The moment I saw him, my world had tilted.And the terrifying part wasn't that Ryder Gonzales had found me. It was that a part of me had wanted him to.
But when his eyes met mine across that crowded bookstore, the noise, the lights, the laughter. All of it collapsed into a hum I couldn't breathe through.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do.
I ran.
Not literally, not yet. I smiled, nodded, and pretended that nothing inside me was trembling. My fingers moved on autopilot. Signing, smiling, thanking, repeating. The last few readers blurred together into polite faces and polite words, and the room seemed to grow smaller with every turn of the page.
"Thank you for coming," I said to the final reader, sliding her book back before the words even reached my mind.
When the last person left, I stood up too quickly, almost knocking my pen cup over. My heart was still hammering from that look. His look. That wordless, knowing recognition. I turned to the manager before he could say anything.
"I'll email you about next week's signing," I said, forcing steadiness into my voice.
He blinked at me, surprised. "Leaving already?"
"Long day."
I didn't wait for his reply.
I slipped through the side door, past the shelves of discounted classics, and out into the parking lot. The sun had already dipped low, spilling gold across the pavement. I could still feel his gaze in my bones, how still he'd been, how quiet. Like he'd been waiting.
I drove back to my hotel with my fingers gripping the steering wheel too tightly. My reflection in the rearview mirror looked calm, but inside, I was every bit the sixteen-year-old girl again—writing about the boy she couldn't forget and never daring to believe he might read her words.
By the next morning, I had convinced myself it didn't matter.That seeing him was just the universe playing some cruel joke.
The next signing was in Portland. A quieter city than New York, tucked beneath a drizzle that seemed to last all year. I told myself the gray skies would help me reset. The bookstore there was smaller, lined with old brick and ivy climbing up the sides. It felt like the kind of place where stories went to rest.
"Ready for another full house?" my publicist, Lila, teased as she handed me my favorite pen.
Lila is one of my best friends. Sharp suits, confident heels, and espresso-colored curls that framed her face in effortless waves. She had an energy that could light up a room and disarm anyone who doubted her. Her lipstick was always perfect, her tone always balanced between warmth and command.
I smiled faintly. "As ready as I'll ever be."
She gave me a look. "You sure you're okay? You've been… distracted."
"I'm fine," I lied.
Back in high-school, I was the opposite of Lila. But now, I'm more confident. So if I slipped back into my shell from high-school, she'd know something was wrong.
The signing began easily enough. The crowd was warm, friendly. Someone brought me coffee. Another fan handed me a bouquet of small white daisies, wrapped in crinkled brown paper. For a while, it felt almost normal.
But then that feeling returned—the same quiet shift in the air I'd felt last week. A prickle down my spine, subtle but certain. I tried to brush it off, focusing on the book in front of me.
"To Melissa," I murmured, signing my name.
When I looked up, I froze.
He was standing three people away in line.
Ryder.
Wearing a dark jacket, the same kind of calm patience on his face that used to drive me insane in high school. The line moved forward slowly, but I couldn't stop glancing up, half-hoping he'd disappear again, half-terrified that he wouldn't.
My hand shook once, just once, before I steadied it. The reader in front of him was talking about her favorite scene, something about the ending, but her voice had turned to static. All I could hear was the pulse in my ears.
I nodded at her, smiled mechanically, and scrawled a signature that barely resembled my name.
Then it was his turn.
He stepped up to the table, book in hand. For a moment, neither of us said anything.
Up close, the years between us melted and sharpened all at once. His jawline was stronger now, his expression quieter. His green eyes still had that steady, impossible focus—the kind that made you forget how to breathe.
"Hi," he said softly.
Just that.
A single word, too familiar and too foreign all at once.
I swallowed hard. "Hi."
He set his copy of The Truth Between Lines on the table between us, fingers brushing the edge. I noticed the faint callouses on his hands, the kind that come from work, from life. From living in a world I hadn't been part of.
Before I could ask the name and pretend that I didn't know him, he spoke.
"You're a hard person to find, Amelia." His voice was low, the trace of a smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth.
"I didn't know you were looking," I said before I could stop myself.
He tilted his head slightly. "You didn't make it easy."
The sound of a camera shutter snapped nearby. Fans were waiting, whispering, pretending not to eavesdrop. I forced myself to keep my expression calm, my professional smile barely holding.
"You want it signed?" I asked quietly.
He raised an eyebrow. "You tell me. Should I ask the author, or the girl who wrote about me?"
My pen stilled. The room felt too bright, too warm.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, even though we both knew the truth was sitting right there between us, printed in ink and bound in gold.
He didn't argue. He just watched me for a long, quiet moment, his eyes searching mine like he could still read everything I wasn't saying.
"Sure," he said finally. "Make it out to Ryder. For old time's sake."
My throat felt dry. I signed the name, my handwriting unsteady. To Ryder—thank you for finding the words I couldn't say.
When I handed it back, our fingers brushed—briefly, but enough to pull me back into the memory of every almost-touch from years ago.
He didn't move to leave right away. His gaze lingered, softer now. "You really thought I wouldn't recognize myself, didn't you?"
The words hit like a confession and an accusation all at once.
Before I could answer, someone called my name, another reader, another smile waiting to be worn.
Ryder's lips curved faintly. "See you around, Amelia."
And then he walked away.
I tried to focus, to return to the safety of scripted smiles and signatures, but my heartbeat had its own rhythm. Every thud whispering he's back, he knows, and this time, you can't run forever.