Book Summary
An empowering and heartfelt novel about the complexities of family, the power of sisterhood, and the bravery it takes to choose happiness when all seems lost.
“My life is perfectly fine.”
Alex has pretended this for years―despite an emotionally absent father, a best friend drifting away, and a floundering dog-training business. At least Alex has her sister, Meredith, a driven polar opposite. But both their lives are upended when their estranged mother dies of a genetic condition that the sisters have a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting. For Alex, a world without her mother is uncomfortable. But a world without Meredith is unthinkable.
Alex suggests a pact to which Meredith tentatively agrees: In three months they’ll get tested. Until then they go after everything they’ve ever wanted. Alex is finally stepping out of her comfort zone and opening herself up to new relationships. Or maybe reconnecting with an old one. Nathan, a boy who once broke her heart, needs a trainer for his mixed-breed rescue. Alex can’t resist.
As sparks rekindle, and time passes much too quickly, Alex discovers more about herself, her sister, and her mother than she ever imagined. And that everything in life―especially happiness―comes with a risk worth taking.
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
ISBN-10: 1662528116
ISBN-13: 978-1662528118
ASIN: B0DZY6Q16W
Print length: 317 pages
Purchase a copy of What Comes Next on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Bookshop.org. You can also add it to your GoodReads list.
About the Author
Caitlin Forbes is a Maine-based author who writes stories that explore the messiness of relationships—from sisterhood to romance to the tricky relationship we have with ourselves. When not writing, you can find her chasing after her toddler (or her dog) and exploring small-town New England life.
You can follow the author at:
https://www.caitlinforbesauthor.com/
https://www.instagram.com/caitlin_forbes_author/
Blog Tour Calendar
December 8 @ The Muffin
Join us at the Muffin as we celebrate the launch of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes. We interview the author and give you a chance to win a copy of the book.
https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com
December 9 @ Kaecey McCormick’s blog
Join Kaecey’s blog for a guest post from Caitlin Forbes about why she writes and what inspires her.
https://www.kaeceymccormick.com/blog
December 11 @ Knotty Needle
Judy shares her thoughts about What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes.
https://knottyneedle.blogspot.com/
December 12 @ CC King’s blog
Stop by Caitrin’s blog for a guest post by Caitlin Forbes on the struggle and process of publishing a debut novel.
https://www.caitrincking.com/blog
December 15 @ Sarandipity’s
Visit Sara’s blog for an excerpt from What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes.
https://sarandipitys.com/blog/
December 18 @ Knotty Needle
Stop by Judy’s blog again for her response to our tour-themed prompt about her own dog rescue story.
https://knottyneedle.blogspot.com/
December 19 @ Nicole Writes About Stuff
Stop by Nicole’s Substack for a contribution from Caitlin Forbes.
https://nicolepyles.substack.com
December 20 @ A Wonderful World of Books
Visit Joy’s blog for an excerpt from What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes.
https://awonderfulworldofwordsa.blogspot.com/
December 20 @ Author Anthony Avina’s blog
Visit Anthony’s blog for an excerpt from What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes.
https://authoranthonyavina.com/category/blog-tours/
December 21 @ Chapter Break
Visit Julie’s blog for a guest post by Caitlin Forbes about the importance of fiction, particularly book club fiction, in this crazy time.
December 23 @ What Is That Book About?
Visit Michelle’s blog for an excerpt from What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes.
https://www.whatisthatbookabout.com/
December 26 @ Words by Webb
Visit Jodi’s blog for her review of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes.
https://www.jodiwebbwriter.com/blog
December 28 @ StoreyBook Reviews
Stop by Leslie’s blog for a guest post by Caitlin Forbes on why she included dogs in her book What Comes Next.
https://storeybookreviews.com/
January 2 @ Nicole Writes About Stuff
Stop by Nicole’s Substack for a feature of What Comes Next in her weekly newsletter.
https://nicolepyles.substack.com
January 3 @ Seaside Book Nook
Visit Jilleen’s blog for her review of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes.
http://www.seasidebooknook.com/
January 4 @ Author Anthony Avina’s blog
Stop by Anthony’s blog for his review of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes.
https://authoranthonyavina.com/category/blog-tours/
January 8 @ Writer Advice
Visit B. Lynn Goodwin’s blog for her review of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes.
January 9 @ Writer Advice
Stop by B. Lynn Goodwin’s blog for a guest post by author Caitlin Forbes about the question of inheritance – of what we inherit versus what we get to choose.
January 10 @ Just Katherine
Stop by Katherine’s blog for her review of What Comes Next by Caitlin Forbes. You’ll also have a chance to read her response to our tour-themed prompt about whether if she had an incurable condition and if she would want to find out.
https://justkatherineblog.wordpress.com/
Enjoy this Excertp from What Comes Next
WHAT COMES NEXT — Chapter 1
By Caitlin Forbes
When the doorbell rings, I’m standing in front of my bathroom sink, the picture of indecision: boxer briefs paired with a black silk tank top, made-up face, and completely untamed hair.
I’m supposed to meet my roommate, Holly, for drinks. But it was a last-minute invite—with people I don’t know, planned days or even weeks earlier—and now I feel uncomfortable. As if I’ve become the kind of obligation that I never wanted to be. We’ve been best friends for nearly a decade, but these days, things are different, and I don’t know that I want to feel the strain of it tonight. I’m more tempted by Netflix and cold pizza. My favorite pair of slippers.
I check the weather app on my phone and am almost relieved that it calls for rain.
I’m conceding defeat, turning off the curler, when the bell rings and I physically jump. Because who rings the doorbell in Somerville, Massachusetts, other than someone who wants to kill me? Or someone who wants to sell something, which is maybe not all that much better. But then I consider my upstairs neighbor, who has lost her keys more than once, and is so young, still new to the Boston area, and I feel guilty, so I pad down the stairs of our apartment and crack open the building door. And I swear, I get a whiff of cinnamon, a smell so familiar it knocks me back before I can remember why.
And he’s standing there. On my doorstep. Tall. Even taller than I remember.
Nathan Browning.
We stare at each other from either side of the doorframe. And I will him to disappear. Or turn into someone else. Or at the very least, to come back when I’m wearing pants.
Nathan. Those first two years of college. Nights spent squeezed onto a twin bed in his dorm room, pretending we weren’t uncomfortable just so we could fall asleep together. The summer I’d spent with his family at Lake Winnipesaukee. Campfires and smoky hair. His lips, pillow soft. Water. An excess of water—one oversize tube, our limbs tangled together. Salty tears.
“Alex?”
It’s my name that gets my attention. My name in his mouth, as if it belongs there. As if we still mean something to each other.
I almost shut the door right then.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. I’m relieved my voice sounds calm. Disengaged, even. Because it doesn’t matter that he is here. Because it doesn’t matter what we once were.
“I need your help,” he says.
I stare at him blankly, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking over his shoulder. He’s looking at the car parked behind him and, more accurately, at what is sitting in the front seat.
He turns back to me with those gray-blue eyes. The ones that were always focused, always so certain, but now hold the smallest hesitation. An expression that seems wrong in this face I still somehow know.
“I saw your video,” he says. “And I—we need your help.”
The video. The one that changed my life right up until it didn’t.
I was a part-time dog trainer then, still trying to make that dream real. Holly and I made a video, and she stuck it up on YouTube, and then it went viral. It was a fluky kind of thing, like those things always are: the right content at the right time in front of the right people. The algorithm was alerted, and the amplification went from there. I was twenty-four and poor and bored—working a second job and involved in a fling to pass the time—and then suddenly, I was also something else. A dog whisperer, people typed. Cesar Millan but softer, with a woman’s touch. Silly. Casually sexist.
But something just the same.
After the video, it was Holly’s idea to start the training business. DogKind, we called it. I dropped my second job as copywriter to train full-time, and she did everything else—the administration and the management. The promotions. We’d both majored in marketing in college, but Holly was better at it than me. Maybe because she believed in it: the concept of brands that build trust, and colors and fonts that tell a story. It took her only two weeks to launch DogKind’s website and get us live on all the social platforms. We were still twenty-four and poor but suddenly not so bored. I remember the day the site launched—us sitting on the floor in our cramped living room, a five-dollar bottle of red between us. Stained teeth. It was summer in an attic apartment in the city, and we didn’t have air-conditioning. Holly had chopped her hair off, and we were trying to convince ourselves it was edgy.
We were young in that way you actually notice. When you’re afraid of what will happen when you blink.
Four years ago. The length of high school, or of college, but without the predetermined milestones. The signposts that tell you how and why everything is about to change.
Holly quit the business less than two years later, and I followed her lead not long after. Partly because I wasn’t making enough money to cover rent, and partly because of what happened with Cliff, one of the dogs I tried to save. But mainly because I hated being called a “dog whisperer.” I hated that people thought I could perform miracles, that they insisted on believing I was more than I was.
I work at Kensington Media now. It covers the rent, and it could one day become a real career. And I don’t have regrets. Except, there are these moments—when I see a short haircut on a blonde, when Instagram flashes up a memory of a pup—and it’s like my whole body freezes over. A little voice in my head, whispering, You can go back if you just stay still.
“How did you find me? I took down my website ages ago.”
“An old testimonial from a woman named Lois, I think?” Nathan says. “Her address is publicly listed. So I called her. She pointed me in your direction.”
Lois. She was my neighbor as a kid. She moved closer to the city after my mom left, but she always kept a close eye on me and Mere. A bespectacled not-quite grandmother—that careful mix of kind and overbearing. She’s a lifelong dog rescuer and was DogKind’s first client.
Lois never wanted me to quit.
I sneak a peek at him while he’s checking the car, again. He’s still handsome. Those eyes, and dark-brown hair with the slightest hint of red—the red was the part that I liked most, that almost made us match. Behind him, I can see a flash of auburn fur. Two half-bent glossy ears pointed forward. A white-tipped tail.
I swallow. “I don’t train anymore,” I say.
He lifts a shoulder. The gesture looks comfortable on him. Like he’s used to half explaining himself, half caring if anyone understands. And I remember that part, too: the easy confidence. The kind I imagine he still takes for granted.
“She thought you might still help.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Lois is one of those people who likes to imagine me as bigger and braver than I am.
“Listen, I don’t know what you saw in that video, but it’s not—she’s not me.”
“She sure looked like you.”
And right then, our eyes meet. And we get stuck there. Three breaths. Blue-gray eyes, like he still knows me. Like we still know each other. And something electric—something more than anger—passes between us. Right here, on my dirty Somerville stoop, wearing the bottom half of my pajamas, everything else recedes. For three breaths, it’s just us.
A car drives by with the windows open, the radio blaring through the street. I take a step back.
“I’ll give you a referral,” I say. “I know a lot better trainers than me out there.”
“Alex.” I hate the way he says my name. “I know that you and I . . . that our history makes this tough . . .” His voice trails off as my eyes snap to him. He takes in my expression, then lifts his chin. That confidence. Whatever hesitation I saw earlier is long gone.
“I’m sorry,” he says firmly. “You know that I am sorry.”
I shake my head. I don’t want an apology. I’m embarrassed—mortified, really—that I still care. That he knows that I still care. That he’s still talking, and I’m falling backward into sand and blue water and the particular ache of a wound that is old but was also first.
I pull my shoulders back. I make my voice flat. “This isn’t about us. I’m not a trainer anymore. I haven’t worked with a dog in almost two years.”
“Her name is Remy,” he says. “She only has three months.”
I pause, already half turned away, my hand pressed against the battered wooden doorframe. The day we moved in, I hit my shoulder against it and ended up with a splinter. I’d been laughing about something with Holly, and then sharp wood pressed deep under my skin.
“Remy bit someone,” he says. I can feel his eyes studying my half-turned face. “She’s a rescue, and she has a history of bites. I had to go to court, and they mandated that she see a vet behaviorist and trainer. I did the first part, and they have her on anxiety meds, which will maybe help. But I need to do the training. And if we can’t document improvement . . .”
His voice trails off, but I don’t need him to finish. I already know how this goes. I’ve seen it before.
Ninety days. He has ninety days to prove that she can be trusted. Or euthanasia. That’s what the court told him.
Of course, they have it all wrong. It’s not about us trusting her. It’s whether she’ll choose to trust us again after whatever made her stop.
I glance back over his shoulder. Those ears, cocked forward above the dashboard, they break my heart. She’s waiting for him. The Nathan I remember was too busy for dogs. Too focused on everything he planned to achieve. But here he is, with a rescue who has decided he’s worth waiting for.
I bite my lower lip. “Your vet must have given you referrals,” I say.
“They were booked out for a month. And the other ones I called wouldn’t take her. They say she’s hopeless.” His jaw clenches. “But, Alex . . . I’ve seen what you can do.”
“You saw an edited video. If they’re telling you she’s a lost cause—”
“We used to say that lost causes were an excuse.”
Our first real conversation. The one that once it started, it felt like it would never stop.
My breath stutters on the memory.
It seems possible, in this moment, that he remembers just as much as I do.
“I know I shouldn’t be here, okay,” he says. “I know that. But Remy is a wonderful dog. And no one else will help her. Whatever you think of me, and honestly, whatever you think of you . . . none of that matters. You need to try. You can do this.”
It’s all classic Nathan: unapologetic and determined. Nathan’s not used to people saying no, especially when it comes to “doing the right thing.” He can be an ass—too cocky, with expectations that are too high—but he’s a genuinely good guy. And he’s never had much patience for people who don’t step up.
It was one of the first things I loved about him.
It was also one of the things that I hated.
“Nathan—”
“Please,” he cuts in. His voice hitches, and I see it now: the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness of his expression. I used to know him once. There was a time when he let me further in than anyone, and I can tell that he is scared. He’s scared for her.
Remorse crowds my stomach because, back then, I could have helped him. But I am not the girl he remembers, and I’m not whoever he thinks he saw online. “I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
He looks like he’s about to argue. I expect him to argue. But then, it’s as if he deflates in front of me. His whole chest sinks inward. It’s not a look I’ve ever seen on him. Or one that I like.
“Yeah, no, I get it,” he says.
“I’m not what she needs,” I mumble.
“Sure, okay. I’m sorry for showing up like this.” It’s awkward now. His voice is clipped, and he’s running his hands through his hair like he does in those rare moments when he’s uncomfortable. I don’t have to check to know the back pieces will stick up.
“Listen, leave your number,” I say. “I know a lot of trainers. I’ll find her someone, okay?”
He nods. “Yeah, okay, sure. Thank you.” I can tell he wants to leave. I can tell I am a disappointment. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I get the feeling that it hurts him. Being here. Seeing me.
I think it hurts him, too.
I left my phone upstairs, so he pulls a pen from his suit pocket and a piece of paper from his bag and jots down his number. The promised rain starts as he turns to go, water brushing against my cheeks, and I duck inside the entryway, the paper clenched tightly in my fist. As I watch him jog back to his car, I wonder about the suit. I wonder what he does for work, what kind of man he turned into. I find myself hoping that he got the life he’d planned.
He drives away, and I unstick my feet. I drift back upstairs, past the bright-yellow welcome doormat Holly bought, and collapse on our coach. My mind is strangely quiet, and I let my eyes wander our small place. Everything about it is bright and fun and filled with Holly’s energy: colorful, mismatched place mats; a half a dozen of those cheesy quote signs scattered across the walls; and an array of weird glass owl figurines that Holly collects. They catch the light, making everything twinkle.
I pull out my phone, scrolling past a missed call from my sister to a text message from Lois.
A lovely sounding boy called about his dog. He seemed a bit desperate but was so polite. Be nice!!
I shake my head. Lois is not the first person to be easily charmed by Nathan.
I am going to connect him to a good trainer. No more referrals, please!
I see the response bubbles pop up from her immediately. And then disappear. She starts again, then deletes whatever she wrote. The gentle thud of rain starts to pound outside the window.
My phone buzzes.
I just want you to be happy, honey.
I stare at the screen lit up against my hand. I ignore the sudden tightness of my jaw. I read the words again.
I just want you to be happy.
It’s such a seemingly innocuous statement. A level of genericness that begs an equally generic response. And I want to type back something funny, something simple, but I’m blinking back water that has nothing to do with the rain.
I should be happy. My life is perfectly fine. And wanting more than fine feels like an obnoxious privilege. Too embarrassing to say out loud. Especially when there’s stuff that I could do to improve my life. Books I could read. Skills I could learn. I know there’s stuff I’m supposed to be doing. Just like I know there’s a person I’m supposed to be becoming.
Except, when I think about that person, she’s just as alien as she was when I graduated from college. And I’m not sure how to change that. I’m not sure how to explain that between work and all the daily stuff in my life that is really not that hard, that I don’t know how to become. How the being takes up all the energy that should go toward the becoming.
I didn’t think I would end up this way. I used to want to be different. I used to want to be more like the girl Nathan remembers. I look down at my hands—at the piece of paper still threaded between my fingers, with a number and a name—and a splash of longing bubbles up delicately in my chest. I turn on Netflix, and I find an old sitcom filled with people in their thirties. And as the rain picks up speed outside, I take a careful breath around the bubble. I tell myself I still have time.
