The Rebound Read online

  The Rebound

  Winter Renshaw

  Contents

  Copyright

  Important!

  A Gift For You

  Description

  Undedication

  Prologue

  Part One {The Past}

  1. That Beautiful Boy

  2. Don’t Jinx It

  3. Heartbreaker

  4. Don’t Get Too Caught Up

  5. We’re Forever, You and Me

  6. The Scholarship and The Girl

  7. I’m Scared

  8. The Bucket List

  9. Blue Eyed Babies

  10. Five Hundred Texts

  11. The New Kid

  12. Homecoming

  13. Why Would You Do That?

  14. And Now I Have To Kill Him

  15. It’s Called Improvising

  16. Together Again

  17. Keep Telling Yourself That

  18. I Can’t Breathe

  19. I Can Only Imagine

  20. Please Let Me Explain

  Part Two {The Present}

  21. A Benign Tumor on My Heart

  22. Oh, God

  23. Paper Covers Rock

  24. Too Late

  25. First Red Flag

  26. Do You Know Who That Is?

  27. A Soulless Shell

  28. It’s Worse Than I Thought

  29. I’m Not That Cruel

  30. He Wanted To Marry Me

  31. Don’t Think, Just Do

  32. Love Is the Root of All Pain

  33. Cruel and Heartless

  34. That Boy You Used to Date

  35. Just This Once

  36. Regrets

  37. Jealousy

  38. I Don’t Know What This Means

  39. That’s Not an Invitation

  40. There’s Nothing More to Say

  41. Last Night’s Dream

  42. I’m Doing This

  43. The Errand

  44. That’s How It Always Goes

  45. I Used to Call You Dove

  46. A Million Different Thoughts

  47. A Mistake

  48. We Did What We Had To Do

  49. There’s Something Wrong

  50. I Think You’ve Done Enough

  51. Nothing More Dangerous

  52. You Act Like We’re Strangers

  53. I Don’t Blame Her

  54. Just Some Guy

  55. I Said It

  56. About the Other Night

  57. I Thought You Knew

  58. He Doesn’t Get To Say No

  59. I’ll Do Anything

  60. We Need To Talk

  61. Dandelion Wishes and Google Searches

  62. All Bets Are Off

  63. Epic

  Epilogue

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Cold Hearted

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Eighteen Months Later

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon – Ps I Hate You

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Winter Renshaw

  About the Author

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT 2018 WINTER RENSHAW

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio

  EDITING: The Passionate Proofreader

  COVER MODEL: Thiago Lusardi

  PHOTOGRAPHER: Wander Aguiar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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  Description

  The last time I saw Nevada Kane, I was seventeen and he was loading his things into the back of his truck, about to embark on a fourteen-hour drive to the only college that offered him a full ride to play basketball.

  I told him I’d wait for him. He promised to do the same.

  But life happened.

  I broke my promise long before he ever broke his—and not because I wanted to.

  We never saw each other again …

  Until ten years later when Nevada unexpectedly returned to our hometown after an abrupt retirement from his professional basketball career. Suddenly he was everywhere, always staring through me with that brooding gaze, never returning my smiles or “hellos.”

  Over the years, I’d heard that he’d changed. And that despite his multi-million dollar contracts and rampant success, life hadn’t been so kind to him.

  He was a widower.

  And a single father.

  And rumor had it, he’d spent his last ten years trying to forget me, refusing to so much as breathe my name … hating me.

  But just like a rebound, he’s back.

  And I have to believe everything happens for
a reason.

  Undedication

  Undedicated to the guy who probably thinks this book is about him.

  “We are made of all those who have built and broken us.”

  Atticus, poet

  Prologue

  Yardley Devereaux

  {Ten Years Ago}

  He sent my letter back.

  I re-read my words, imagining the way they must have made him feel.

  Nevada,

  I’m writing because you haven’t been taking my calls or answering my texts. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors, so I thought you should hear it straight from me…

  I’ve broken my promise.

  But you should know that I never wanted to hurt you, none of this was planned, and I still love you more than anything I’ve ever loved in this world.

  This is something I had to do. And I think if you’ll let me, I can explain in a way that makes sense and doesn’t completely obliterate the beauty of what we had.

  Please don’t hate me, Nevada.

  Please let me explain.

  Please answer your phone.

  I love you. So much.

  Your dove,

  Yardley

  The paper is torn at the top, as if he was about to rip it to shreds but changed his mind, and on the back of my letter, in bold, black marker, is a message of his own.

  NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN.

  Part One {The Past}

  Chapter One

  That Beautiful Boy

  Yardley Devereaux, age 16

  I don't belong here.

  I realize being the new kid makes people give you a second look, but I don't think it should give them permission to stare at you like you have a second head growing out of your nose. Or a monstrous zit on your chin. Or a period stain on your pants.

  At this point, it’s all the same.

  Not to mention, I don't think anyone can prepare you for what it feels like to eat lunch alone.

  The smell of burnt tater tots makes my stomach churn, and the milk on my tray expires today. I'm pretty sure the “chicken patty on a bun” they gave me is nothing more than pink slime baked to a rock-hard consistency.

  I’m unwilling to risk chipping a tooth, so I refuse to try it.

  Checking my watch for the millionth time, I calculate approximately 3 1/2 hours left until I can go home and tell my parents what an amazing first day I had. That’s what they want to hear anyway.

  Dad moved us here from California with the promise that we were going to be richer than sin, whatever that means. But if Missouri is such a gold mine, then why doesn't the rest of the world move here? So far, Lambs Grove looks like the kind of place you'd see in some independent film about a mother trying to solve her son's murder with the help of a corrupt police department, starring Jake Gyllenhaal, JK Simmons, and Frances McDormand.

  Okay, I'm probably being dramatic, but this place is pretty lame.

  I miss the ocean.

  I miss the constant sunshine and the steady stream of seventy-five degree days.

  I miss the swaying palm trees.

  I miss my friends.

  Forcing your teenage daughter to move away from the town she’s grown up in her entire life—in the middle of her sophomore year—is cruel. I don't care how rich Dad says we’re going to get, I'd have rather stayed in Del Mar, driven a rusting Honda, worked two jobs, and paid my own way through a technical college if it had meant we didn't have to move.

  And speaking of cruel, can we talk about my name for a second? Yardley.

  Everyone here has normal, middle-America type of names. Alyssa. Monica. Taylor. Heather. Courtney. If I have to spell my name for someone one more time, I’m going to scream. My mom wanted my name to be special and different because apparently she thinks I'm special and different, but naming your daughter Yardley doesn’t make her special …

  … it just makes it so she’ll never find her name on a souvenir license plate.

  I’d go by my middle name if it weren’t equally as bad, but choosing between Yardley and Dove is akin to picking your own poison.

  Yardley Dove Devereaux.

  My parents are cruel.

  I rest my case.

  I pop a cold tater tot into my mouth and force myself to chew. I'll be damned if I'm that girl sitting in third period with a stomach growling so loud it drowns out the teacher. I don't need to give people more reasons to stare.

  Pulling my notebook from my messenger bag, I pretend to focus on homework despite the fact that it's the first day of spring semester and none of my teachers have assigned anything yet, but it’s better than sitting here staring at the block walls of the cafeteria like some awkward loser.

  Pressing my pen into the paper, I begin to write:

  Monday, January 7, 2008

  This day sucks.

  The school sucks.

  This town sucks.

  These people suck.

  After a minute, I toss my pen aside and exhale.

  “What about me? Do I suck?” A pastel peach lunch tray plops down beside me followed by a raven-haired boy with eyes like honey and a heartbreaker’s smile. My heart flutters in my chest. He's gorgeous. And I have no idea why he's sitting next to me. “Nevada.”

  “No. California. I’m from Del Mar,” I say, clearing my throat and sitting up straight. “It’s kind of by San Diego.”

  The boy laughs through his perfectly straight nose.

  I can't take my eyes off his dimpled smirk. He can’t take his eyes off me.

  “My name,” he says slowly. “It's Nevada. Like the state. And you are?”

  “New,” I say.

  He laughs at me again, eyes rolling. “Obviously. What’s your name?”

  My cheeks warm. Apparently, I can’t human today. “Yardley.”

  “Yardley from California.” He says my name like he’s trying to memorize it as he studies me. I squirm, wanting to know what he’s thinking and why he’s gazing at me like I’m some kind of magnificent creature and not some circus sideshow new girl freak. “What brings you here?”

  He steals one of my tater tots before slipping it between his full lips, grinning while he chews.

  Nevada doesn't look like the boys where I’m from. He doesn't sound like them either. He isn't sun-kissed with windswept surfer hair. His features are darker, more mysterious. One look at this tall drink of water and I know he’s wise beyond his years. Mischievous and charismatic but also personable.

  He’s … everything.

  And he’s everything I never expected to come across in a town like this.

  A group of girls at the table behind us gape and gawk, whispering and nudging each other. It occurs to me then that this might be a set-up, that this beautiful boy might be talking to this awkward new girl as a dare.

  “Ignore them,” he says when he follows my gaze toward the plastic cheerleader squad sitting a few feet away. “They’re just jealous.”

  I lift a brow. “Of what?”

  He smirks, shaking his head and laughing at me like I’m supposed to ‘get it.’

  “What?” I ask. If this is a joke, I want to be in on it. I refuse to add butt-of-the-joke to the list of reasons why this day can go to hell.

  “They’re jealous because they think I’m about to ask you out,” he says, licking his lips. Nevada hasn’t taken his eyes off me since the moment he sat down.

  “Should I go inform them that they’re wasting their energy?”

  His expression fades. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because …” my eyes roll. “You’re not about to ask me out.”

  “I’m not?”

  I peel my gaze off of him and glance down at my untouched lunch. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why am I doing what? Talking to you? Trying to get the courage to ask you on a date?”

  I look up, studying his golden gaze and trying to determine if he’s being completely serious right now.

  “You’ve never seen me before in your life and then you
just … plop down next to me and ask me on a date?” I ask, rising. If I have to dump my tray and hide in the bathroom until the bell rings, then so be it. Anything is better than sitting here while this guy tries to make me look like a damn fool in front of a bunch of strangers that I hope might someday treat me like I’m not a three-headed alien.