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I know it now.

I think maybe I've always known.

And if I'd convinced myself this little reunion was casual—if I'd somehow convinced myself we were just revisiting old memories and scratching old itches—then I was a fool.

Because I’m already gone.

Again.

I’m hopelessly, completely, terrifyingly, irrevocably in love with Alessio Figueroa.

God help me.

There’s no going back now.

Not for me, anyway.

And yes, I’m scared, but also, I’m happy.

I love him.

And love is supposed to be a happy emotion.

So I’m going with that.

I’m choosing joy—and him.

Two hours after the accident, I finally emerge from a meeting that would’ve terrified me a week ago.

Oliver Pax.

Chance Madoc.

Leandra Madoc.

These are Broadway’s heavy hitters—and surprisingly, all of them are being really kind to me even though it’s kind of my fault everything is in shatters.

Supportive, even.

And all of them were determined to shut everything down for two weeks.

“I'm so sorry,” I'd whispered through tears.

Because somehow I still felt guilty.

Like I'd broken something.

Like I'd ruined their production.

Leandra had crossed the room immediately.

She wrapped her arms around me in a sisterly hug I didn’t know I needed.

“This isn't your fault.”

I started crying harder.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”