"Greyson attacked him?" Jo asks, as she places a chicken salad sandwich in front of a customer.

Chuck refuses to ever let Jo and I work the same section at the diner – something about us doing more gossiping than working – but one of the girls called out today and he has no choice, so we're both working the lunch shift behind the counter for the first time in weeks, and he's already scolded us several times.

"Well, not really. I mean, technically yes, but..." I swivel around Jo and grab a plate containing a patty melt and a mixed green salad, and a cup of chicken noodle soup from Chuck's hands and set them in front of Mrs. Waldie, my high school cheerleading coach who has long since retired. "I don't normally condone violence, but Will asked for it. He's good at reading people, so he knew exactly what to say to Greyson to get him to lose his cool, and unfortunately for Will, it worked."

"What did he say?"

"He called Greyson a loser and said he left baseball because he wasn't good enough to hang with everyone else. He called him a failure. All the things Greyson already thinks about himself. Then he said some things about me that I'd rather not repeat in public, and Greyson snapped." I refill Mrs. Waldie's sweet tea and give her a friendly smile, hoping to God she hasn't been paying attention to our conversation. "I think anyone would have."

Jo and I move around each other like a choreographed dance, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think we've been working at this diner together our whole lives.

"Was it scary?" she asks. She rests one hand on the metal shelf separating the kitchen from the dining room and cups her mouth with the other. "Paint a bow-wow red and burn one, take it through the garden and put a rose on it! Oh, and give it shoes!"

"The hell, Josette." Chuck sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose with his chubby fingers. "Just say you need a hot dog with ketchup and a burger with everything on it, to go! No one understands your diner lingo!"

She giggles and waves him off as she grabs more plates than I'll ever be able to carry, easily handing them off to eager and happy patrons. "I keep offering to give you lessons, Chuckie."

"Actually, it was kinda hot," I admit, answering Jo's question. "I didn't know I'd be so turned-on by the possessive, protector type." I shrug my shoulders and fill my cup with fountain water, taking a quick sip. "Is that weird?"

"Not at all." She stops in front of me and places her hands on my shoulders. "I read Mafia erotica. I know exactly what you mean."

I pile used silverware and dirty napkins onto empty plates and carry them into the kitchen, dropping them into the sink as I remember the way Greyson protected me in a way Will never would have. He put himself at risk when he threw the first punch, but he's repeated over and over to me that he doesn't regret a thing, and he'd do it again if the chance arose, because I'm his girl.

Just like he's my guy.

"Do you think Will is gonna press charges?" Jo asks, the minute I step back into the dining room.

"Honestly, I have no idea. Will's vindictive and his ego got bruised in more ways than one that night, but we're in the middle of a divorce, and he still has a job to do, working his usual cases and going to trial. Does he really want to take on an assault case? Plus, every house within a two-foot radius saw the way he grabbed me, multiple times, on their ring camera. He can try and claim Greyson was unprovoked, but the videos will say otherwise."

"Good." Jo rests her elbows on the counter, taking advantage of the first lull in customers we've had since Maribelle's opened. "What was it like seeing him?"

What was it like seeing my cheating ex-husband? Awkward. Irritating. A little upsetting, but not nearly as bad as I'd imagined it would be. Maddening that he not only had the nerve to show up out of nowhere, especially after the way he ended things, but also assumed I was going back to New York without us even having a conversation about it.

Mostly though, it was eye-opening. For so long, Will has been larger than life in my eyes. I've never known anyone like him, so how could he not be? He's powerful, not in the same way that Greyson is, but like someone who's grown up with money and a good name. He commands every room he walks into – be it large or small. His smile and the confident way in which he carries himself is enough to suck you right in. He's good with people – most people anyway. His boy-next-door, all-American looks catch the attention of most women, and he usually responds with innocent flirting, making young girls and elderly woman blush at his witty and playful compliments. He's unbelievably intelligent. It's almost scary how smart he is. When he speaks, he has this charming and endearing quality about him, almost making you wonder if he's being genuine, because no one is that charismatic, but in the end you don't care if he is. You're just happy that you're the one he's talking to.

But when I saw him standing on my porch, looking more worn and weathered than the pink Converse sneakers currently on my feet, he was just like the rest of us. Someone with problems, and difficulties, and drawbacks. Someone who isn't universally loved by all who meet them. Someone whose day doesn't end with beautiful women feeding them grapes while they fan themselves with stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills.

Someone normal.

"It was fine," I say. "It was kind of heart-breaking, actually. At first I was annoyed that he was there, acting like he hadn't done anything wrong and expecting me to hop in the car and leave with him, but then I saw the fear and the desperation in his eyes when he realized I was staying in South Grove, and I just felt sad. He wasn't there when I cleaned out my things from the house, or the nights I cried myself to sleep, or when I woke up in the hospital with no memory of how I got there, so he never saw me at my lowest. But he fell apart right in front of me and I...I kinda felt bad for him."

Jo huffs a laugh as she hoists a crate filled with clean drinking glasses out of the dishwasher and drops them onto the floor near the counter, placing them on their rightful hooks. "Of course, you did."

"What does that mean?"

"You're sweet, blondie. You've always been sweet, and the one to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but that's because you're the leading lady."

I wrinkle my brow in confusion and purse my lips. "What?"

"In the rom-com that's your life, you're the leading lady. As you should be."

"Jo, what are you talking about?"     

She places her hands on her hips and closes her eyes as she throws her head back, sighing. "God, you really need a moviecation."

"A what?"

"A moviecation." She stares at me dumbfounded as she waits for me to catch on. "A movie education. Geez, haven't you seen Pitch Perfect?"

"Pitch what?"

"Pitch...nevermind." She moves toward me, rubbing her hands together with a sincere smile on her face, but because I know her so well, I can see the wheels in her mind turning. "In one's life, they're either a leading lady, or a supporting actress. Dirty Dancing. When Harry Met Sally. Cruel Intentions. Pretty Woman. Beauty and the Beast. All movies about women who were sweet, and had good intentions, were a little too trusting, but also stood up for themselves when a man challenged them. You're either a leading lady or a supporting actress, and you, my dear friend, are a leading lady."

"If I'm a leading lady, what does that make you?" I ask. I grab Mrs. Waldie's empty plate and accept the twenty-dollar bill she's eagerly shoving into my hand, smiling as I quietly say, "Thank you."

"I'm a supporting actress. In both my life and yours, unfortunately." I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and glare at her, because that is simply not true, but she smiles feebly, like she's resigned to this fact, and gives me a small shrug of her tan shoulders. "I'm the best friend who has your back but puts you in your place when need be. The one who tells you when you're about to make a mistake, and tries to get you to change course, and tells you you're on your own when you don't do it her way yet shows up in the end and supports you anyway. I'm not the love of your life, but I am your soulmate."

"I don't believe in soulmates, brownie. You know that."

"I know, but if you did..." She slips behind me and moves toward the kitchen, but not before she places a wet, exaggerated kiss on my cheek. "I'd be yours."

I'm not trying to be stubborn when I say I don't believe in soulmates. I simply don't believe there is one person for everyone. I think there is a plethora of people out there, and if you're lucky, you find at least one of them to spend your life with. I've shared my heart with two people – two people who couldn't be more opposite – and even though I love Greyson with everything I have, I just don't believe that out of all the people in the world, our souls were meant to find each other. I think we just got lucky.

"Where did you and Will meet?" she asks.

"I've never told you?" She shakes her head and drops onto a stool, resting her chin on her hand and staring up at me like she's about to hear the greatest love story ever told. "He used to come into the restaurant where I worked. I had just turned twenty-one. He was in law school at the time and him and some of his buddies would come in a couple nights a week after class. One night he stayed after they left, and we got to talking. He asked me to dinner, dazzled me with his charm, and five Christmas' later we were engaged. Not one of your romantic comedy meet-cutes, but still sweet."

She folds her hands and tucks them under her chin and beams at me. If she were an emoji, she'd definitely be the one with hearts for eyes. "He proposed at Christmas?"

"Right in front of the big tree at Rockefeller Center."

"Oh, that's so romantic! It's just like a Hallmark movie!" she squeals and dances on her stool. "What was the wedding like?"

"It was..." I pause as I let my mind wander back to our wedding day. The décor. The flowered arbour our florist created from my imagination, filled with warm orange and cream-colored garden roses, deep burgundy dahlias, and dozens of purple calalillies. The music and the dancing. The incredible food that was catered by a chef friend of Will's mother. The company. The sun setting against the ocean as Will and walked under a bridge of handheld sparklers created by our guests. The warmth in my heart from the immense amount of love I had for everyone in my life. "Incredible. Will's parents paid for most of it, and it was in the Hamptons. So, I'm sure you can picture the extravagance."

"Your mom showed me some pictures. You were stunning."

"Thank you." I sit down next to her and place my elbows on the counter. "Besides the actual wedding, my favorite part of the day was my dress. It was Vera Wang. It was an ivory, strapless lace fit and flare gown with a sheer corset bodice, and it had these dimensional flower appliques all over it. I absolutely loved it."

She reaches over and places her hand on top of mine. "Sounds like it was the perfect day."

"It was." I turn my hand over and lace our fingers together. "The only thing missing was you. Standing up there next to me."

"Oh, don't you worry. I'll be at the next one."

"Let's not jump the gun, babe," I say, rolling my eyes good-humoredly. Although she's not wrong. She will absolutely be standing with me at my next wedding, if Greyson wants to get married that is, because I'll never get married again unless I'm becoming Mrs. Delaney McKinnie. "Do you remember all the things we talked about doing together when we were kids? Getting married. Having babies. Buying houses next door to each other."

"We were gonna marry the Jonas brothers."

"You with Nick, and me with Joe," I say, chuckling at the memory of how innocent and naïve twelve-year-old Delaney and Jo were.

"And Kevin would officiate."

Tears burn behind my eyes and my heart drops as the memories of the things Jo and I always planned to do flash through my mind like photographs in a video montage, because I'm the reason we didn't get to do them together. I left South Grove without saying goodbye to her and I never looked back, and because of that, we've lost so much time.

"We've missed so much in each other's lives, Jo. You gave birth without me there to hold your hand. I wasn't there to cuddle my niece right after she was born or change her diapers. I didn't get to see her walk for the first time or hear her first word. And I got married without you. It wasn't supposed to happen that way."

She wipes away the tear that's rolling down my cheek and cups my jaw. "Then let's make sure we don't miss anything else."

"Deal," I promise, pressing my cheek into her hand.

"Hey, what are you doing tonight? Wanna come over and have dinner with Hannah and I?"

"I'd love to, but I have a date," I say. Warmth radiates through me and blushes my cheeks as I think about the evening ahead. Greyson. A night in just him and I. Dinner and my favorite eighties movies. Me telling him that I love him, and that I want to be with him forever. Whiskey and wine, and our naked bodies finally coming together for the first time since we were eighteen – pun absolutely intended. "Greyson is making me dinner."

"Ugh, lucky," Jo whines. "You better lock this one down."

"That's the plan," I mumble to myself.

"So, now that Will is totally out of the picture are you and Greyson full-steam ahead?"

"We're still taking it slow." I lean toward her for a little privacy as I admit, "Too slow if you ask me, but yeah, we're both all in."

"Good, because if you're with Greyson that means you're staying in South Grove, and that makes me a very happy girl."

I smile, but it's not necessarily genuine, because I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet. I'd like to say the reason I'm still in South Grove is because I'm in love and being here has made me happier than I've been in years, and my mental state is healthy, but I think a large part of me is still here because no one in New York has offered me a job yet. If Cosmopolitan, or Glamour, or Nylon, or my God, Vogue, call me with a job offer, I can't say I'd turn any of them down.

"Wilde! James!" Chuck shouts from the kitchen. Jo and I immediately rise from our stools and start cleaning dirty plates from the counter, pretending like we haven't been caught relaxing on the clock. "This is why I don't let you two work the counter together!"

"Sorry, Chuck," we both sing-song, breaking out in a fit of giggles when we make eye contact.

I have some errands to run before my date with Greyson, so when three o'clock hits and my shift is over, I collect my tips and slide behind the wheel of my mom's SUV, turning the radio up when a station stops on "Locked Out of Heaven" by Bruno Mars. I sing along to the upbeat lyrics and tap my fingers against the steering wheel when the bridge hits, and I'm in such a good mood I almost expect a little bluebird to land on my shoulder and whistle a jovial tune like they do in Disney movies.

My mom asked me to stop by the market and pick up the roast beef she had the butcher prepare, and once I'm done there, I drive a few miles out of town to the closest Sephora. I've run out of my shampoo and conditioner – my highlighted hair will fall out if I use the drug store kind my mother prefers – and considering I'm in the blazing, North Carolina sun almost every day, I need a new bottle of the Clinique In-Shower body lotion I swear by. If not, my dry skin will start shedding like a snake.

As I make my way down the sidewalk toward my car, I see a nail salon that looks relatively empty. I still have a few days left of my manicure, but tonight is going to be a special night, and since it's going to be special, I decide to pop in the lingerie shop next door to the salon after my appointment. I have plenty of beautiful and sexy lingerie I could wear, but Greyson and I are starting fresh, and that requires lingerie that hasn't been worn for anyone else.

Plus, there has to be bad ju-ju for anyone that wears underwear for another man that was once used to seduce their ex, right?

I'm sure there are some people who think it's too soon for me to be in a new relationship, especially since I'm not legally divorced yet, but at the end of the day the only opinion that matters is mine and Greyson's. Is it soon? Yes, it is. Could I end up broken-hearted? Definitely. Am I scared? Hell yeah. But I won't hide from any of that, because the alternative of not living the rest of my life with him is even scarier.

And who's to say just because there was barely any lag time between relationships, things between Greyson and I won't work out? I did everything by what society considers the "right" way with Will. We met when I was twenty-one – after I'd given myself plenty of time to move on from my break-up with Greyson. We dated for five years before we moved in together, and after we got engaged, we waited eleven months to have our wedding day. I took my time. I got to know Will. I wanted to make sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. We did it by the book, and still, we separated anyway.

My relationship with Greyson isn't a conventional one. I know that. It's dramatic, and passionate, and tends to be a little messy. It's a whirlwind, and it's completely knocked me off my feet. But we have history. He's been a part of me in one way or another for the better part of my life. Even after we broke up and no longer spoke, not a day went by where I didn't think about him at least once. Where I didn't wonder if he was thinking about me too. Things may be moving fast, but he's not a stranger I picked up in a bar or met on a dating app.

He's Greyson. My Greyson.

My lines were perfectly straight with Will. I always knew what our day-to-day would look like – what to expect – but now my lines are all crooked and sort of...squiggly, and if I'm being honest, I kind of like it.

I park in the driveway and grab my bags from the passenger seat, and as I climb the front steps, a golden blur catches the corner of my eye. It's Hercules running toward Greyson's work truck that's parked on the street in front of the McKinnie's and lagging behind is Greyson, and when I see him, I can't stop the smile from bursting across my face.

"Greyson, hey!" I call out. "Don't get in your truck yet!"

He has his back to me, but when he turns around, a sound somewhere between a gasp and cough slips past my lips, and I stop dead in my tracks.

I've always loved Greyson's complexion and the way he looks like he has permanent windburn. His cheeks are constantly pink and flushed, his lips a cherry red, but today both are void of color. He's pale, almost ashen, and the surface of his skin is dewy with sweat. He looks like he's seen a ghost – like he's about to be sick right here on the sidewalk. His usual clear, bright eyes are bloodshot, and his thick black