our suitcases toward reception to check in. I was hot and exhausted. The gin I’d drunk earlier had left a residue on my tongue. A throbbing in my temples.

“Check this out!” Nell, typically, had abandoned her luggage and was sauntering into the bar. “Nightcap?”

“I’m shattered.” I was struggling with her case and mine. “I just want a shower and my bed.”

“Spoilsport.” She said it lightly but I felt a pang of guilt. I knew she’d used all her annual leave this year and had taken this time off unpaid to support me. The least I could do was let her have a drink.

“I suppose because it’s all-inclusive it would be rude not to,” I said.

I stayed with our things, stifling a yawn and hoping Nell would order us shots as she sashayed to the bar. Instead of something we could knock back quickly, she returned with two glasses brimming with orange liquid and stuffed with pink parasols, cocktail sticks spearing glacé cherries.

“I asked for something fun,” she shouted over Madonna, who was “True Blue.” What was it with Spain and their fascination with English Eighties music?

I took a sip. “Jesus. We’ll sleep well after these.”

“You think? I can only taste the orange. You’re such a lightweight. Hey, one o’clock.”

“God, is it? No wonder I’m so tired.”

“No. Look. At one o’clock.” Nell jerked her head to her left. “He’s checking you out.” I couldn’t help but look and when I did, I felt… I don’t know, a sense of déjà vu. Familiarity. He was tall, dark and awkward, sipping beer from a plastic cup, and alone. He seemed to be alone. He caught my eye and smiled. I turned away.

“No boys, remember?” I said to Nell.

“I’ve you listed as being on your honeymoon?” the young receptionist with jet-black hair and bright white teeth asked.

“Yes.” Nell peered at his name tag. “Miguel.” She draped an arm around my shoulders. “If we could have our key. My wife and I are eager to go to bed.”

Pretending we were married was preferable to going into why I wasn’t and Nell knew I did have that terribly British urge to constantly explain myself, but the emotions that surfaced when I heard myself described as someone’s wife zapped the last of my energy. All of a sudden it all caught up with me. The journey, the alcohol, my lack of sleep. My vision darkened and my ears began to buzz. Wishing I could sit, I rested my head on Nell’s shoulder, lulled by the tap-tap-tap of Miguel’s keyboard as he checked us in, words drifting in and out of reach… breakfast… sun loungers… excursions.

“Let’s go, darling.” Nell dropped a kiss atop of my head. Simultaneously I straightened my neck and wiped my mouth for traces of drool before I thanked Miguel and forced my feet to move. I could feel eyes burning into my back as we headed outside where the air was still warm and chirruping crickets welcomed us to their island.

The music grew fainter as we searched for our accommodation, using the scant light from the screens of our phones to make out the numbers on the whitewashed walls. Inflatable swans and flamingos rested on balconies, a signpost to the apartments with kids in them. Towels and swimwear dangled from retractable washing lines.

Stars speckled the sky and through the blackness, to our right, the sound of the waves lapping against an unseen shore. The warm air smelled of the beach.

“This is us,” Nell said. She unlocked the door and flicked on the lights. “Oh God. I’m sorry, Anna.”

I pushed past her, wanting to see what she saw. A “Just Married” banner was strung across the lounge, rose petals scattered on the floor. On the coffee table, a bottle of champagne and two flutes.

I was a bride without her husband. I began to cry.

“Excuse me,” a voice behind me said and I spun around, wiping my eyes.

It was the boy from the bar.

Adam. It was Adam.

It was four days into the holiday and if I’m honest I was feeling pretty lonely. Josh had met a girl on day one and was spending much of his time massaging sun cream into her curves. She had a friend who smiled hopefully each time I caught her eye. She seemed nice enough, but holiday romances weren’t really my bag.

“She’s offering it on a plate,” Josh had said.

But I needed some sort of connection. It all seemed so shallow otherwise.

“Worse than a bloody woman.” Josh checked his pocket for condoms again. As agreed, I vacated the room, heading toward the bar. I’d hardly spent any time with Josh since we arrived—this was supposed to be our last mates’ holiday before I launched myself into my new life—but I didn’t mind. Generally, I liked my own company.

I was bored now though. I took another swig of beer—my fifth pint. It may be free but I had to drink twice as much as I did at home to get a slight buzz. The music was loud but that was okay, I didn’t have anyone to talk to; besides, I was a bit of a sucker for the Eighties—another thing Josh ribbed me about. If we’d met as adults I sometimes wondered if we’d have been friends at all, but Josh had been there for me during that awful time nine years ago and I don’t know who I’d be without him. Where I’d be. Despite his “don’t give a shit” exterior, he was steadfast in his loyalty and like a brother to me, albeit sometimes an annoying brother. I was wondering whether to call it a night, whether he’d finished hogging our apartment, when I saw her.

You know sometimes all the light in a room seems to attach to one person and they shine brighter than anyone else? That was her. Everything blurred into the background. I took in the cascade of thick, dark ringlets falling over her shoulders. Bright pink flower tucked behind her ear. Pale floaty dress skimming her ankles. She looked exactly like Star from The Lost Boys, one of my all-time favorite films.

Star.

And how she shimmered. My chest tightened. I waited to see who she was with, shoulders sagging with relief when I saw it was another girl.

Not that that meant she was necessarily single.

Not that I was looking, after my disastrous relationship with Roxanne had only finished a few months ago.

But still.

She sipped from a glass almost as large as a fish bowl, crammed full of cocktail umbrellas and fruit on sticks. She had a sense of humor then.

I smiled at her. She turned away but that was okay. I still had ten days left to get to know her.

And I somehow I just knew that I would.

The crowd had thinned by the time she left. The entertainment finished. The bar felt even emptier without her. Colder. Scrunching up my plastic cup, I tossed it into the recycling bin as I left. She was standing in reception with her friend, their backs to me, checking in. It suddenly seemed vital that I asked what time I needed to vacate my room in ten days, so I hovered behind her and yeah, I admit it, I breathed in deeply. Even then I was in rapture. Two words pulled me back to reality.

Honeymoon suite?

“If we could have our key. My wife and I are eager to go to bed,” the one with short blonde hair said. Star rested her head on her wife’s shoulder and I felt my own shoulders slump. The flower slid out of her hair, fluttering unnoticed onto the floor and I couldn’t help scooping it up. When she left reception, I watched her go. It felt she was taking a piece of me with her.

Yeah, I know how that sounds. Did I mention that I was an incurable romantic?

I felt Miguel’s eyes on me while I clutched the flower sorrowfully between my fingers.

Or an incurable loser.

I wasn’t exactly following her, I promise. I was many things back then but a stalker wasn’t one of them. As luck would have it, her apartment was pretty much opposite mine and Josh’s. Identical, except ours had the giant pink inflatable flamingo Josh had bought on the first day, almost blocking our front door. I was still holding her flower and I wanted to give it back to her. I knew she had a wife, but I hoped that we could be friends. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was about her I found so interesting but there was… something.

“Excuse me,” I called, approaching her. It wasn’t until she turned that I realized she was crying. My eyes flickered toward the “Just Married” banner hanging in their room, the champagne bottle on the table, before resting back on hers again.

“Sorry…” I was painfully embarrassed I’d interrupted such an emotional moment. What a dick move. The happiest day of her life and some weirdo was holding out a flower while idiotically standing in front of a bush sprouting at least thirty identical magenta blooms. “You dropped this.”

She turned and ran inside while her friend—her wife—gave me a look so withering I expected the plants to shrivel and die. I pretty much wanted to join them.

I sloped back to my own apartment. Inside, a red lacy bra was draped over the sofa and there were noises coming from the bedroom I definitely didn’t want to be hearing. My head was pounding. I swiped a bottle of water from the fridge and headed straight back out. Through the window of Star’s apartment, I could see the girls shadowed in the lamplight, hugging each other tightly. Something tugged at my heart. It wasn’t long ago that I’d held Roxanne in my arms but better empty arms than the wrong person in them. Besides, Roxanne was in somebody else’s arms now. Somebody else’s bed.

Bypassing the beach all the tourists use, I strode purposefully until I reached a tiny cove I’d stumbled across the first evening Josh had been “entertaining.” It wasn’t too far but unreachable by road, and without parking, toilets and refreshments, hardly anyone came here. It was my favorite place.

I settled on the damp sand, the night breeze springing gooseflesh on my arms. I wished I had someone to share warmth with and not in the way Josh was doing back at the apartment.

Something proper.

Instead of a bottle of champagne for two, I sipped from my lonely bottle of Evian for one, gazing at the creamy moon. A shooting star lit up the sky. I made a wish that I could talk properly to the girl who was already occupying too much head space.

Yeah, I was an incurable dreamer.

The next day my wish did come true, but the circumstances were awful.

Bloody awful.

On the first day of my honeymoon, I woke to darkness after a fitful sleep. Immediately I remembered that I hadn’t got married yesterday—the pain of being dumped two weeks before my wedding day. That it was Nell lying beside me in the creaky bed that rocked each time once of us moved. It was her floral perfume, rather than the smell of sex, clinging to the stiff, white sheets. Checking my phone screen, I was surprised to see it was gone eight. Automatically I opened Facebook. Wondering if my ex was regretting his decision. It was torturous visiting his profile page, but I couldn’t seem to help it. Multiple times a day.

“Unfriend the tosser,” Nell had said, but it was an addiction. A wound that would never heal because I was always picking at the scab, despite knowing that what lay underneath was raw and painful, and would hurt all over again.

He’d been tagged yesterday by Sonia in a photo of the two of them sprawled out on a picnic blanket. Rather than standing at the altar, ready to love me for better or worse, he’d chosen to sit in a field. Sandwiches and crisps formed an oval around a giant chocolate cake. I wondered how long it would be until he told her she should lay off the sweet stuff. Pinch her waist and sigh she’s getting chubby. I studied the picture. She had to be a size twelve—the same as me. I’d thought after all his barbed comments that it was my body that turned him off; it was almost worse seeing he’d gone for somebody the same shape as me. To know that it wasn’t the outer me he didn’t want, the thing I could change, but the inner me. The essence of who I was wasn’t enough for him. I wasn’t enough for him.

Best day ever!! Sonia had captioned her post. He had liked her comment but hadn’t written a reply. Had it really been his best day ever? Better than the day he proposed? That was over a picnic too. His signature move. Suddenly it all seemed so calculated. A message that I’m easily replaceable. Easily forgettable.

Bastard.

“Charming,” Nell muttered.

“Sorry, I hadn’t realized I’d said that out loud. You’re awake then?”

“God knows why. It’s the middle of the bloody night.”

“It’s quarter past eight.”

“Same thing.”

Bright sunlight burst into the room when I opened the shutters. Nell shrieked and yanked the duvet over her head. I had to blink several times before I could make out the clear blue sky.

“It’s going to be scorching,” I said.

“Too right.” Nell’s words were muffled. “And that’s just me in my bikini.”

The all-inclusive morning buffet was ridiculous. Nell and I had piled our plates with crispy bacon, thick maple syrup, waffles, eggs with runny yolks, crusty bread and sachets of orange marmalade, reassuring each other that we’d swim off the calories. Not that I could swim properly but walking in water was toning. Also there was a gym here. Yoga classes. Beach volleyball. I was going to be all kinds of active.

By midday I’d been star-fished on my towel for two hours. My dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre lay unopened next to me. I’d been intending to reread it this week before my students began it next year, but for once I had switched off from work, from home. From everything. The sand molded to my shape, cradling me in its warmth. The tender skin around my chest was beginning to sting. It took a gargantuan effort to lever myself onto my elbows. Nell was shrieking in the ocean. Jumping over crystal waves. Screeching at a boy named Josh to stop splashing her.

I became aware of eyes on me. Making a pantomime of adjusting my hat, tucking my hair in, I twisted my head left to right until I saw him. It was the boy from the bar. I prickled with embarrassment, recalling how I’d run away in tears last night when he had tried to give me back my flower. Instinctively, I sucked in my stomach while covering my pasty sausage legs with my towel. When I’d first suggested booking Alircia for a honeymoon, the idiot I had almost married told me I needed to lose at least a stone if I wanted to look half decent in the one-piece swimsuits he always said suited me better than bikinis.

I had tried.

Picking at salad while he tucked into steak and chips; sitting in the cinema, my lap empty, while he balanced a giant tub of buttery popcorn, the smell making me salivate. After I’d been dumped though, I’d stuffed myself with ice cream to cool my humiliation and I’d probably put on those few pounds I’d lost, and more. It hadn’t seemed important what I weighed. But now it did. Was the boy from the bar wondering why I was the only girl on the beach in a one-piece? Imagining that my body underneath was covered in boils? From behind the safety of my sunglasses, I stole another glance in his direction. Rather than staring at me with horror or disgust or even amusement, he wore an expression of something else. Admiration? Interest? There was no way I was up for a holiday romance, but still it gave me hope that my bruised and battered self-confidence might one day heal. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at me like that. The last time anyone had looked at me properly at all.

It hit me that my fiancé had long stopped loving me, if he ever had, and for the first time I felt I might have had a lucky escape.

With a start, I realized that I was staring and he knew that I was looking at him. I felt a gentle creep of heat that had nothing to do with the sun. A pull of attraction as he held me in his gaze. Wanting to wash away the sticky sun cream, the sand clinging to my skin, all the feelings I didn’t want to be feeling, I raced. . .