What Might Have Been - Softcover

Miller, Holly

 
9780593085615: What Might Have Been
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593085612 ISBN 13: 9780593085615
Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

The Two Lives of Lydia Bird meets This Time Next Year in a sliding-doors style romance and coming-to-self story about fate, chance, and the choices we make.

What if “meant to be” happened twice?

Lucy is at a crossroads. The same night she quits her thankless job she meets Caleb, a local photographer in her seaside town, and has a run-in with Max—the once love of her life. As Lucy decides the right path forward—finally pursue her dream of becoming a writer, or move to London and revive her career—her choice will change her life in unimaginable ways.
 
Stay. After a decade of trying to run from her dream, Lucy is finally facing her fears and putting pen to page. With her budding romance with handsome, artistic Caleb, she has more inspiration now than ever. But can Lucy and Caleb open themselves up after their past heartbreaks? And will their different paths take them to the same place?
 
Go. Lucy can’t believe her luck when a room in her best friend’s London house share opens up and she lands a job at the prestigious Supernova. It gives her the courage to face Max, who’s serendipitous encounter still has her reeling, and ask what really happened almost a decade ago? But does she really want to know, when being together feels like fate?
 
In concurrent storylines that track what would have happened if Lucy chose to Stay or Go, What Might Have Been is a sweeping story that poses the questions: is it destiny or chance that decides who we are meant to be, and who we are meant to love? And is there such a thing as a soul mate?

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Holly Miller works as a copywriter and lives in Norfolk, England. The Sight of You was her American debut.
 

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

One

"You did what?"

I pause next to the pub's chalkboard craft beer menu, phone pressed to my ear. "I quit," I repeat. "Just now. I mean, ten minutes ago."

"You handed in your notice?"

"More like . . . stormed out."

My sister yogic-breathes for a couple of seconds. "Wow. Okay . . ."

"I couldn't take it anymore, Tash. It was one time too many."

I picture her nodding, trying her best to understand.

"Something will turn up," I say, with a confidence I definitely don't feel.

"Let me guess: the universe has got your back?"

I manage a smile, but it wobbles a bit. "Here's hoping."

The bus back to Tash's isn't due for an hour, so I've taken cover in The Smugglers with a Virgin Mary. I stay sitting at the bar after my drink comes. The Smugglers is something of a Shoreley institution: it's the first place I ever got served, heard live music, met boys who werenÕt school friends.

I'm starting to feel conscious of just staring into space, so I tap absent-mindedly into the horoscope app on my phone. Checking my horoscope has become my latest guilty pleasure, like watching trashy TV, or eating crumpets in bed. The kind of thing you'd never admit to in front of someone you fancied. But it is slightly addictive. A bit like playing the lottery. Maybe this time . . .

I read today's prediction, and my heart does a little tap dance through my chest.

Today will see you head off on a new career path. If you're single, this could also be the day you bump into your soulmate.

And then, as if in slow motion, it happens. As I'm lifting a hand to catch the barman's attention for another, the person next to me gets up, letting someone new slide in. "Pint of Guinness please, mate."

The barman hesitates, then glances at me. My new companion turns, and our eyes meet.

"Ah, sorry." He smiles broadly, the friendliest apology ever. "Didn't see you there."

It's the oddest thing: I feel as though I know him. That we have met before. But I can't place my finger on when, or how.

He's the type of good-looking favored by knitwear adverts-all dark stubble and ruffled hair and dewy eyes. His expression as he looks at me-amused and intense all at once-combined with the sweet haze of his aftershave, makes me draw breath.

"Hi. No. You go," I say.

"What are you having?"

"Oh, you really don't need to-"

"No, I insist."

"Well. A Virgin Mary, then. Thank you."

To his credit and my relief, he doesn't attempt to tack a vodka shot onto my order, or crack a lame joke about pubs traditionally being for boozing in.

When the drinks arrive, he glances around the room, then shrugs and stays where he is on the stool next to me. "Do you mind? It's packed tonight." He raises his glass to mine. "I'm Caleb, by the way."

I don't recognize the name.

"Lucy." I smooth back my beachy mess of hair, wishing I'd at least thought to glance into a mirror before storming out of the office earlier. It's super-stuffy in here, swarming with bodies between the thick walls and low ceiling, and I suspect it's only a matter of time before I start wilting in the warmth.

I imagine Tash face-palming at this, despairing at my unkempt mane, my crumpled dress. I've always thought of my sister as the slightly more polished version of me: she has three extra inches on my average height, hair a shade or two blonder, skin with a few more lumens' worth of gleam. Still, Caleb seems relaxed, like he probably doesn't care too much about smooth hair, or lumens, which is just as well.

"I remember when this was a proper spit-and-sawdust place," he's saying, sipping from his pint, his gaze alighting on the dazzling wall of gin bottles behind the bar. "Now it's all craft ales and signature cocktails and wood-fired pizzas."

"And perfectly staged Instagram posts."

"And ridiculous bar snacks." He slides a bowl across the bar toward me. "Wasabi pea?"

I laugh and shake my head, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest. "I'm more of a Scampi Fries kind of girl."

Smiling, he raises a fist and we bump knuckles, his hand dwarfing mine.

"So, you're local?" I ask, wondering if I might be able to find out whether we know each other, somehow.

He nods. "You?"

I nod back.

"This your Friday-night haunt?"

"Not exactly." I hesitate, but then the words start spilling into the space between us. "I actually . . . just quit my job."

His eyes widen. "Wow. Okay. So you're in here . . . drowning your sorrows?"

"No. I mean, it was a good thing, quitting. A point of principle."

"Well, then, congratulations." He lifts his glass, and then-for just a millisecond-we are looking right into each other's eyes. I feel my breath flex in my chest, a spread of warmth across my skin. "Good for you."

"Thank you," I manage, and then-possibly to distract either him or me from my fluster, which must surely be visible-I say, "So, how about you-are you gainfully employed?"

He nods. "I'm a photographer."

"Really? For a living?"

He laughs. "Believe it or not, we do exist."

"Sorry," I say, mortified. "I just meant . . . there are a lot of people who dream of doing that, so . . . I'm impressed."

He smiles and nods a thank-you. "Well, you're free now . . . so what do you dream of doing?"

I hesitate. I could tell him-I've always really wanted to write a novel-but that would turn me into the kind of person people try to escape at parties. "Actually, I'm not sure yet."

"What did you do before you quit?" He's swiveled round on his stool to face me now, his eyes attentive and bright.

"I worked for an ad agency."

He sips from his pint, eyebrows elevated. "We have those in Shoreley?"

I laugh. "Just the one, actually. We liked to think of ourselves as small but mighty."

"And you quit because . . . ?"

I hesitate, and just as I'm thinking of the best way to explain it, I freeze.

No. It can't be.

I blink rapidly, trying to make out if what I'm seeing is real.

Because, from out of nowhere, on the section of street visible from where I'm sitting, I spot the last person on earth I'd have expected to see.

Halfway across the window, he's paused to look at something on his phone. As I watch on in shock, I feel my heart start to beat a little faster.

It's definitely him.

Max. Max Gardner.

"Excuse me," I murmur, pushing back my stool with a scrape, so hard it almost falls over. I abandon Caleb and my drink, elbowing my way through the crowd and finally out onto the street. The coldness of the air after the warmth of the pub draws a gasp from my mouth that feels like my heart leaping to my throat.

"Max" is all I say.

He looks up, and I take him in-black woolen coat, pinstriped suit, same gleam to his gaze, same sharp jawline, no trace of aging on his handsome face. Tall, fair, gravitas just standing still. Briefly, he is motionless. The moment has cast its spell.

I rummage in my stomach for my voice. "Hi."

He smiles gently, steps toward me. "Oh my God. It's really you. Hi."


Two

We air-kiss, which is ridiculous, because Max and I used to laugh at people who did that, and then stand back to take each other in. For the second time tonight, I curse the fact I'm looking decidedly less than sharp, that particular kind of frazzled you become when you've had way too much on your mind.

Max and I aren't connected on social media, and like any good lawyer, he keeps his Facebook and Instagram private. I've never been able to bring myself to friend or follow him, but I do check his Linked-
In from time to time. It never changes: Real Estate Litigation Lawyer at Heyford West White, or HWW if...

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Verlag
G.P. Putnam's Sons
Erscheinungsdatum
2022
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593085612
ISBN 13 
9780593085615
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
356
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Buchpark GmbH
gpsr@buchpark.de

Krügerweg 1
Trebbin
Brandenburg
14959
Deutschland

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