“What are you doing here?” The question is almost too obvious, but I don’t know what else to say.
“I came to see you.”
“Why?”
“You invited me. Remember?”
I want to tell her that that is all in the past, and that plane ticket wasn’t just an invitation—it was my heart on a string. But there are people waiting, watching. She must feel their eyes too, because she slides the makeshift book closer to me with the tips of her manicured fingernails.
“So?”
I can hear the whispers, wondering what could be etched on those stark white pages. A secret manuscript? A fanfic story? I bring it closer to me and flip to the first page, revealing a single quote. A quote that held the weight of my feelings for her in just fifteen little words. She had to have known what they meant. She must’ve known what I was offering her within these pages. Yet, and still, she chose him. I waited and waited, and she chose him. I stared at the phone for weeks, and she chose him. So why now?
“What happened to the Hemsworth?” I ask, unable to withhold my curiosity any longer.
“You were right. He was cheating.” Surprisingly, there’s no pain within those big brown eyes. Only clarity, as if she’s just seeing the world for the very first time.
“Client?”
“His assistant. Sue.”
“Ouch.”
“I know. They’re currently vacationing in Bora Bora, probably celebrating the divorce,” she shrugs, twirling a lock of wavy, shoulder-length brown hair around a finger. “How very cliché, huh?”
She talks about Joshua’s affair as if she’s bemused by it, the way a person speaks of something that they were half expecting. Maybe she’s over him…much like the way I got over her.
I stare at the page before me, uncertain of what to write. Best wishes? Thanks for the support? Nice knowing you? What do you say to the person who broke you into pieces yet didn’t even know it? I had moved on. I had found the type of happiness that didn’t exist between a woman’s legs. So many times over the past six months, I’d needed her. I’d see a silly cat trinket in a shop, and want to show it to her. I’d hear an old song on the radio, and want to play it for her. I’d taste something delicious at a new restaurant, and want to share it with her.
She took herself out of the equation. She didn’t show up.
It’s not fair…it’s not fair for her to show up now with her smile and her charm and her scent of lavender. She doesn’t have the right.
“Can I just ask you one question?” Fiona pipes up, breaking me from my tortured inner monologue. “Why didn’t you publish this? It’s phenomenal. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written. And it’s you, Rhys. It’s us.”
I shake my head. Not because I don’t believe her, but because I can’t stand to hear her words or my name on her breath. “It’s just a story, Fi. It’s fiction. Besides, I wrote it for you. It’s yours.” I tack on a shrug to make my nonchalance more believable, but even I can’t buy it.
Ten years pass between us. Ten birthdays, ten Christmases, ten Valentine’s Days where we got drunk and ate chocolates in front of the television. Thousands of late night phone calls, hundreds of Sunday brunches. More words than I have ink to write them in.
I stare at the girl that was once my whole world, and I’m lost. I’m lost and she is my Home.
“Well, I suppose I better go before I get shanked by one of your fans.” Her cheeks blush dusty rose, and she looks down at the stack still sitting before me. “So… would you mind making it out to Fiona, the woman who has been in love with me since the day I criticized her for her love of vampire romance. The woman who saw my heart in every word I ever wrote, and felt the depth of my soul in each of my stories. The woman who hates herself for not believing in me, for not choosing me, when she knew I was her only choice all along. The woman that has never stopped loving me, and never will, no matter what hurt and distance and circumstance has done to us. Because she wants to be the one to feed me Jell-O, and get fat when I get fat. She wants to be the one to share ice cream with me in the park.
“Signed, August Rhys Calloway…the other half of her happily ever after.”
My pen slips from my fingers, the ballpoint never even grazing the page. We’re surrounded by hushed whispers and camera flashes as I climb to my feet and just…look at her. I look at her, and I’m unable to grasp the words to even begin to define the range of emotions coursing inside my chest. So we just stand there, staring, waiting for the other to break.
She breaks.
SHE GRASPS THE WHITE, BOUND pages and cradles it to her chest, coveting the last read line like a sacred jewel. Unable to articulate words or sentences or even hand gestures, she just sits there and feels. She feels each letter imprinting on her heart, etching carbon tattoos all over her body. She breathes in each brush stroke, tastes each line and curve like culinary calligraphy. In this moment, she is sustained only by the magic of words. It consumes her, infects her, burrows itself to the very marrow of her bones.
He waits before speaking, giving her time and space to digest each bit of his being. “Well…?” he says after several minutes of heavy silence.
“How…?”
“I know.”
“You know.” She swallows, eyes closed. Then takes a deep, cleansing breath to conjure her resolve. “Then you know that I need more. They need more. Do you know what you’ve done here? Do you know what I am holding in my hands right now? This is your best work yet! And you’ve left me dangling over a massive cliff without a safety net. You can’t end it here. This can’t be it.”
He shrugs, and smirks with mirth. “Their story is told. That’s all there is.”
“Their story is told? How can that be? She comes to the signing, confesses her love and then BOOM. That’s it? No glimpse into the future? No white picket fence? No wedding, babies and a dog? What happened to the ex? Hell, what happened to the cat? I hope you like hate mail, because you’re going to get a shitload of it.”
He makes a noise resembling a mix between a snort and a laugh. “That’s the beauty of fiction. Fuck rules and pretty red bows. Besides, isn’t it more fun to keep the reader guessing?”
“No!” she nearly shrieks. “It’s only fun if there’s a sequel. There is a sequel, right?”
He shakes his head. “No. There’s nothing left to write. They end up together—that’s evident. It’s up to the reader to imagine their future. Or they can just relish in the fact that they got their HEA. After all that time, all that pain, they found their way back to each other. They are the HEA.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear you.” She looks back down at the manuscript in her hands and runs her fingertips over the top cover. “You’ve done it, you know. You’ve really done it. This is going to be huge. It’s going make us both a lot of money.”
He stands, and with a soft smile on his too full lips, he shakes his head. “It’s not about the money. It’s about making people fall in love. Even if only for a moment, I want each reader to know what it’s like to hold magic in their hearts.”
“How noble of you.” She had been a literary agent for a very long time. It was always about the money. “You know, you didn’t have to come all the way here just to watch me read. I could have told you all of this on the phone.”
He stops at the doorjamb and shrugs. “I know. I just wanted to see it.”
“See what?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t say goodbye. Just nods and walks away.
On a congested street on the island of Manhattan, he walks alone. The people, the sounds, the smells…it’s a sensory overload. He pulls a Moleskine out of his back pocket and jots down some quick notes, wanting to freeze frame the inspiration littered on sidewalks and slicked across the hoods of yellow cabs. There’s a story here. He can feel it.
He makes his way to the bistro on the corner, bypassing the hostess station and going straight to the outdoor seating area. He doesn’t sit down. He’s too wired t
o sit.
“Ready?” He holds out his hand. A pair of chestnut eyes as bold as the sun glance up at him, abandoning the page of her favorite book. She takes his hand, letting him pull her slight frame into the safety of his body, still humming with the city’s electricity. He kisses the top of her head.
“How did it go?”
“Great,” he answers, leading her onto the sidewalk.
“And the names…the title. She liked them all?”
“I think so.”
She wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes with all passion in her petite frame, causing them to stop in the middle of a busy walkway. Pedestrians filter around them, cursing and throwing annoyed glances. She doesn’t care. She’ll never let go again.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says into the cotton of his shirt. He slides his ink-stained hands up and down her back before tangling them in her chocolate brown hair. She looks up at him and smiles so bright that he’s momentarily blinded by her brilliant light. “I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. This is what you’ve always wanted.”
He shakes his head. “No. You’re what I’ve always wanted.”
He kisses her deeply—kisses her madly— as if every second with her just isn’t enough. As if he’s tasting her on his tongue for the very first time.
When he’s finally able to conjure the strength to stop, they continue their stroll down to Central Park. It’s a warm day, so he buys her an ice cream cone. Like always, she offers him the first lick of vanilla bean. When they come upon a park bench that faces the parade of speed walkers, bicyclists and tourists, they sit and people watch as they share their scoop. A man and a woman pass by, maybe late-twenties, early-thirties. They walk side-by-side, laughing and talking animatedly while discussing a play they’ve just seen. The woman twirls around, the wind kicking up her tea length skirt, as she reenacts her favorite scene. Her companion watches her intently, admiringly, a soft smile on his lips. Then they both laugh and continue their trek through the park.
The woman makes a simpering sound as she watches the young couple from the park bench, a melting scoop of vanilla at her lips. “Them,” she points. “Tell me about them.”
He kisses the side of her head and pulls her closer, tighter, into his chest. “He’s loved her for longer than he can remember. It started out innocently enough—a harmless crush. But their friendship was more important to him to risk losing it to awkwardness or heartbreak. So he watches her when she dances. He listens to her when she sings. He holds her when she cries. And he smiles at her when she laughs. He gives her the best parts of him, the parts that only come alive when she’s around. And in turn, she lets him be who he is, without apology or regrets.
“A few weeks, months, years from now, when his feelings for her become pronounced by time and circumstance, he’ll wonder if she could love him too. And while pride and fear will prove to be selfish cohorts, he’ll swallow his reluctance and tell her all the things he should have said before. And in turn, she will confess to him that she only danced so he would watch her. She only sang so he would listen. She cried so he would hold her, and she laughed to make him smile.”
She looks up at him with tears in her big brown eyes, and asks, “How do you do it? How do you create such beauty and heartbreak?”
He kisses her like she is the very air he breathes, before sliding his lips to her ear. “That’s all life is—beauty and heartbreak. I just narrate it… for you.”
Like a true procrastinator, I’m scrambling at the last minute to get this in so my formatter can work her magic. So I’ll make this short, sweet and to the point. It takes a village to corral all my crazy, and these people have been so patient and supportive throughout this journey.
First and foremost, I want to thank YOU, the reader, for giving me and my book a chance. I want to thank the countless bloggers and book pimps for their shares and support. Without you all, I’d still be writing short stories on a crappy laptop, dreaming of the day someone would actually want to read them.
To my amazing beta team: Mo Sytsma, Lauren Bille, Kristina Lowe, Sunny Borek, Samantha Rudolph, Andrea Kelleher, Sharon Goodman, Michelle Trzecinski and Jennifer Wolfel. Thank you for enduring all my rants and whining, and making sure I did this story justice. My gratitude is immeasurable.
Thank you to Ashley Sparks for creating a fabulous piece of art. You blow my mind with your creativity.
To Hang Le for making cover magic: You are amazing! And always awesome to work with.
Tracey Buckalew, editor and friend, thank you for sticking with me through it all. I’m so fortunate to know you.
Thank you to Kara Hildebrand for your amazing professionalism and enthusiasm.
Stacey Blake, formatting genius, you always rock my socks. Thank you!
Huge thanks to Kristi at Sassy Savvy for being so patient and kind with my baby. And big kisses to Milasy and Lisa at The Rock Stars of Romance for your continued love and support.
Shout Out to Kindle Crack Book Reviews, Black Heart Reviews, True Story Book Blog and Lisa Gandy, the edit queen. You all have been so amazing to me, and I am truly grateful.
Special thanks to all my writer girls in the trenches, my bishes, my sisters in print. I love you.
Much love to my JFJ Girls and my BBFT Bishes! Mwah! You all are the best!
Last but not least, to my family: Thank you for your inspiration, your love, your patience and your support. It’s all for you.
Most known for her starring role in a popular sitcom as a child, S.L. Jennings went on to earn her law degree from Harvard at the young age of 16. While studying for the bar exam and recording her debut hit album, she also won the Nobel Prize for her groundbreaking invention of calorie-free wine. When she isn’t conquering the seas in her yacht or flying her Gulfstream, she likes to spin elaborate webs of lies and has even documented a few of these said falsehoods.
Some of S.L.’s devious lies:
FEARLESS SERIES
Fear of Falling
Afraid to Fly
SEXUAL EDUCATION SERIES
Taint
Tryst
THE DARK LIGHT SERIES
Dark Light
The Dark Prince
Nikolai (a Dark Light novella)
Light Shadows
S.L. Jennings, Ink and Lies
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