Page 9 of My Best Years

The first four words I ever said to him.

Anytime I see a man with hair like this, I try to avoid their face. Because I know it won’t be him. It never is.

“Do you need help?” a low, baritone voice asks.

My spine tingles at that voice. It’s familiar in a way that I can’t pinpoint.

I slowly lift my eyes to greet the man with onyx hair.

And my heart stops.

It ceases to beat as all the air leaves my lungs. My throat swells, and suddenly, I feel like I can’t breathe.

His eyes widen at the same time mine do.

No.

There’s no way.

There’s no fucking way.

My eyes don’t know if they should look at his muscular arms, long legs, icy-blue eyes, or the freckle beneath his bottom lip. His jawline is sharper, his nose straighter, and his lips fuller.

Everything about him is differentbut the same.

I’m in a complete and utter state of shock. Callum Pierce is standing six feet away from me. In a grocery store. In Gulf Shores, Alabama.

The boy who stole my heart and never returned it is standing mere inches away from me.

Except he’s not a boy anymore. He’s not the eighteen-year-old kid that quickly became my first love. He’s a man now. A complete stranger that feels oddly familiar. A distant memory that doesn't seem real.

Callum’s dark hair is shorter on the sides and longer on the top. His curls wisp against his forehead, temples, and over the sides of his ears. Thick eyebrows frame his blue eyes, which used to remind me of the clear sky, but now, they remind me of the deep sea. He used to say that his nose was too big for his face, but it’s clear he’s grown into it with time.

Everything about his face is more perfect than I could ever remember.

His smooth, tan skin has faint freckles from the sun, freckles that he didn't have the last time I saw him. Faint lines frame the corners of his mouth and eyes, with one line etched between his brows.

God, he’s aged so beautifully.

And his lips.Christ, his lips.

When I was a love-sick teenager, if you had asked me what feature I adored most about Callum, I would have told you his lips. They’re full and smooth, and the top is perfectly proportioned to the bottom. Even when his lips are flat, he almost looks like he’s pouting.

I’ve dreamed about those lips. I’ve cried because of those lips.

I remember him being tall, but not this tall. He must be at least 6’2”. His shoulders are broad, and his legs are long and thin, like a swimmer’s. He’s dressed in casual clothes, a forestgreen T-shirt and jeans. A pair of black reading glasses are folded into the collar of his shirt, which is new to me. I don’t ever remember Callum wearing glasses.

But I haven’t seen him in over ten years. He’s older now, almost thirty. And eyesight is one of those things that can fail us as we age.

How are we almost thirty? How was it twenty-one years ago that I finally mustered up the courage to speak to the boy on the bus?

How have I been obsessing over this man for over half my life?

How is that fair?

“Birdie Wren,” he exhales, and my eyes snap up to meet his. Hearing my name fall from his lips—in this new, manly voice—has my chest constricting.

His tone is breathless, full of utter disbelief.