For Twice In My Life

Table of Contents
 
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Copyright
 Dedication
 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
 Chapter Twenty-Seven
 Chapter Twenty-Eight
 Chapter Twenty-Nine
 Chapter Thirty
 Chapter Thirty-One
 Chapter Thirty-Two
 Chapter Thirty-Three
 Chapter Thirty-Four
 Discover More
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Also by Annette Christie
 
 
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 Table of Contents
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
 Copyright © 2023 by Annette Christie
 Cover design by Kirin Diemont
 Cover art by Gatty Images
 Cover © 2023 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
 Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
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 ISBN 9780316451239
 E3-202212121-NF-DA-ORI
 
 
 
 
 
 
 For my mom, who has always given me
 a safe place to land
 And for my dad, who reminds me that
 “good things happen too”
 
 
 
 
 
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 Chapter One
 
 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