Autorentext

Emily Giffin

Klappentext

**NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • In the wake of tragedy, a group of friends makes a pact that will cause them to reunite a decade later and embark upon a life-changing adventure together—from the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Meant to Be.

“Juicy, page-turning escapism.”—The New York Times**

Four freshmen arrive at college from completely different worlds: Lainey, a California party girl with a flair for drama; Tyson, a brilliant scholar and aspiring lawyer from Washington, D.C.; Summer, an ambitious, recruited athlete from the Midwest; and Hannah, a mild-mannered southerner who is content to quietly round out the circle of big personalities. Soon after arriving on campus, they strike up a conversation in their shared dorm, and the seeds of friendship are planted.

As their college years fly by, their bond intensifies and the four become inseparable. But as graduation nears, their lives are forever changed after a desperate act leads to tragic consequences. Stunned and heartbroken, they make a pact, promising to always be there for one another, no matter how separated they may become by circumstances or distance.

Ten years later, Hannah is anticipating what should be one of the happiest moments of her life when everything is suddenly turned upside down. Calling on her closest friends, it soon becomes clear that they are all facing their own crossroads. True to their promise, they agree to take a time out from lives headed in wrong directions and embark on a shared journey of self-discovery, forgiveness, and acceptance.

In this tender portrayal of grief, love, and hope, Emily Giffin asks: When things fall apart, who will be at our sides, helping us pick up the pieces?

Leseprobe
**Chapter 1

Hannah**

It started with a small chip in my nail polish. Working in an interior design firm, I spent most of my days either moving furniture or hauling fabric, paint, and rug samples around town, so a chipped nail was hardly a rarity or anything I fussed over. But when a client called last-­minute to cancel our four o’clock Friday meeting, I decided I might as well squeeze in a quick manicure before I went home to get ready for the double date. Grady and I were going on with another couple. 

On my way to the nail salon, I swung by Grady’s house to pick up my favorite bottle of OPI polish—­Mimosas for Mr. & Mrs.—­which I’d left in his bathroom. Per my mother’s wishes not to “cohabitate,” I was waiting to officially move in with him until after the wedding. It was a waste of money, and a bit inconvenient, but there was something about the decision that felt romantic, too.

As I pulled into the driveway, I took a moment to admire the satisfying symmetry of the small but stately brick Georgian that Grady had just bought with a chunk of his trust fund. He called it our “starter home,” but I couldn’t imagine we would ever outgrow it. I especially loved the huge old magnolia in the front yard. One high, sturdy branch was perfect for a swing.

I parked my car in the driveway, walked up the front path, and used my key to unlock the front door. As I stepped into the foyer, I heard the low thrum of music coming from upstairs. Grady was still at work—­I’d just called him—­so I assumed he’d left his Alexa on. Midway up the flight of stairs, I could make out Coldplay’s “Yellow.” Then, a couple of steps later, I heard the faint sound of moaning. Female moaning. I stopped in my tracks and held my breath, telling myself there was no way. There must be a benign explanation. Maybe Grady had left the television on this morning, along with his music. Maybe he had blown off work, too, and was indulging in a little Friday afternoon porn. It wasn’t my favorite thought, but with Grady’s sex drive, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. That had to be it, I thought, deciding to abort my nail polish mission and save us both the needless embarrassment.

Yet the smallest kernel of paranoia lingered, propelling me down the hall and toward the bedroom door. It was only open a crack, but it was wide enough for me to peer inside and see a naked woman mounted on my naked fiancé, expertly riding him. They looked like a couple in a movie. . . . The scene was that airbrushed and golden, right down to the way the late afternoon sun streamed through the window and her long blond hair flowed down her tanned hourglass back. There was even a soundtrack, Chris Martin serenading them. And it was all yellow.

I stared in horror, my mind working overtime, wondering if she was a high-­end call girl performing some sort of hazing ceremony—­a bachelor-­party ritual. But as the two fluidly changed positions, I had a hunch it wasn’t their first time. And then, in another gut punch, I recognized her. Grady was having sex with Berlin Beverly, a young Instagram influencer whom I happened to follow, as did about seventy-­five thousand other people.

Berlin’s page was curated pastel perfection filled with artfully arranged images of balloon bouquets and fine china tablescapes and expansive floral arrangements. Mostly, though, Berlin’s feed was full of Berlin, sashaying all over Atlanta—­that is, when she wasn’t posing and preening aboard luxury yachts and private jets. To say she was smug is an understatement, but she had always seemed harmless, her clichéd captions punctuated with hearts, butterflies, and clinking champagne flutes. 

Several excruciating seconds ticked by as I watched them, wondering how this could be happening. Of course, I knew how in the literal sense. I knew that Grady had lied about being at work. I knew he must have parked his Porsche in the garage rather than in his usual spot in the driveway. I knew that Berlin lived two streets over, close enough to walk, which she must have done, as there was no sign of her Portofino blue Range Rover. I knew they had climbed the stairs, removed their clothes, and gotten in the upholstered bed that I’d bought with my designer discount.

How, though, was this actually happening?

I waited for the rage to kick in, knowing that I was supposed to follow the script of a woman scorned. Pull an Elin Nordegren and smash something. Curse at them. At the very least, interrupt their imminent orgasms. But I couldn’t make myself move, feeling paralyzed with an irrational feeling of shame. It was almost as if I was the one doing something wrong, and I might, at any second, get busted by them. Instead, I made my escape, slowly backing away, then running downstairs and out the front door.

...

I must have been on autopilot because I don’t remember driving home or parking my car in the garage or taking the elevator up to my apartment. Somehow, though, I now find myself in my foyer, collapsed on the floor. As the shock starts to wear off, I break into a cold sweat. I feel nauseous and dizzy. Like I might vomit or faint. 

I sit up, put my head between my knees, and take deep breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth. At some point, I manage to lift my head and find my phone in my tote bag. I check my messages, a small part of me expecting to find a full confession from Grady. Instead, there is only a one-­line text from him, letting me know that he’ll pick me up at seven.

I close my eyes, wondering if Berlin is still in his bed. I picture the satisfied way he always looks after sex. His faint smirk.

I text back that I don’t feel well and need to cancel. It’s the truth. I have never lied to Grady. I stupidly add that I’m sorry. 
…