Tara had always imagined her happily ever after. But her fiancé’s secrets are changing this story into one she doesn’t even recognize. Tara Faulkner and Seth Grissom grew up next door to each other in Savannah’s historic district. Their parents are best friends. They finish each other’s sentences all the time. Their fairy-tale wedding is a foregone conclusion . . . until Tara discovers another side to Seth three weeks before the wedding. Reality has crashed in on Tara’s fairy tale—but hope will lead her to a future she couldn’t have planned for herself. '. . . the timely topic of pornography and its effects on a relationship are meaningful. More than an 'issue' book, it also explores truth and lies – both those told to others and the ones people tell themselves.' -- Romantic Times, 4 stars 'Richly developed characters and an engaging plot result in a compelling read that will stay with readers long after the book is finished. Recommended for fans of Francine Rivers and patrons seeking an inspirational story . . .' -- Library Journal, STARRED Review Rebecca St. James, an Australian born Christian recording artist, is both a Grammy Award winner and multiple Dove Award recipient. She is also the bestselling author of Wait for Me , SHE Teen , and What Is He Thinking . She has appeared in the film Sarah’s Choice and provided a voice in VeggieTales An Easter Story . Nancy Rue has written over 100 books for girls, is the editor of the Faithgirlz Bible, and is a popular speaker and radio guest with her expertise in tween and teen issues. She and husband, Jim, have raised a daughter of their own and now live in Tennessee. One Last Thing A Novel By REBECCA ST. JAMES, NANCY RUE Thomas Nelson Copyright © 2015 Rebecca St. James and Nancy Rue All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4016-8927-8 CHAPTER 1 What happened to Seth and me changed everything. Everything. And yet it began with a completely innocuous question: Where are we going to put the couch? As a romantic I wish it had started with Seth coming to me and looking into my eyes and saying how he needed to share something with me, something deeply personal and disturbing, so I could help him, walk beside him, stand behind him. You know—be every preposition a woman can be to her man. If I'd found out that way, the whole thing might have unfolded differently. More like a bolt of silk. Instead it reeled off slowly and painfully like a spool of barbed wire. We were standing in the empty living room of our townhouse, Seth and I. Actually it was still technically Seth's townhouse for twenty-one more days. As soon as we could get to the bank after we exchanged I dos, then it would be ours. Ours was at that point among my favorite words—right up there with scathing and translucent and feckless. You don't earn a master's degree in literary criticism without befriending your vocabulary. The simple word ours breathed from me like Jane Austen prose. As I said, we were standing there, both of us in our bare feet on the heart-of-pine floor. Seth had the tape measure. I had the dimensions for the couch we'd ordered written on a slip of good stock parchment paper with Tara Grissom printed in burgundy at the top in Lucida typeface. Even though I was still Tara Faulkner, a whole set of matching notepads, sticky notes, note cards, envelopes, and shopping lists had arrived from Grand Mary two weeks before, so I could get used to seeing my new name. Little did my grandmother know I'd been writing it on notebooks, textbook covers, and just about any other surface I could put a pen to since I was fifteen years old. But I digress. "It'll fit," Seth said. "I know it'll fit," I said. "But will it look right? I mean with the end tables and the coffee table and two chairs? I was going more for casual elegance—not doctor's office waiting room." Seth put his hands on hips no wider than a snake's and smiled until the almost-dimples almost appeared just above his dark beard. "You have absolutely no sense of spatial relations whatsoever, do you, Tar?" "I don't even know what that is." "Okay ..." Seth went to the wall we'd just measured seven times and stretched out against it on the floor. On the floor in a starched white Oxford shirt and pressed jeans. "What are you doing ?" I said. "I'm six-two. How long is that couch again?" "If I have no spatial relationships—" "Relations." "Then you have no memory. It's eighty-six inches including the arms." Seth stretched his over his head. "I'm the couch." He was nothing like a couch. Six-pack abs. Cut pecs. Ripped everything that was supposed to be ripped. Seth was the exact opposite of a couch. "Picture an end table at my head and one at my feet." I dove for him and planted what we in the South call my fanny on his belly and lounged. "Cute," I said, "but not very comfortable." He rolled out from under me and came up on one elbow, dark eyes twinkling. If I were critiquing a piece that had his eyes twinkled in it, I