If the Sun Never Sets (If Love)

Blake stayed the night on the couch since the snowstorm continued to rage outside and Farrah still worried about him getting sick. The downside was, she didn’t sleep a wink. Instead, she stared at the ceiling, fighting every impulse to curl up beside Blake and never let him go.

Yes, she loved him. So freakin’ much. But she hadn’t stopped hurting, and she wasn’t ready to give him another chance yet.

Farrah left for L.A. a few days later, hoping the holidays would prove a decent distraction. She spent most of it bingeing on Netflix and In-N-Out burgers and conducting ill-fated baking experiments. Farrah’s attempt to recreate Sammy’s signature egg tarts resulted in misshapen brown confections instead of crispy, flaky shells filled with golden custard. One bite confirmed the egg tarts tasted exactly like they looked. Farrah and her mom threw out the batch, picked up a dozen real egg tarts from the nearest Chinese bakery, and never spoke of the incident again.

Farrah also met her mom’s boyfriend.

Yes, boyfriend.

She’d nearly choked on a Hot Cheeto when Cheryl brought it up, looking as nervous as a teenager asking her parent if she could go on a date for the first time. So that was why her mom had been so weird when she’d asked Farrah if she was coming home for the holidays.

Cheryl shouldn’t have worried about Farrah’s reaction: Farrah was thrilled. She was an only child, and they didn’t have family in L.A. She’d worried about her mom being lonely, even with Cheryl’s dance association friends. Friend love wasn’t the same as romantic love, and Cheryl was far too young to live out the rest of her days alone. She deserved happiness, especially after her brutal divorce from Farrah’s dad.

Besides, Kevin, her mom’s boyfriend, seemed like a nice guy. He and Cheryl were old classmates who’d run into each other again at a ballroom dancing competition, and Farrah could tell he adored her mom. He was divorced with no kids, soft-spoken with a surprisingly sarcastic sense of humor, and he had a stable, if boring, job as a database administrator. As far as middle-aged boyfriends went, he could be a lot worse.

All of this would have been a distraction, had it not been for the letters.

Farrah didn’t know how Blake got her L.A. address, but she could guess, and she was going to have a stern talk with Olivia when they returned to New York.

The first letter was a precursor for what to expect. It arrived in a plain envelope, handwritten and unsigned.

I know you need time, and I respect that. But the door is open whenever you’re ready. Read my letters when you feel like you might be able to give me another chance.

The second letter had been a simple card. Farrah debated whether to open it, but in the end, curiosity won out.

When I was six, my family canceled a vacation to Disneyland because my sister got really sick, and I remember wishing, just for a second, that I was an only child.

The next day, she received a giant box of her favorite chocolates with a third note.

When I was fourteen, I stole my dad’s credit card to buy porn online. My mom saw the charges and had a huge fight with my dad about it. My dad thought he’d been hacked, and I never told them the truth.

The gifts and notes kept coming, hand-delivered by messenger.

A box of gourmet coffee beans from an Austin cafe—the ones Blake said he would buy her as a souvenir: When I was in sixteen, I saw two of my “friends” shove a freshman in a locker. It wasn’t the first time. They’d bullied him the entire year and made his life hell. I didn’t take part in the bullying, but I didn’t stop them either—because I wanted to fit in. Because I wanted to be liked. Because I was this close to becoming homecoming king, and I didn’t want to mess it up. Beyond pathetic, I know, but I was young and stupid, and all I cared about was being popular. Well, I won homecoming king. The glory wore off in about two weeks. But the regret of not saying anything—of not standing up to those bullies who were my so-called friends—haunts me to this day.

A beautiful snow globe: When I was twenty, I asked my childhood friend out on a date, even though I didn’t want to. I did it because my family wanted me to and because everyone said we were perfect together. I thought if I gave it time, I would love her the way I was supposed to. I quickly found out that wasn’t the case, but I still led her on for an entire year. I saw her falling in love with me, and I didn’t do anything to stop it. I broke her heart, then I left, but karma later found me anyway…

A framed black-and-white photo of the Shanghai skyline: When I was twenty-one, I fell in love for the first time in my life. I didn’t want to or expect to, but I did. She was beautiful, kind, smart, funny, sassy, talented…everything I could’ve wanted. I lived in fear of messing things up with her. Then, one day, I did. I broke her heart…but I also broke mine. Completely and utterly. Only she didn’t know it then, because I never told her. Instead of telling her the truth, I lied and said I had a girlfriend back home—even though I didn’t, not really. I was afraid of what she would think of me if she found out the truth, which is ironic, considering I lost her anyway.

A beautiful infinity bracelet: When I was twenty-seven, I ran into the woman I loved again. I never stopped loving her, but I was too afraid to reach out after we broke up because…well, if you can’t tell, I have issues with hard conversations. I don’t like them. I run from them. But being the angel she is, she gave me another chance—and I fucked it up, again. I pushed her away, and I ran, again. I drowned in misery for a while until I finally pulled my head from my ass long enough to realize what I should’ve known all along: trying to run from her is as futile as trying to sweep water back into the ocean. Everything I do, every thought I have leads back to her. She’s angry at me right now, and I don’t blame her. But I’m done running. For the first time in my life, I’m going to stay, and I’m going to fight. For her. For us.

None of the letters were signed. They didn’t have to be.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Cheryl surveyed her daughter with concern. “We can stay home and watch bad TV if you’d rather do that.”

“No, I’m fine.” Farrah took a deep breath.

Blake’s letters, combined with that crazy, stupid stunt he’d pulled in the snowstorm right before the holidays, had rattled her defenses, but she forced a smile on her face. Cheryl had spent most of the holiday break watching her read the letters, shove them into a shoebox under her childhood bed, and fight back tears. Farrah could tell her mom was worried. But it was New Year’s Eve. She wasn’t going to ruin it by being an emotional mess. “Have fun with Kevin. I have to go to Kris’s party, anyway. She’ll kill me if I miss it.”

Kris and Nate hosted a massive New Year’s Eve bash every year at their Beverly Hills mansion, and Farrah wouldn’t miss it for the world—not the least because she was terrified of what Kris would do to her.

Kris in love may have been nicer than Shanghai Kris, but she could still bite your head off with one well-timed barb.

“All right.” Cheryl’s concerned expression remained in place. She patted her daughter’s hand. “You’ve had a tough few months, but it’ll be a new year soon. Remember what I told you: no matter how bad someone hurts you, you can’t heal until you forgive. Especially when you so clearly want to. Don’t argue,” she added when Farrah opened her mouth to do exactly that. “I’m your mother. I know how stubborn you are, and how hard it is for you to trust. But I also know you wouldn’t have kept all those letters and gifts if this boy didn’t hold a piece of your heart. You want to give him another chance. What’s stopping you? What are you afraid of?”

Farrah stared at her shoes. They were brand-new, bought just for the New Year. “I don’t want to get hurt again.”

“Aren’t you already hurting?” Cheryl asked gently.

Farrah didn’t have to answer; they both knew the truth.

Kris’s party was incredible, per usual. Five hundred of L.A.’s hottest, richest, and most famous feted New Year’s Eve at her and Nate’s gigantic mansion, alongside live entertainment from the world’s top pop star and gourmet catering courtesy of the city’s most expensive and sought-after chef.

Farrah sipped her champagne and tried not to fangirl when two of the male leads of a massive superhero movie franchise strolled by. One of them caught her eye and smiled, and her ovaries exploded.

It still boggled Farrah’s mind that Kris knew most of her favorite celebrities, but as much as she was dying for a selfie or an autograph, she knew her friend would kick her ass for acting like a crazed stalker at one of her parties.

“Hey!” The hostess herself sailed over in a glittering gold gown that probably cost more than the average American’s monthly rent. “How’re you enjoying the party?”

“It’s great, as usual. Thanks for inviting me.” Farrah hugged her friend.

She and Kris had met up a few times since she landed in L.A., but Kris had been so swamped with planning her foundation’s Christmas gala, the New Year’s party, and her wedding that they hadn’t had time for any in-depth conversations.

Not that Farrah wanted her friend’s opinion on Blake’s letters or anything. Knowing Kris, she’d tell Farrah to create a voodoo doll of Blake and toss it into a bonfire sprinkled with the ashes of his letters and presents.

Kris Carrera didn’t do sentimental.

Meanwhile, Cheryl’s words swirled in Farrah’s brain, muddying her thoughts further.

Aren’t you already hurting?

Yes. But were there degrees of hurt? Was keeping Blake at arm’s length better than letting him back in and having him walk away again? Was dull, perpetual pain better than experiencing the highest of highs only to drop to the lowest of lows?

Farrah’s head pounded with indecision.

“Please. Like that’s even a question.” Kris rolled her eyes. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to chat before now. Nate—” She blushed. “Anyway, I was busy.”

Farrah smirked. If she had any doubts about where Kris snuck off to, Nate’s mussed hair and cat-that-ate-the-canary grin confirmed it.

“Hey, Farrah.” He greeted her with a wink as he sauntered past them. He didn’t miss the opportunity to plant a quick kiss on Kris’s lips.

Kris kept her cool, but her eyes sparkled with obvious love.

Jealousy sank its claws into Farrah’s guts. She was happy for Kris, truly, but watching her and Nate’s loving display was like exfoliating her still-raw wounds with salt.

Once Nate left to say hi to an R&B singer and his supermodel/foodie wife, Kris tilted her head and examined Farrah with an eagle eye. “Liv told me what happened with Blake.”

Even when they lived cross-country, her friends gossiped more than middle school girls.

Farrah shrugged. She did not want to spend the last hours of the year discussing her love life, or lack thereof.

“You look sad.”

“I’m not sad.” Farrah tried to take another sip of champagne, only to discover her glass was empty.

Kris pursed her lips. “I don’t like sad people, especially not at my party. It’s not on brand.”

“I told you, I’m not sad.” Farrah pasted on a smile.

“You’re lying, as I suspected you would. But I’ve decided to try and be a nicer person this year so…” Kris hesitated, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “I did a thing, which Liv may or may not have put me up to.”

Every warning bell in Farrah’s head clanged. “What did you guys do?”

Instead of answering, Kris pointed her chin at something over Farrah’s shoulder.

Farrah knew.

Even before she turned around, she knew what—or who—was behind her. The tingle on her skin, the racing of her heart…her body reacted before her eyes confirmed her suspicions.

Blake Ryan. Here. In L.A., in Kris’s house, standing not six feet from her.

He wore a tailored blazer over a white dress shirt, bow tie, and slim-fit black pants that showed off his lean, muscular frame in all its glory. His hair was just tousled enough to keep it from looking too perfect, and his lips quirked up in a small, sheepish smile that did strange things to Farrah’s stomach. He carried a small, gift-wrapped box in one hand.

“Hi,” Blake said softly. “Can we talk?”