What We Remember

PRAISE FOR SARAH ECHAVARRE Three More Months “This is a heart-wrenching novel about family and love, with a wide range of well-developed characters. Readers who enjoy novels by Jessica Strawser or Barbara O’Neal will need a box of tissues for this one.” —Booklist (starred review) “Readers will laugh and cry . . .” —Library Journal “Sarah Echavarre’s debut women’s fiction is a moving story about second chances and the precious time we have with loved ones. This was a page-turner, immersive, and all-consuming, and the perfect book to pick up this holiday season. Three More Months is a must-read.” —Tif Marcelo, USA Today bestselling author of In a Book Club Far Away OTHER BOOKS BY SARAH ECHAVARRE Three More Months This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2023 by Sarah Smith All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542032650 ISBN-10: 1542032652 Cover design by Amanda Kain For Chuck, Josh, and Beth. Love you guys. Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Acknowledgments About the Author Chapter One I shouldn’t be here. Parking my car in this lot, working at this hospital, wearing this name tag that says, ISABEL MYLES, INTERFAITH CHAPLAIN. It’s all wrong, and not just because I’m hungover. When I step out of my car, a wave of nausea hits, and I fall back into my seat. With my head against the steering wheel, I deep-breathe for a few seconds, then try standing again. I don’t fall or vomit. Yay. Then I walk through the parking lot and cross the street to the entrance of the hospital. Despite the headache that’s waging war on my skull like a tiny, out-of-control orchestra, I nod politely to the always-smiling elderly greeter who stands just inside the all-glass entrance of this twenty-story medical center. I pump a dollop of hand sanitizer in my hands as I pass by reception; then I stop by the water fountain and fill up my bottle. When I don’t spew chunks on the white-tile floor, I silently applaud myself. What was I thinking? You thought a bit of liquid courage would give you the strength to do something you haven’t done in more than two years. Shame blankets me like a slow-moving cloud. Bingo. Two years and two months. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve gone to a social gathering. But last night, I honestly thought I’d give it a go. Because Keely Kingston asked me to. Keely. Just the thought of her name makes my skin burn with regret. She was such a good friend—my best friend. And last night, she sent me a string of text messages. It was her birthday. I totally forgot. I guess that’s not unexpected, given she and I haven’t spoken, seen each other, or exchanged texts in more than two years. So when her name popped up on my phone, I froze. Even through my pounding headache, I recall each of her messages. Remember how you’d always call me on the morning of my birthday every year and sing “Happy Birthday” to me totally off-key? It was my favorite part of the day. I know you won’t text me back. And that’s okay. I just wanted to say that I miss you. Okay, there’s one more thing . . . If by some miracle you want to come out tonight and see me, I’ll be at the Grey Plume with some people from work. You’re welcome to come. I hope you do. As I stood in my kitchen reading her string of texts, emotions landed square in the middle of my chest. It was weird. She wasn’t the only one I’d been ignoring for more than two years. By now, friends don’t really reach out anymore. I think they realized when I stopped going out and stopped answering their calls and texts, it was a quiet sign that I wasn’t interested in socializing anymore. So last night when my phone dinged with text message after text message from Keely, I was jolted. Because I could feel the tenderness in her typed words. And the pain. The pleading. After all this time, after what I did, she still cared about me and wanted to see me. And so I made the decision to do something I never, ever thought I’d do again: socialize with a group of people. It was a daunting-as-hell prospect after spending so many evenings after work alone in my house. So I opted for some liquid courage. I thought it would be easy enough—have a few drinks to loosen me up, take a rideshare to the Grey Plume, say hi to Keely, then go home. But I’m not much of a drinker. I never was. Why didn’t I remember that? After downing almost an entire bottle of wine, I passed out on the couch. And then I woke up, my stomach in fiery knots, my head pounding. I could barely open my eyes when I started retching. After vomiting the contents of my stomach into my hallway bathroom, I checked the time. It was just past 4:00 a.m. I’d missed Keely’s party. A heavy sigh rockets from me when I make it to the elevator bank in the middle