I possess the world’s most potent olfactory bulb. So potent

in fact that the mere whiff of something familiar sends

me hurtling into the past, the scent grappling for a memory

like an extended hook. And when it catches, a moment of my

life unwinds like a movie reel in my brain.

Most of the time it’s a good moment. Like when the smell

of antiseptic with a tinge of sweat reminds me of the first

surgery I ever performed. Or the whiff of lilacs and freshly

mown grass reminds me of my mother.

Sometimes it’s a bad moment like when I inhale the

particularly potent odor of tequila, and I immediately taste

dirt in my mouth. And rarely a certain smell coaxes open the

moment. A moment so blissfully life-altering, so precious

and wondrous that, at the time, I failed to appreciate how

truly rare it was. The best moment of my entire life. And a

moment that I have tried most ardently to forget ever

happened.

Which is why, when I found myself perusing a quaint

bookstore in central New Jersey at the behest of my best

friend, I scanned shelves like I was on a mission and tried to

take tiny breaths.

I had always been told that olfactory cognition was a gift.

Hardly. I sipped the air like I was sampling wine. Trying to

ignore the fresh paper and ink. The light coating of dust on

leather. The wooden floor creaking under hesitant footsteps.

Dust motes dancing in the sunlight. The memory of warm

breath on my neck that I felt in my toes...

“Quinn, what am I looking for?” I vaguely heard Sid’s rich

tenor through my sensory fog. “Quinn?” The sharpness of

her tone was a welcome needle that popped any chance of

memories resurfacing.

“Maybe something like this?” I flashed her the first book

that caught my eye. A glossy paperback with a pink cover. A

cartoonish couple sat facing one another on a park bench. A

saucy tabby cat perched between them.

Sid wrinkled her nose, her freckles coalescing into a

single brown splash of contrasting color on her otherwise

smooth complexion. “Not that one.”

I read the title. The Purrfect Couple. Wincing, I put it back,

flipping it over. “Too soon. I’m sorry, Sid.”

She sliced through the air with her hand without meeting

my eyes. “Argh. I’m over it.”

She wasn’t. Not in the slightest but, at the moment, I

wasn’t ready to challenge my former college roommate with

master’s degrees in psychology and education. “You must

have some idea what kind of book you’re looking for.”

“Something...” she mused, fingering the ends of her newly

wound locks as she browsed.

“I might need more to go on than ‘something,’” I said, my

lips twitching up in a grin.

Sid tossed her head back and examined the shelf towering

above her five-foot frame. “Something captivating,” she

declared. “Transportive. Something smart but sexy.”

“You’ve just described every woman in history’s fantasy.”

“Fantasy books or fantasy lovers?” she said with a hint of

the devilry I knew she possessed. It had been a while since

she’d shown that side. But I had known it would resurface.

That my spirit animal of a best friend would be okay. Despite

loving Derrik. Then marrying Derrik. Then having her heart

broken by Derrik.

“Both,” I said smugly.

Sid cut her eyes in my direction. “Is that what Gavin is?

Your greatest fantasy?”

I halfheartedly rolled tired eyes that were still recovering

from my one in the morning emergent gastric foreign body

removal. “Gavin is nice and...steady.”

“Oooh.” Sid shimmied her shoulders to a rhythm only she

could hear.

“Not everyone wants a fantasy, Sid,” I muttered.

“Says the pragmatist.”

“Sometimes reality is more appealing.”

“And sometimes it’s not.” Sid concentrated on the shelf at

eye level, lips curled and brows furrowed.

I knew better than to argue with her when her fantasy

turned reality turned nightmare had come crashing down

less than a month ago. Derrik was lucky I hadn’t used my

surgical instruments to cut his brakes. I squeezed Sid’s

shoulder as I brushed past her, sidling between two imposing

bookcases.

My eyes roved over the artfully hung wooden signs on

the walls. Art. Literature. Cooking and Travel. I paused near

a rickety square table piled high with used paperbacks.

Behind me, spines cracked, and pages ruffled. A warm feeling

sank into the depths of my chest. Something serene and

uncomfortably familiar.

I cleared my throat. “Where is your retreat again?”

“Kiawah Island.”

“That should be nice.”

“It would be much nicer if you hadn’t backed out.”

My stomach tightened as I replied, “You won’t miss me.” I

bent my neck to study the disorganized pile on the table in

front of me.

“Probably not,” Sid snarked, and she elbowed me in the

ribs. The top of her head appeared next to my shoulder as

she began sifting through tattered paperbacks alongside me.

“But you’ll be missing meditation and organic meals and

yoga on the beach—”

“You know I hate yoga,” I interrupted.

“And apparently time off.”

“Not time off…just time off right now. Mitch is up my ass

during show season.”

“And every other season.”

“What can I say? Mitch appreciates my attentiveness.” My

lips formed something closer to a smile than a frown as I

thought of the wiry horse trainer who was the human equivalent

of rambutan. Spiky on the outside and mush on the

inside.

“And your ass,” Sid grunted.

“No way. It’s not like that. He’s more like a disgruntled

uncle.”

Sid raised a brow before slowly drawling, “Anyway…just

promise you’ll come next year, okay?”

“Of course.” I flashed her my best smile. But deep down, I

knew that I would disappoint her again. My lower thigh

banged against the edge of the table and a paperback slid off

the top of a pile, landing face up. I pointed to it and nudged

Sid with my hip. “What about that one?”

Without even stopping to read the title, Sid answered,

“That’s the one we’re reading for book club this month.”

“Oh yeah,” I mused, studying the cover—a couple holding

hands amidst the backdrop of a mangled Paris circa 1940.

“You’re coming right?” Sid was as serious about her book

club as I was about proper hoof care.

“Yes.” I nodded emphatically as I pushed the book back

into the pile. “Absolutely. What night is it again?”

“Thursday,” she answered with pursed lips. “How do you

like the book so far?”

“It’s…captivating,” I said unconvincingly.

Sid snorted in disgust. We both knew I hadn’t read a

word.

“I’m sorry,” I groaned. “I’ll read it this week. Between

cases if I have to.”

“Mmhmm,” she answered absentmindedly, her attention

now laser focused on the next table over and its geometric

stacks of this month’s bestsellers.

As I organized the chaos of the used books table, I

mentally sent myself through my weekly gauntlet of clinic

appointments, meetings with potential clients, scheduled

surgeries, and the bane of my existence—documentation. I

had a complicated tendon repair coming up. And an

osteotomy on a yearling. Not to mention a trip or twelve out

to Mitch Jenkins to check on the mares about to drop foals.

Life as an equine vet always sounded glamorous when I

said it out loud. Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Quinn McClain, and I

perform lifesaving surgery on sleek show horses that cost more than

my house.

In reality, my chosen career was more dirty cracked

fingernails and long nights under lights that were never quite

bright enough. Cold damp mornings and crappy coffee and

hard collisions with a snout to the side of my head if I wasn’t

paying attention when I plunged a needle into a fat neck

vein. Days were long. Nights were longer. And mornings

came way too early. But I loved it. It was literally coded into

my genetics to love it.

“How’s your dad these days?” Sid asked, her voice trailing

off as she put down the volume in her hand only to pick up

the one next to it.

How did she always know where my mind was heading?

“He’s good. Busy with the clinic like always.” I turned my

head the other direction so she wouldn’t see the frown

tugging on my mouth. I hadn’t heard from my dad in

months. And from Aunt Jackie...even longer. They had

curated the core of who I was yet had somehow shrunk into

the tiniest corner of my life.

The small Texas town where I grew up and they still lived

might as well have been in another universe. Emails and the

occasional text messages were sent of course. But pared

down to only the most essential information. I’m fine. Busy.

Good. And it had taken a decade and a mountain of sheer

will, but I was fine and busy and good.

A rare stab of guilt pierced my chest so thoroughly that I

grabbed the nearest steady object. The placard announcing

twenty percent off along with the neat pile of books next to

it went clattering to the floor. I sighed, my knees cracking as

I bent down to retrieve the paperbacks, their pages splayed

out like wings. Above me, Sid let out a low hum followed by

a hissing sound.

“Yesssss.”

“Did you find the something?” I asked, restacking a copy of

Wuthering Heights on top of The Count of Monte Cristo. When

she didn’t reply, I glanced up to find her edging toward me as

she thumbed through a thick volume wrapped in a glossy

black cover. One that sparkled when it was bathed in the

sunlight filtering through the nearest window. Her eyes

greedily skimmed over the words, the pages held reverently

in her hands before she flipped to the back cover.

My knees cracked again when I stood up from the floor, a

full head and shoulders above Sid’s neat part.

“Yes,” she repeated, the word a statement and a question.

An emotion flitted over her face, a muscle twitching in her

cheek. “I feel like I’ve heard of this author, but I can’t

remember where.” Sid shrugged as she handed me the book.

I weighed it in my hands. Perfectly heavy and portable at

the same time. The single word title was embossed and

backlit by the glow of a full moon. Lune.

The sight of it jerked a scene from the recesses of

memory. The smell of wildflowers at night. The hum of

cicadas and the gentle ripple of water against a shore of

sharply hewn rock. A finger tracing the skin under the hem

of my sweatshirt...

I narrowed my gaze on the author’s name. A novel by J

William. Heart pounding, I flipped the book over to examine

the back cover. The edges of my vision blurred until I could

only make out individual words rather than sentences. A row

of stars followed by “riveting masterpiece” and “outstanding

achievement.”

I forced myself to study the square photograph in black

and white at the bottom. It was tasteful. Classic. Just like him.

Dark hair neatly combed rather than tousled. Piercing eyes

that I knew were ice blue behind rimmed glasses. A set jaw

that had only become more angular with time. No sign of the

dimple that appeared in his left check when he was amused.

I traced the name printed in classic font under the photograph.

J William. Not the name I had known him by. I

handed the book back to Sid like it might explode in my

hand.

“Quinn?”

I heard Sid say my name through the aftershock of my

worlds colliding. The current one where I was a confident,

witty, wildly successful East Coast veterinarian and the other

one. The one I had left behind. “Yeah?” My voice cracked,

earning an arched brow from Sid.

“I said what do you think?”

“About the book?”

“No about the geopolitics of British colonialism.” Her

hands went to her hips. “Yes, about the book.”

I swallowed hard as I watched a spider scurry across the

shelf above Sid’s head. I focused on where my feet met the

ground just like Brené Brown had taught me and ignored the

panic in my chest. “It’s perfect,” I said with a wide, forced

smile. And it was. Undeniably. Irrevocably. Perfect. I immediately

hated the sight of it.

“It’s exactly what I was looking for.” Sid hugged the book

to her chest, bright toothy smile stretching between her

rounded cheeks, before making a beeline for the checkout

counter.

I followed behind her, weaving through the maze of

Cherry Hill Books until I pushed through the glass door and

staggered onto the sidewalk.

I closed my eyes, tilting my face toward the welcome

appearance of a mid-afternoon sun. Hoping. Praying that the

waning autumn light was enough to burn holes through the

picture in my mind. The fading curled photograph of a desolate

country road, a boy leaning against his car. A boy who

was beautiful and lost in every way possible.