Thursday, November 8, 2012

Blog Tour: Second Chance by Katie Kacvinsky

The Second Chance Blog Tour is stopping by Actin' Up with Books for the second time this week. This time with an excerpt. First Comes Love and Second Chance are written from multiple points of voice of the main characters Gray and Dylan. As with any story and relationship, there are always two sides so this style of writing is perfect. First Comes Love by Katie Kacvinsky is one of my favorite books of the year (you can read my review here) and it is a book that I've recommended time and time again. Now Dylan and Gray's story continues, for better or worse, in Second Chance.


Can two drastically different, imperfect people be perfect for each other?

It’s been four months since Gray and Dylan have seen each other. Dylan’s been traveling in
Europe, while Gray has college, baseball, and a life rooted in one place. Gray’s determined to
forget Dylan, the girl he fell in love with in First Comes Love. Besides, how do you make a
relationship work with an independent loner?

Just when he decides he’s over her, Dylan makes an unexpected entrance back into his life,
hoping their steamy romance can start right where it left off. Gray realizes you can tell your mind to do one thing, but you can’t always convince your heart to follow. Dylan realizes she finally has to make a choice between freedom and her relationship with Gray.


Hilarious, intense, inspiring, and emotional, Second Chance shows that love is a journey, and
there are never clear road signs or maps to guide you along. You can only navigate with your

Featured Excerpt

I can’t sleep tonight because memories are pooling in my mind like a lake and I’m floating

face-down on the surface, trying to see the bottom.

Mostly, I’m thinking about a girl.

Which brings me to my latest theory:

I think falling in love should come with a warning label: CAUTION—side effects may

include breaking up, accompanied by heartache, severe mood swings, withdrawal from people

and life itself, wasted hours obsessing over bitter reflections, a need to destroy something

(preferably something expensive that shatters), uncontrollable tear ducts, stress, a loss of

appetite (Cheetos and Dr. Pepper exempt), a bleak and narrow outlook on the future, and an

overall hatred of everyone and everything (especially all the happy couples you see strolling

hand-in-hand, placed on your path only to exacerbate your isolation and misery). All above

reactions will be intensified with the consumption of one or more alcoholic beverages.

What, me, bitter? Not at all. Just honest.

I turn the music up on my stereo and take a long drag off my joint. The smoke fills my

lungs and I hold it in until I feel a soothing burn. I count the months it has been since I’ve

heard from Dylan. I haven’t seen her since she surprised me in Phoenix over Christmas, and I

was na├»ve enough to think a long distance relationship could work. Now she’s overseas

gallivanting around Europe like a bird migrating from one scenic landscape to the next. She’s

slowly becoming my past, something like a dream and reality mixed. I forget where one ends

and the other begins because the lines of memories are always a blur.

She flew to England with a family who hired her to chaperone their thirteen-year-old

daughter for two months. They covered all of Dylan’s traveling expenses and paid her a daily

stipend. Only Dylan would fall into such a perfect situation, like fate for her is a waterfall that

rushes her from one exciting adventure to the next with torrid speed because she never seems

to slow down.

After her job commitment, Dylan stayed in Europe to backpack by herself. She sent me

two postcards in the last four months. How thoughtful. It’s comforting to know she spent

about six minutes thinking of me in Melk, Austria and Munich, Germany. I’ve only spent

about six hundred hours obsessing over her.

I’m assuming she met some hot Italian named Francisco or Alfredo. He probably has

haunting dark eyes and chestnut brown hair that flows in the wine-infused wind. He seduced

her with lines like, “I want to make love to you on the stars.” And he can get away with

sounding like an ass-clown just because he has an accent. How am I supposed to compete

with that?

I take another hit from the inch of joint I have left and suck until the warmth of the

burning paper teases my lips. I miss that heat. It feels like a kiss.

Francisco or Alfredo is probably kissing Dylan right now on a piazza that overlooks his

forty acre family vineyard or his private beach front property along the Aegean Sea. I can see

their future as plain as a European honeymoon brochure: He proposes to her on top of the

Spanish Steps in Rome. They marry on a yacht while the sun sets below the Mediterranean.

Something incredibly lame and romantic like that. Lamesauce, as Amanda and I used to call

it. All I know is the European-love-affair would explain how Dylan has so easily forgotten to

call her boring old American boyfriend. No sexy accent. No exotic past. I love to grill out, play

baseball, and quote Ron Burgundy. That’s my idea of culture.

Angry would be one word to describe my current state of mind. It’s part of the

getting-over-your-ex grieving process. It begins with heartbreak, followed closely by denial.

Then comes a little resentment. Loathing. Mega-loathing. At last, anger sets in, and it fuels

you to do what I’ve finally done: Throw yourself a pity party, get stoned for four months and

move the hell on. It’s healthy, organic rehab for only $99 a month, brought to you by Mexico.

Pot has become my new best friend. It’s a natural sleep aid and a much appreciated

brain-numbing supplement that helps turn my life into a joke instead of something I have to

try and make sense out of.

Dylan used to be my drug. When I was with her I was funnier, crazier, smarter and

more creative—this person it felt so effortless to be. Meeting her last summer was like pulling

on a favorite sweatshirt, worn and smooth and familiar, like she was sewn for me. The seams

of her personality aligned perfectly with mine. We meshed.

Then why, in her absence, do I change? Why do I go back to being the old me? The

one that judges everything, that sees the world through cynical eyes? Was I just faking my

way through that whole summer with Dylan?

Maybe it was never me all along.

Or, maybe, when you meet the right person, it’s like meeting a piece of yourself that you never knew existed because somebody had to open it up for you. Pull it out of you. Point it out to you. Is it true you need another person to be complete?

Well, I know one thing for sure. I won’t fall in love that easily again. The next time

around I’m going to be careful. I’m going to take it slow and wait until the timing is perfect.

No more heartache.

It’s time to stop mulling over the past. I need to focus on the present. I’m going to

put one hundred percent of my energy into my friends, roommates, baseball, school,

parents—my life. Dylan gets zero percent.

That story is over.

The end.


Katie is offering a Signed Hardcover copy of First Comes Love to one winner during the blog tour. To enter just go to the Rafflecopter link here:

(Blogger is being a dork and won't display the form correctly)

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