Perfect Fit by Clare Gilmore (Excerpt)

CHAPTER ONE


Do you ever wonder what happened to the girl who peaked in high school?

I think the answer depends on which version of her you’re talking about. And in my theory, there are two versions:

The All-American GirlThe It GirlI will elaborate on the difference.

The All-American Girl was a cheerleader. The All-American Girl was a good student. She was a good person, too, and everybody knew it. Charismatic and lovely and darling. Remember her? Or a version of her? Let’s call her Annabelle.

In our archetypical example, Annabelle had a magnetic smile and cute freckles on her shoulders. She dated the quarterback, hosted the prom after-party on her family farm, organized bake sales, became the subject of several songs. After she got married, Annabelle got involved in a multilevel marketing scheme. You’re pretty sure she’s still doing that, but honestly, you had to unfollow her on principle a few years back. Even though you really, genuinely wish Annabelle and her entire downline the best.

You have nothing against Annabelle, and you never did.

The point is—

The point. Is.

You probably don’t ever wonder about Annabelle.

But I think a lot of people wonder about the other girl who peaked in high school. The brief, time-capsule It Girl. She was your high school’s female Icarus, a flawed teenager who flew too close to the sun and got burned, then fell from a great height and never recovered her hometown reputation. Archetypically.

Remember her?

Let’s call her Josephine.

Josephine had hazel eyes with green specks you could only ever see in the sunlight. Long lashes, long legs, long everything. She was known for her fashion sense and her aloof personality—and, of course, her three-years-older boyfriend.

Nobody from high school remembers Josephine as tough, or thick-skinned, or smart, or kind, or impressionable. But everyone remembers the way she appeared to them. And everyone remembers how her It Girl era ended.

I do think people wonder where Josephine is now. What she’s doing with her life. How she’s been.

I hope they wonder if they were wrong about her all along.

Anyway. Completely unrelated, but she—I—just hit a cyclist with her car.

(Not on purpose!)

(And technically, he ran into me.)

A tiny squeak spills past my lips right as I feel the collision, my body rocking forward as I stomp on the brakes. I grip the worn leather of my steering wheel, panting, and crane my neck to peer in my rearview mirror. There’s a small portion of the back window visible—about two useful inches—between the boxes piled in my trunk.

All I can see is a sliver of blue sky and a line of cars behind me.

I shift into park and unbuckle my seat belt. Outside, a driver honks, but I ignore it and move to the opposite back corner of my car—where I could’ve sworn I spotted a cyclist in my rearview about five seconds before I felt the bump.

Sure enough, a man in a clean-cut black suit and a backpack still strapped between his shoulder blades is rolling onto his knees, groaning as he palms the concrete. Beside him, his bike looks equally pummeled.

It’s the Giant Escape 3, I note absently, one of the best commuter bikes out there. I know because I almost bought one.

“Are you okay?” I ask, crouching low beside his tabletop position.

I’m apprised only of this man’s hunched-over profile at the moment, but even like this, I can tell he’s made up of lean, trained muscle, broad shoulders, a rippling back. It’s when he turns his head at the sound of my voice that I catch sight of his face full-on.

My stomach buckles when I recognize him.

Will Grant.

Large, hesitant eyes. The color makes me think his maker mixed a cloudy, marbled sky with the color of the Blue Ridge Mountains against a haze. Honey-brown hair, several inches long and in desperate need of taming after his crash. His face is clean-shaven and square-shaped, his chin very softly dimpled right in the middle. He’s older now—but still my same age, so twenty-seven or twenty-eight?—with the beginnings of crow’s feet forming in the corners of his eyes.

And look. Maybe he works on them, probably he doesn’t. But I have a three-step lash routine, and Will Grant is outdoing me.

“Josie?” His voice is different, too. Deeper, and maybe less … alive? It’s like he’s working very hard to say my name, which, sure, given the accident—

I snap out of my daze, give my head a brief shake, unlock every clenched muscle that seized in his presence. The now is more important than the then. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he groans, rolling out his neck.

“You don’t sound fine,” I say, panicked for a plethora of reasons. “You sound like something’s broken.”

Will half sighs, half grunts, eyes on the pavement. “Does anybody who says they’re fine ever really mean it?”

His voice is coming out smoother now, more mellow, but the words are doing a better job of conveying a feeling than acting as a method of communication.

That feeling is: exasperated.

Already, after a grand total of twenty-eight words exchanged between us after ten years without seeing each other, Will Grant is exasperated with me.

“I guess what I mean is, are you imminently close to death?” I ask.

Will finally looks up again. He blinks at me twice. “I’m on my knees in the middle of an extremely busy road. That’s relative.”

“Do you need an ambulance?” I try again.

“No, I’m fine.” This time, one corner of his mouth ticks up, though it drops so quickly I might have imagined it. “Will be, anyway.”

“I am so sorry,” I mutter, hands fluttering helplessly over his form. I’m nervous to touch him. Nervous it’ll hurt worse if I get too close.

“It’s my fault, not yours. I hit you.”

“Still—”

The driver behind us unleashes a long peal of their horn. We both turn and glare at the woman gesturing through her window.

“Let me pull over,” I say. “Can you manage your bike?”

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut before pushing off the ground.

I jump back into my car, pulling onto the shoulder of South Lamar Boulevard. It’s eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Traffic could not be worse heading into downtown Austin.

What’s Will doing here?

Better question: What’s Will doing here?

My abs still do not unclench, even as I slowly rationalize that yes, I probably should have expected a run-in like this one day.

Not like a literal run-in. But figuratively speaking.

I met the Grant twins when they moved to Nashville as high school seniors. According to my sources (read: my mother), they both live and work in Manhattan now, but their family is from here. Austin. My current city of residence. I couldn’t have expected to build a whole-ass life in their hometown without seeing one of the twins eventually.

Though, between Will and Zoe … I think I’m relieved it’s him and not her.

I think.

I mutter bountiful profanities under my breath. Today is a bad day to be late. It’s a bad day to be distracted by high school memories and late.

I normally try to get an earlier start than this—and if I’m really early, I’ll ride my own bike to work and get ready at the office—but I spent too much time in front of the mirror this morning, perfecting my makeup, my hair, my outfit, reciting my presentation until I had it memorized back to front.

I send up a prayer that this unwanted reunion isn’t a bad omen.

When I turn off my ignition and climb out of my Ford Escape, Will is standing five feet from my bumper, frowning at it with his hands clenched around his mangled handlebars. Even the second time, it’s a jump scare to see him in person.

“I dented your car,” he says. “Sorry about that.”

“You couldn’t possibly have—” I cut myself off as I turn, eyes widening at the small dent on the bumper just below the rear door. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“How fast were you going?”

“Fast,” he murmurs darkly. “I was running late, trying to sneak past the car traffic.” After another moment he adds, “I was weaving.”

“Weaving is dangerous,” I say, like a rule-following dork.

“No shit.” He winces as he taps at a quickly forming bruise on his face with two fingers.

Will’s legs seem okay, but there’s a tear in one pant leg near the knee, and his white shirt is covered in street tar. A small scrape on his upper left cheek is perforating his skin.

A nearly dominant part of me would like to finish assessing our collective damage and get out of Will Grant’s presence as quickly as possible. My instincts are screaming at me to retreat. But, as is often the case, my people-pleasing personality wins out. I can’t leave him now that we’ve broken this ten-year barrier until every wrinkle has been smoothed. Until every wound has been cleaned, sterilized, covered up, and hidden away.

“I have a first aid kit in my car. And I can drive you,” I add. “To wherever and whatever it is you’re late for.”

Will tilts his head, his blue eyes locking on mine. “I hit you.”

“I know that. But I still want to help.”

After a beat of silence where Will openly stares at me, he asks, “Why on earth would you want to help me?”

I laugh, the sound burbling out of me like shaken-up fizzy water through the neck of a bottle. Too many feelings, nowhere to go but out. My skin is hot and tight. I search my lexicon for an adequate response before settling on “I don’t know.”

Will’s gaze softens. I feel awkward. He probably (definitely) feels awkward. This entire situation is so damn awkward, and now my abs are starting to hurt.

I glance down at his bike, willing it to self-repair. “That doesn’t look operational, I’m afraid. A ride is the least I can do. Where are you headed?”

I don’t ask the other question—What the fuck are you doing in town at all, and on the most important Wednesday I’ve had in a while???—even though it’s what I’m dying to know.

There isn’t a family-oriented holiday coming up; it’s early June. And anyway, I don’t remember the Grants being close with the family they left behind in Austin when they moved away. Will’s parents are in Nashville, and his career and personal life are in New York.

Why. Is. He. Here?

Traveling for work is my best guess, but the bike is throwing me off.

Will’s lips tug up on one side again as he considers me more seriously. It’s still not a smile, not even close. He completely ignores my previous question and says, “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be fine—”

“You were going fast enough to put a dent in my car,” I interrupt. “Obviously, whatever you have going on this morning is important.” For some reason, this makes his half-baked smile kick up another twenty degrees. “Calling an Uber or even a friend, if you’ve managed to acquire one of those since we knew each other”—he snorts softly—“is going to take forever in this traffic. Please let me help you?”

Will sighs and his expression gives. I’ve worn him down. “I can’t show up to meet my client in these clothes.”


Copyright © 2024 by Clare Gilmore