Love How You Love Me

Love How You Love Me Boys of Riverside Gracie Graham Copyright © 2023 by Gracie Graham All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [include publisher/author contact info]. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Book Cover by Amanda Walker Design First edition 2023 To all of the readers who read Love the Way You Lie and reached out, expressing how much they loved it. YOU are the reason I write. So, thank you! Writing is a hard and solitary endeavor, and though I love it, in times of doubt, I look back on your kind words and they fuel me. This book is for you. I only hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. And if you aren't ready to say goodbye to the Boys of Riverside yet, don't worry. There's more to come . . . Contents 1. Chapter 1 2. Chapter 2 3. Chapter 3 4. Chapter 4 5. Chapter 5 6. Chapter 6 7. Chapter 7 8. Chapter 8 9. Chapter 9 10. Chapter 10 11. Chapter 11 12. Chapter 12 13. Chapter 13 14. Chapter 14 15. Chapter 15 16. Chapter 16 17. Chapter 17 18. Chapter 18 19. Chapter 19 20. Chapter 20 21. Chapter 21 22. Chapter 22 23. Chapter 23 24. Chapter 24 25. Chapter 25 26. Chapter 26 27. Chapter 27 28. Chapter 28 29. Chapter 29 30. Chapter 30 31. Chapter 31 32. Chapter 32 33. Chapter 33 34. Chapter 34 35. Chapter 35 36. Chapter 36 37. Chapter 37 38. Chapter 38 39. Chapter 39 Become VIP About Gracie Acknowledgements Chapter 1 MACKENZIE You know what’s harder than grieving the dead? Being angry with them. I crouch down in front of the slab of granite, the green grass beneath my feet spongy from the recent rain. My mother’s name is carved into the dark stone, along with her birth date and the date of her death, but that’s not what draws my attention. I stare at the cluster of white hydrangeas with a frown. I’ve been coming here once a week since I recovered my memory, trying to find some semblance of peace among my conflicted emotions, and each week, I find fresh flowers. I have no idea who’s bringing them. It’s not my father—I asked—which leads me to believe they’re from Anthony Mancetti, her former lover. The thought spurs to life the anger hibernating inside me. Like a beast, it rises on its hind legs inside my chest, stretching out and filling me up. I have so many questions for her, but no way to get answers, which leaves behind a kind of despair and frustration I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I think about the weeks and months following the accident often. How I cried for days, wishing I had died in her place. I’d been driving, yet I lived while she didn’t. I missed her desperately, and every time I stared into my father’s eyes and saw a hint of his own grief, I hated myself for putting it there. There was no end to my self-loathing, the depth of my despair cavernous. But now . . . I can’t erase the things I’ve learned. Like the fact that had my mother remained faithful in her marriage, none of us would’ve been there that day. The car crash never would have happened. I stand back up, straightening as I stare down at her grave, wishing I could remember her how I used to. As the mom who played with me at the lake in the summer. The one who took me to the park and bought me ice cream. The woman who stood in line for hours at the fair so I could ride all of the attractions one more time. She taught me how to color inside the lines, brush my teeth, and comb my hair. She taught me how to love myself so that I could love others. I miss her desperately. But in death she also taught me things. She educated me on the art of deception. Of how to be distrustful and to never take things at face value—that things aren’t always as they seem. Most of all, she taught me how to question love. A breeze ruffles my hair, rustling the fall foliage in the nearby trees when a hint of spice—cinnamon and cardamom—and cedar drifts toward me. A scent I’d know anywhere. I lift my head in time to catch sight of Atlas cresting the hill. He pauses when he sees me, and at the same time my gaze drifts to the cluster of white hydrangeas in his hands. My mouth parts as I take a step back. Several seconds pass before I find my voice. “It’s you who’s been bringing her flowers?” I ask, my tone ripe with disbelief. “Mackenzie . . .” He steps forward, eyes pleading with me to stay, because now, nearly every time I see him, I run. But I no longer listen to liars. “Don’t.” I hold an arm out to stop him as I take a step back. “Would you please just talk to me? Hear me out?” “You have no right to be here,” I say, even though it’s a ridiculous statement—no one has rights to the dead—but it feels so wrong seeing him here, knowing he’s been visiting her. I take another step back as he takes one forward, and it becomes clear to me I’m the one that needs to leave. I spin on my heel, ignoring the sadness in his eyes and the way my name sounds on his lips