 
# Burning Muses

## A MUSE & MUSIC SERIES NOVEL

## J. R Rogue

## Rogue Books
Burning Muses

Copyright © 2016 by J.R. Rogue

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales

is completely coincidental.

Editing: Alicia Cook, www.thealiciacook.com,

Christina Hart of Savage Hart Book Services

* * *

**ISBN-10: 1984057030**

**ISBN-13: 978-1984057037**
I've burned muses.

I've felt little remorse.

I stored our tales.

I sold them for this life—

this luxury,

this ease.

Their sighs and lies

led me to believe they

enjoyed the dance too.

I've burned muses.

I laughed at those tales.

Then I met him.
For the survivors.

You are good.

Never forget this.

# Contents

Prologue

FINISH YOUR SENTENCES

LADY LIKE

GREW UP ON THAT

SMALL TOWN HYPOCRITE

HANG IN THERE GIRL

RUNNIN' OUTTA MOONLIGHT

SOMEBODY'S BEEN DRINKING

WOULDA LEFT ME TOO

ASKING FOR A FRIEND

I'M ABOUT TO COME ALIVE

WE MUST BE THINKING ALIKE

TIME MARCHES ON

A STRANGER IN MY PLACE

I FOUND A REASON

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

SAME OLD YOU

ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER

ARE YOU GONNA KISS ME OR NOT

WE'RE NOT FRIENDS

HEART'S DESIRE

LOVE ME LIKE A GIRL

CRAZY GIRL

PEOPLE CHANGE

MAKE OUT WITH ME

SPEECHLESS

I DON'T REMEMBER ME (BEFORE YOU)

GATEWAY LOVE

LOVE DON'T LIVE HERE

I KNOW WHERE I'M GOING

May 14th

June 20th

July 11th

August 30th

September 29th

October 23rd

YOU WERE MINE

LOVE CAN BUILD A BRIDGE

MOTHER

MAKE IT TO ME

Epilogue

Muse & Music Series

Acknowledgments

About the Author

I Met A Girl

Delicate

# Prologue

## A Shitty Sunday, I Think

some people are

born fractured.

* * *

demons deposited

here among us.

* * *

I like to think I was born pure.

that for a while I was like an angel.

* * *

_(my mother named me after one, after all.)_

* * *

I guess it wasn't in the master plan for me to

stay that way.

this sickness was put inside me

by familiar hands.

* * *

I walk with the pretty people now.

the good.

but I am not.

* * *

I am not good.

# FINISH YOUR SENTENCES

## March 1st

In everyone's life, there are definitive moments that change everything. There are lows you reach that ultimately kick off the cycle of change. Sometimes you forget those moments; sometimes they stay with you forever.

Like this one: Crying in the middle of sex in a Las Vegas hotel room. This sad, sad memory is one that'll stay with me until the day I fucking die. No one wants to be _that girl_ —the crying, blubbering girl—and no man has anything remotely positive to say after an experience like the one I'm in right now. I would never write a scene like this in one of my books.

My characters are strong, feisty, and fierce. Yet here I am, their creator, behaving like the sniveling sidekick; the pathetic best friend with a series of hapless romances attached to her name. To make matters worse, the man on top of me is taking longer than I'd like to notice my tears. When he does, he calls me by the ridiculous nickname he's been using for the past week, making the whole scene even direr.

"Aw, Ser-bear. What's wrong, babe?"

He sounds genuinely concerned, I'll give him that, but we're both trashed. _Babe,_ too? I find it hard not to groan.

"Nothing," I mumble, pushing against his chest.

He disconnects then rolls onto his back, raking his hand across his face.

I wonder if he'll ask what's wrong again. I told him there were to be _no_ _emotions_ between us, and he's kept to that, but my actions now are screaming _comfort me, burrow inside of me_. I'm not holding up my end of the bargain.

My current breakdown has nothing to do with him, though. Earlier in the night, I received a text from my best friend, who still lives in my hometown.

**Kat:** I have news.

Despite my incessant begging, she wouldn't divulge the information, instead saying she'd call me in the morning.

I only have one guess that feels right.

_She's pregnant._

Kat's been married for five years now, and I know she and her husband have been trying for the last two. She's the mothering type; she's looked out for me most of _my_ life. She always knows what to do. In high school, our friend Chelsy found herself pregnant during our sophomore year and the first person she ran to was Kat. Not her parents, not her boyfriend, not the school counselor. But Kat. Because she's always had an answer for everything, a soothing voice, and a level head.

If Kat had her way, a baby would have arrived much sooner. Her husband wanted to wait, arguing that his new law firm had to be more _financially secure_. Despite how this frustrated her, she was supportive of him in every way. If there was any role besides _mother_ that Kat was born to play, it was _wife_.

I've never been jealous of the life she has. I know it's wonderful and she's lucky, it's just not for me. I had zero boyfriends in high school and dated little in college—not for lack of attention. I hated the idea of being tied to anyone. Plus, my attention was hard to hold.

_And_ , it all made for great writing.

I suppose even the most inexperienced woman can write erotica, but I find real-life experience helps immensely—at least to some extent—and is terribly fun. Until you're crying during sex, which brings me back to my current predicament.

After predicting Kat's big news, I felt elation for her. I bought everyone in the bar a shot, even though she hadn't officially told me. I hooted and hollered; I laughed and told everyone fond stories about her. My companions listened to me, drank with me, and eventually grew weary of the stories about some chick from the Midwest they didn't know and couldn't care less about.

Slowly, fear and melancholy crept inside. My intoxicated thoughts ran wild. I'm in the last half of my twenty-ninth year alive—wasted on a Tuesday night. I've never been in a serious relationship, and my current fling with the lead actor of the Vegas show that's been running in my hotel certainly doesn't count.

In truth, I'm full of overwhelming fear when it comes to my profession—a truth that's led me to this sad state I'm in. This is the proverbial straw on the damn camel's back.

In hindsight, I should've known heading to Vegas for a one-month bender was not the cure to any of my problems.

At the time, it seemed like the perfect solution, but _I'm too old for this shit,_ I think, groaning loudly into the room. I throw the covers off my legs before heading to the bathroom. A scalding hot shower always helps to sober me up, and I desperately need to look at this situation with clear eyes.

My companion pays little attention to me as I leave the room. From the corner of my eye, I spot him picking up his phone, sending out a text. _On to the next_ , I suppose.

Once I'm inside the bathroom, I set the water to the hottest setting and begin to undress, spotting a fresh bruise on my shin and cursing aloud in the process. _Why am I so clumsy when I drink?_ I wonder, sinking down onto the cool porcelain floor, flipping through images of the night. Every picture in my head makes me cringe. Nothing is worth writing about—the same as every night this past month. Same as every night for over a year.

I'd flirted endlessly with the hot bartender at Gilley's. He was delicious; if any of my readers read about a man who looked like him, they wouldn't be able to control themselves and just might jump their husbands. But, I've done that trope before. I've written about the hot-as-fuck bartender who seduces the young, innocent protagonist off her feet, introducing her to new and exciting sexual desires. I won't let myself write about the same thing twice. It's a writer's suicide.

I've also already written about the sexy singer, so the delicious man in my bed is a waste of my time. Still, I doubt he'll complain about the time we've spent together, minus my tiny breakdown earlier.

This is all getting old fast, and I'm running out of ideas to help with the writing process.

My name is Seraphina Daniels, and I've become the bestselling erotica author in the world. My chart-topping trilogy, Pinned, is in production stages for the film adaptation of the third novel. The first movie was a mind-blowing success, and I was able to collaborate with the filmmakers on countless aspects, which is rare for an author. It was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life, as well as one of the most damning.

My name is everywhere, my work is discussed constantly, and, in turn, sales for the rest of my catalog have skyrocketed. All eyes are on me for my next project.

And I can't write a single fucking word.

I've tried everything I can possibly think of. I flew to my summer home in Florida, spending night after night upon the beach, day after day living life with the locals. Nothing. Frustrated, I flew to Alaska, always finding the state to be fascinating, armed with an excuse to spend more time there than my book signings would allow. It was beautiful, romantic, and splendid. Still, nothing.

Growing more agitated, I flew to the one place I'd always wanted to visit—Ireland. That trip was one I would never forget or regret, but no story came from it, and I was left at the end of my rope.

Back when I was a struggling writer, I always dreamed of visiting beautiful locations to base my stories on, always jealous of those successful enough to be able to do so. Now, I'm one of them, and I can't squeeze a hundred measly words out a day.

I never saw writer's block coming. When the movie rights to the first book were purchased, the trilogy was unfinished; the first book had been released and the second nearly written. The whole world became obsessed with the story as I wrote the third book. None of it stifled my creative eye. I thrived in it. It motivated me, knowing the entire world was in love with the characters I created.

The words spilled from my fingertips, and onto the screen. The third book came out timed with the release of the second movie. The worldwide frenzy—and my newfound success—was astonishing. I started writing less, traveling, and basking in the glow of what my life had become.

When filming began for the third movie—hot on the heels of the second's success—I stayed close to the set. The movies, with my help, remained beautifully faithful to my books. The female director of the films became one of my closest friends. Months passed by in a blur, and I didn't have a care in the world.

I attended red carpet premieres for the films, the first taking place where I lived, in New York City. I loved the glamour of it all. Each day I'd be pampered by hairstylists and makeup artists, dolling me up like a star. As a child, I saw myself on stage in beautiful gowns, singing before audiences of thousands; that little future was quickly forgotten when I realized I couldn't sing worth a damn. This is the closest I would get.

The film's sinfully beautiful British star, Tristan Kane, was my date for each premiere in the various cities we visited. He was, without a doubt, the hottest celebrity in the world at the time. When buzz began over the casting of the first movie, his name was thrown around more than others. My readers knew he embodied every physical characteristic of the lead in my books. I agreed, fantasizing about him starring in the film.

_I fantasized about other things too._

We weren't dating, but the two of us walking the red carpet together sent tongues wagging. Tristan, extremely private about his love life, would never bring an _actual_ woman in his life to one of those events. The speculation over whether or not he was dating the author of the books was great for ticket sales, though. We maintained that we were just friends—the truth—but the tabloids never believed it.

It didn't bother me. If the whole world wanted to believe I was sleeping with one of the most beautiful men alive, then they could go for it. It certainly wasn't difficult to gaze at him adoringly for the camera.

The final premiere for film number two was expected to be just like any other. I'd been prepared for the onslaught of questions about my next project, remaining coy about the subject and giving no details—mostly because I had none. But I assured everyone I was hard at work. I didn't feel as though I had writer's block and convinced myself I was merely busy, ignoring the fact that I'd never gone that long in my life without at least filling my journal.

I began writing as a young child to pass the time in our old country home. With no siblings to keep me company, it was one of the many ways I stayed busy. Still, the seed of fear was planted within me and I'd yet to admit its presence to myself. I knew I needed a place to hide, but I never expected where I'd find it that night.

I've never been a particularly brave girl when it comes to men without some liquid courage. Small talk isn't one of my specialties, and flirting has never been second nature to me, but give me a couple of Long Island iced teas and I suddenly morph into a much smoother version of myself. Give me too many Long Islands and I become a much sloppier version of that seductress—a mistake I learned the hard way.

I've always been told I'm too uptight, so a little bit of alcohol goes a long way to calm my nerves. That night, I got my hand on those drinks and got in bed with Tristan.

Now, here I am. I stretch my legs out in front of myself in the shower, letting the hot water beat down on me, soaking my hair, soaking my fear. I don't want to think about that night, but I can't stop myself. Memories from the night of my book's movie premiere come flooding back to me in warm waves.

# LADY LIKE

## PAST

There were three cranberry vodkas in my system before we sat down to watch the film that night. I'd been on set for most of the filming and viewed bits and pieces during pre-production, but this would be my first time seeing it in its entirety. I was nervous, tipsy, and pissed that I hadn't been writing—too busy with the damn movie, letting it consume my life.

I found my seat next to Tristan just as the room went dark.

Although I write erotic fiction, sex can make me blush, and I was sitting in a dark theater next to the man starring on the screen before us. I was each of my leading characters, basing them off my real-life experiences, and seeing the man next to me act out the actions from my past—act out my fantasies—was too much for me that night. I'd been through this scenario with the first film, but at a safer distance from him. Factor in the alcohol I already consumed, and I was screwed.

The first sex scene began ten minutes into the film. At this point in the series, our lovers were more than acquainted.

They began to slowly strip for each other, and _fuck_ , the scene was too much. I felt my face redden and my breathing pick up slightly. Next to me, I sensed Tristan noticing my reaction to him on the screen, so I slowed my breaths, reminding myself the room was pitch black and he couldn't see my crimson cheeks. He couldn't tell that the palm of my hand resting next to his arm was beginning to sweat.

I focused on the screen, and he was too fucking beautiful.

Thirty minutes passed and we came to another sex scene. _Jesus._ Okay, yeah, this movie wasn't based on Shakespeare, it was based on my smut book, and I screwed myself with this one.

I uncrossed my legs, then crossed them on the other side, but it wasn't helping. Tristan was watching the screen just as I was, but I felt his awareness of me. I felt him inside my head. He must have sensed my frustration; it was tangible.

It was one thing to lust after the man voted _People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive_ in the privacy of your own home, but panting like a rabid fan right next to him was a whole other level of crazy.

Suddenly his arm came up to rest next to mine, his pinkie grazing the side of my hand, and I lost it. I jumped—well, what I felt was—three feet out of my seat. The person in front of me slightly turned their head to the side, showing me the furrow of their brow. So I mumbled an apology, rose to my feet, and motioned for Tristan to move his legs so I could exit the row. The second from the front.

"Everything all right?" he whispered, with a smile in his voice.

"Yes, just need to get to the restroom." I brushed past him, practically running to the exit.

The large bathroom down the hall was empty. Thankfully, everyone else was still glued to the huge screen.

I turned the cold water on, bracing both of my arms on the side of the sink, and watched the water swirl around before spiraling down the drain. I focused on the circular motion.

Why was I avoiding writing? My success had been unlike anything I could have imagined as a little girl, though I never set out for it.

I wrote my first novella in college. At the time, I was casually dating a senior named Adam who was fun, funny, and never spent a moment of his life being serious. Getting a job? _Not important._ Making it to class? _Maybe tomorrow._

I knew he wasn't forever, but he helped me let loose. And he loved that I enjoyed writing. I would let him read my writing assignments, but never my poetry. I didn't love him, so he could never see that side of me.

One night he had a crazy idea. We could pretend to be different people. We could role-play and leave all our inhibitions behind, and then I could write about it. I resisted at first. I couldn't fathom writing about our sex lives.

"But it won't be us," he argued—and it was an argument he won.

When Adam graduated, he moved away and we parted on good terms. In truth, our story had grown stale. I needed a new muse. It didn't hurt much to see him go.

My cheeks flushed in the mirror in front of me at the thought of my past, the beginning of all this madness. If I didn't have tons of expensive makeup expertly painted on my face, I would've splashed the cool water on my cheeks.

I told myself I was going to pull it together, go back to my seat, and watch this movie like a damn adult.

The door behind me whooshed open, the sound of footsteps closing in on me. _Jesus, that was a heavy-footed woman_. I looked up into the mirror and Tristan's face stared back at me.

"Son of a bitch!" I yelped, my heart in my throat. "What are you doing in here?"

"I was worried about you," Tristan said with a smirk.

"This is the women's restroom. Why didn't you just text me? Creeper." I feigned a casual tone, hoping it stuck.

"Good point," he said, blushing, so close to me.

I felt his fingertips on my forearm, and it pulled my stare to his green eyes in the mirror.

"You okay to go back out there?" he asked, husky and low.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess." I looked back down at my white knuckles gripping the porcelain.

"We don't have to. We can stay here," he offered.

His breath was on my neck. My own came in a hiss. We missed the rest of the movie.

# GREW UP ON THAT

## MARCH 9TH

After my shower, and a long night's unrest, I get myself out of Vegas and fly back to New York. I book a flight for the next week as well—for Missouri. I'm going home. I can't write in New York City. _I can't write anywhere._ The last possible option is to go home.

I escaped years ago, and I don't want to go, but I need to. _Kat needs me._

I called my friend the day after her vague text, learning I was wrong. There's no baby on the way, but there is a divorce in the works.

I didn't know what to say when we spoke, didn't know how to comfort her. Words are my life and I had none for her, so I decided the best thing I could do was go home, be there for her, and be her best friend again. She can face her future while I confront my past.

Besides, I can't stay in New York. Tristan's there filming. _With her._ The last thing I need is the paparazzi catching a photo of me with anything but a smile on my damn face. Oh, how I love their clever captions. _Fuckers._ I'm no longer the "girlfriend of a celebrity" __ and done with the scrutiny that came along with the title.

I spent a week preparing my apartment to be unoccupied for an undetermined amount of time. I ripped my closet apart and ultimately donated half my wardrobe to charity, before purchasing every outfit I could find online and shipping it to my old home in the Midwest. Shopping made me happy for a minute. It was better than a Vegas bender.

I walk off the jet ramp with my carry-on, making my way through the tiny Springfield-Branson National Airport. The smallness of the building closes in on me immediately as I saunter toward the exit, spotting my mother right away among the few people waiting for arrivals.

She's wearing a navy, knee-length dress covered by a lavender cardigan and cute Oxfords. She always looks like a teacher, even when she isn't in her classroom. Her shoulder-length raven hair frames her beautiful, familiar face. A smile spreads ear-to-ear when she catches sight of me.

_Her prodigal daughter has finally returned,_ I think, choking down my guilt as I close the distance, wrapping my arms tightly around her delicate frame.

"I'm so happy to have you back home, dear," my mother whispers into my ear, warming me.

"Thanks, Mom. Me too." I'm not sure if I mean those words just yet, but I am happy to see her.

"Let's get out of here." She links her arm with mine and we set off.

March's crisp Missouri morning air whips my long jet hair around as we make it outside. I pull my sleeves down from my elbows, one by one, covering the ink on my arms.

"I've made up the spare room for you. It looks nice. Redecorated it just last month."

My mother's voice soothes me, so I lean into her. "Mom. I told you. I want to stay at Grandma and Grandpa's old house. I'll need plenty of quiet time to write. This isn't a vacation."

The only one in the city who knows about my childhood is my therapist. I'm an avoider, something she reminded me of, every session. She didn't treat me with kid gloves __ during our sessions. I distract myself with men and liquor, with casual phone conversations with my mother, always avoiding the truth of my dark heart.

During my last therapy session, she reminded me of my strengths. I felt like she was talking about a stranger when she listed them, but I listened. She believed going home would be helpful for me. I'm still not sure I agree, but I'm here nonetheless.

"Well, I was just thinking it'd be nice to spend time together and have you in the same house," my mother said, pulling me from my thoughts.

"We'll spend time together, Mom. Don't worry. This isn't going to be a short trip."

"Be sure to make time for other things while you're here too," she baited. "Maybe you can find a nice guy to settle down with." My mother cocks an eyebrow at me and I trip over the sidewalk curb, aiming an annoyed set of eyes at her.

"I seriously doubt there's anyone in Missouri I'd like to date. Plus, I just got out of a relationship, and this isn't the fifties. There's no certain age I need to be married by. That's the way small little towns like this are, but not where I live. Too many people settle. They settle for just about anyone who'll have them. It's sad. And nope, I'm not doing that crap. There's a whole big world out there with millions of people. I don't need anyone to take care of me, so I'll get married when I want." My voice is a little loud, a little defensive.

My mother gives me a stern look. "You know I don't believe women need to marry young. I didn't—I'm just saying, I'd like to see you as happy as I am."

"No men right now." It's firm. A reminder for her as well as myself.

"Regardless, I hope you end up staying through summer. I miss you so much, Seraphina. Everyone does."

I give her a side hug. "How are you feeling about this school year coming to an end? No more teaching?" I still can't believe she's retiring. I always assumed she'd continue until she was white-haired and arch-backed.

"I'm ready. Emotional, too. It's...hard." She waves her hand in the air absently, and I know the sign—she's more upset than she's letting on. "Now why did I see only one small suitcase in your hand? Are you going to wear the same outfit over and over?"

"Look who you're talking to." I shoot her a look, adding, "No, I plan to go shopping as soon as I can. I figured it'd be easier than lugging a bunch of my stuff down here. I'll hit the mall once I'm settled. Plus, I did some online shopping before I left. A bunch of boxes should be arriving soon. You know me and retail therapy."

"Oh yes, dear. You've never grown out of that one. And about Grandma and Grandpa's, I need to tell you something. We have someone living there." She reaches into her purse for her keys, unlocking her SUV.

"Who?" I stop at the back of my mother's vehicle.

"Andrew's friend, Chace. They've been attached at the hip ever since they were kids. Remember the one I told you about that lived with us his senior year? You've heard me talk about him. He was living with us for quite a while."

I stare back with a blank face, having no earthly clue who she means.

"Anyways, I told you the house needed work. And the landscaping is downright scary. He's taking care of all that, on top of his job and schoolwork. I promise you'll have quiet time out there, though. He's going to school to be a teacher."

"Oh. You must love him, then." I laugh, making my way for the passenger door.

"He's a fine young man," my mother replies as she gets behind the wheel. "I wish Andrew would take after him more."

My stepbrother, Andrew, isn't exactly on the "right track" in life. After flunking out of his freshman year of college at USC, he moved back home, quickly getting a job at one of the local furniture factories. Six months later, he was fired from that job and spent the next four months unemployed. From what I hear, he's now doing construction for the father of one of his high school friends. Growing up didn't seem to be a priority of his. I love him dearly, though. Despite our seven-year age difference, I still consider him as close as any blood relative I have. Maybe closer.

"That would be nice," I reply, not wanting to dwell too much on the subject. He'll figure it out. _I hope._

"If you need Chace to help you with anything around the house, I know he'd be more than happy to. He's a good kid. He went to Lowe's with me last week and helped pick out all the flowers for the front of the house. I believe they're actually delivering those today."

"I bet Paul was glad to get out of that duty." My stepfather never got in the way of my mother's projects, but he tried to get out of helping at all costs.

My mother laughs. "You know he never much cared for decorating, or any of the house stuff."

"Well, I'm already loving seeing all this wide-open space. And the woods. I can't wait to see our woods again."

"Be careful out there, hun."

"Mom, I'm almost thirty. You let me run all over that property when I was a kid! And I've been living in the city for years now. I think if anything was to happen to me, it would have happened there."

"True." She laughs in response.

I've missed my mother's laugh. So, the long drive flies by.

# SMALL TOWN HYPOCRITE

## MARCH 9TH

After an hour and a half drive on the interstate, we find the exit to my hometown. It's smaller and dirtier than I remember. We pass through the lone stoplight and out of town, and my stomach starts to ache as we pass the city limit sign.

My grandparents' home is located just five miles from town, but it feels like another world. When we turn to make our way down the mile-long driveway I feel my heart twitch. _Maybe this is a bad idea._

The three-story farmhouse is located on eighty acres, and only twelve of those are free of woods. On that land, you can find two creeks, three ponds, and hundreds of places for a child to run wild. Without a brother or sister to play with, I was often left to my own devices, with nothing more than my imagination to keep me entertained. Luckily, that was something I had in abundance.

My mother always encouraged regular reading, but like any kid, I would get restless and crave the outdoors. I spent my weekends outside all day long, only briefly coming inside to eat my meals, shoveling down my food just to rush back out and into my own world. I was warned to always stay close enough so someone could yell for me to come inside—a rule I didn't always adhere to.

I carried a notebook with me, something else my mother encouraged. I would write plays and act them out for the squirrels jumping from tree to tree, fancying them enjoying my shows from their screaming, although now I know they only wanted me to get out from under their tree.

Sometimes I'd climb those trees, and then write stories about a group of survivors living in the treetops in a world overrun by zombies.

In the winters, I'd cross the frozen ponds—something I was later forbidden to do—and write about a woman joining hundreds of men braving the elements in the time of the Alaskan gold rush.

As a child, I couldn't travel the world for my stories, but I could bring any place I dreamed of to life on my grandparents' land. When I was young, my journals and stories were always shared with my grandparents and my mother.

_Well, almost all of them._

On Friday nights, the four of us would gather in the living room after dinner to read. Even though we owned a television, it wasn't our primary source of entertainment. I read a new story aloud for them most weeks, never shy about sharing my words with a room full of teachers. My mom was my thesaurus, often taking notes and suggesting new words for me to use when I was done, while never pressuring me to change anything.

All those pleasant memories come back to me as the large house comes into view, pushing down my dread—but only momentarily.

In the beginning of my career as a writer, my mother found it hard to let me buy her anything. She was as stubborn as an ox, reminding me constantly that I was the kid and she was the parent. If there was anything she was ever passionate about, besides teaching, it was this house we grew up in. Interior decorating is a talent of hers. I can recall countless Saturdays begrudgingly accompanying her to antique malls and swap meets. The home was once an old farmhouse and she wanted to keep that look.

For years, she fantasized about turning it into a bed and breakfast, eventually deciding something inside the city limits would be more suited for the project. After over a year of pleading and explaining to her that it would be an investment for me, she let me buy our old home from her, which freed her up to buy a house perfect for the B&B. I wanted to own this house. I wanted to be in control of its future. I wanted to have the power to burn it to the ground if I saw fit.

My mother finally gave in so that her parents' home would stay in the family forever, something she'd always hoped for.

I can see now that it needs some work. Time and weather have left their marks. Leaving an older house uninhabited will change it. For years, I considered having it leveled with a bulldozer, but the happy memories I have there always swayed me.

There's a black Jeep with a small trailer parked by the side of the house. Large plastic bags and plants are loaded on it, and my new roommate, Chace, is standing on the trailer with a bag over his shoulder. He turns at the sound of gravel crunching, throwing the bag down and stepping off, walking toward our idle vehicle. There's something strange in his step.

"What's he like?" I toss the question to my mother as I open the door.

She turns to me and smiles, opening hers. "They don't make 'em any better."

Chace is upon us as soon as I make my way to the front of the car. He's dressed in a gray shirt, old jeans, and worn black Converse—covered in soil and sweat. His smile is small as he glances at me, wider when it lands on my mother. A large husky trails behind him.

"Good morning," he greets, and his voice doesn't fit his appearance.

He's tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders and solid arms. The boy has a gym membership, no doubt. But his voice is soft—not feminine, but comforting.

"How was your flight? I'm Chace. Chace Holloway." He steps forward, offering his hand after wiping it on his jeans.

I step closer and take it. It's large, and a bit warm and sweaty still. "Sera. The daughter. Hi. Flight was good, thanks."

"You look like you've had a productive morning already," my mom cuts in. "Did you charge that to the Lowe's account I set up?"

"Yes, ma'am. I figured I should pick up some of the stuff I needed before class today. Do you have any idea what you want me to do here?" He begins walking toward the front of the house; we follow.

"No, I trust whatever you do. Or you can ask Sera here. It's technically her house."

_Thanks, Mom._ Sure, I own the house, but I know nothing about landscaping and have no desire to learn anything about flowers, shrubbery, or saplings. It isn't something a New Yorker has to worry oneself with.

"I don't care what you do, either," I say. "I guess just make it look pretty." _Just no fucking tulips._ He smiles lightly at me in response, then focuses on my mother.

"Okay. That's settled, then." My mother smiles. "Sera, I'm going to head home. Let's get together this weekend. Sunday lunch over at the house with us?"

"Yes, that works. I'll get my suitcase."

I walk wide-eyed into my mother's old room, instantly comforted by how little has changed. Her king-size bed still sits against the far wall, one large window to the right of it, the glass door leading to the balcony on the left. I'd long been envious of the balcony. On warm summer nights, my mother would let me put our small pop-up tent out there to sleep. She felt it was safer than having me out in the yard alone.

I remember sitting cross-legged on the deck with a candle in front of me, telling ghost stories to her. Many nights I'd end up inside sleeping next to her after having spooked myself. She always encouraged me to write those tales down, bragging that I could be the next Stephen King, but it never appealed to me. I was more interested in writing fantasy and poetry.

I wheel my carry-on next to the bathroom door and start for the bed—exhausted. Traveling drains me and I could easily stay in bed the rest of the day, but it isn't even noon yet.

I pull out my phone and shoot Kat a text message, confirming lunch at one o'clock. She's planning to come out to get me since I don't have a vehicle yet. I did arrange for a car, though. One thing I plan to enjoy about being in the Ozarks again is the beautiful long drives.

My phone dings just as I hear a knock on the door to my room. I roll over to see Chace standing in my open door. His frame dominates the small opening. I feel a small chill.

"I'm going through town on my way to class. Do you need a ride anywhere? I noticed you don't have a car and I'd hate for you to be stranded here the rest of the day. There isn't much to eat in the fridge. I normally get groceries on Fridays."

I focus on the softness of his voice again, then clear my throat. "Actually, yes, that'd be great. I was planning to see my friend today. Now she won't have to drive all the way out here on her lunch. Thank you."

"No problem. I'm leaving in about ten."

"Okay. I'll be down."

He turns, and I make my way over to my suitcase, throwing it on its side to look for a hair tie. I noticed earlier that the top is off his Jeep. My long hair will be a complete rat's nest by the time we make it into town. After finding one and securing my locks, I grab my phone to text Kat.

**Me:** You don't have to come get me. The guy that lives in the house is going to run me into town in a bit. I'll just hang out in your store until lunch if that works.

**Kat:** That's great! I can't wait to see you :)

Having to rely on other people to leave the property feels strange. I haven't owned a car since high school. There's been no need for one in New York.

Before leaving Vegas, I started calling dealerships in Missouri. Tomorrow, I'll be picking up my new Mustang. It's not a vehicle that'd be useful for the winters here, but it's already March and I don't intend to stay that long. A few months should be enough to get my mind—and my friend—back on track.

I walk to the bathroom, stepping over the tile and onto the rug, taking a seat at the large ornate vanity.

As a little girl, I loved watching my mother sit on the plush velvet seat under the warm glow of the three bulbs hanging over the large mirror. I'd gaze at her as she put on her makeup.

"Leaning over a sink to put your makeup on is no way to live, dear," she would say. "Just like your writing, it's an art. It shouldn't be rushed. You want to take a seat and stay awhile."

She purchased a small vanity for me at a yard sale a few years later. It wasn't as grand as hers, but it got the job done. I didn't have space for it in my dorm room, but I had it sent to my first apartment. Sure, I could have purchased a new one, but it wouldn't have been the same.

It's so strange to be back in this house. The one that haunted me when I left.

# HANG IN THERE GIRL

## MARCH 9TH

After a quick refresher on my makeup and a change of my shirt, I stand by Chace's jeep and wait for him outside. He soon comes bounding down the front stairs to me, hair glistening wet.

"Here ya go." He holds out a set of keys to me. "Your mom had me make a copy of mine for you. The front one sticks a bit."

"Yeah, I remember." I take them quickly from his outstretched hand.

"Has it changed much?" Chace asks, opening his door and hopping in.

I follow. "Yes and no. I haven't been back since Christmas break, my senior year of college. You have this picture in your mind of a place, and when you see it again it's the same, yet not. I don't know if that makes sense."

I look around at the trees—buds of green are beginning to grow, and the sky is clear. I focus on my old treehouse in the distance. You can see it this time of year. The skeleton frame of it watches me. My grandfather built it for me. I stare back at the house, the one he also built, then at my hands resting in my lap—clenching them, then releasing.

"I think it does," Chace replies, breaking my trance.

We head down the road in silence for a few minutes as I try to drum up something to discuss. Finally, I think of something. "My mom says the weather has been bad lately." _Great, Sera. You brought up the weather. How lame can you be?_

Chace smiles despite my lame topic. It's a nice smile. "Yeah, it's been way too cold. I know we don't live in the south or anything, but it feels like Michigan or something. I'm glad it's finally warming up."

"Have you been to Michigan?"

"No." The corner of his mouth turns up. "I don't know, when I think of the weather we've had I just immediately think _Michigan_. Don't ask why."

"Well, I'm glad you're there at the house to help with everything. Having a house just sit with no one to care for it is no good."

"It works out well. And there's a lot that needs to be done." He pauses before saying, "So, New York City, huh? Why are you here now? If I can ask."

"Well, I need you to drop me on Commercial Street when we get to town at my best friend's store. She's going through a divorce, so I came home to see her. That's mostly why I'm here." _And to escape a crap breakup...to convince myself again that I'm a writer...to face that secret-swallowing house._ Some things are too much to share with a stranger.

"Your mom said you were moving home. It's just a visit?"

I internally roll my eyes at my mother's wishful thinking. "It's an _extended_ visit. I don't know when I'll be going back."

"I see."

"What are you going to school for?" I already know the answer, but how long can we talk about the weather and why I'm in town?

"I'm going to be a teacher."

"Ah, okay. It makes sense now then." I fake it some more.

"What does?" His eyebrow raises in my direction.

"Why my mom is helping you. She's a teacher, and you're going to be a teacher. She wanted me to be one as well." _Instead, I write sex books._

"But now you're a writer. That's pretty amazing. I can't imagine the patience it takes to write a book. Some days I feel like I can barely write a song."

"You're a songwriter?" _No, no, please say no. Hello, kryptonite._ Good thing he's young.

"I have a friend in a band and I help out with lyrics from time to time." He laughs, and it's musical. "I mean, your brother. Your brother is the friend in the band."

"Wait, Andrew's in a band? I didn't know that. I mean, I knew he wanted to start one. Damn, I'm a shit sister." I need to get my head out of my ass. _How did I not know this?_ "But songwriting, that's a form of writing I've never been able to master. I wrote poetry a lot as a teen. Which I'm sure if I saw now, I would burn." I think of the sad poetry I wrote as a teen. Only for a moment before I push it away. "So, why aren't you in my brother's band?"

"I don't sing, and it's not my thing—being on stage. I mean, once when one of the guitarists was sick I filled in, but that's about it."

" _Can_ you sing?" I ask. He needs to say no. Singers are like candy to me, same as they are to most women. His smile alone is affecting me already.

"Nah." Chace laughs, and I can't decipher if he's telling the truth or just being modest.

Either way, I decide he's a horrendous singer. Choosing that option is the best idea. Lusting after the young man who lives with me is no way to start out this getaway.

We fall into silence as we enter town and approach Commercial Street. I point him in the direction of Kat's shop where an empty parking spot is located just outside her door.

"Thanks for the ride. I guess I'll see you at the house later."

"Okay. Let me get your number that way we can get a hold of each other if we need to."

I reach down, grabbing his iPhone from the center console, quickly inputting my information. "There ya go." I smile as I hop out of the Jeep.

There's a wooden bench outside the entrance to Kat's shop. A young girl sits there, staring at me. I look into her eyes and her gaze quickly darts to the phone in her hand before she stands and walks past me, never averting her eyes from the phone and furiously typing.

I catch her in the reflection of the glass door as she steps off the curb and reaches for Chace's passenger side door.

Kat is part owner of a small boutique in the town's old square. She shares ownership with Alicia, a classmate who graduated a few years after us. Kat is the buyer for everything they sell, while Alicia takes care of the financials and the staff, which consists of one full-time employee and three part-timers. They sell a variety of items, ranging from jewelry to candles and home decor. A small bell above me jingles as I enter the shop. The two glass windows on my sides have plants in them and the smell of butterscotch tickles my nose.

"Welcome to Fiddlesticks," someone says from the register.

"Hi, I'm looking for Kat?" I answer, picking up a cute vase on a table.

"Just a moment. I'll go get her from the back."

The employee retreats to hunt down my friend as I pick a wall to explore—instantly proud of my best friend. The atmosphere is inviting, the merchandising on par with anything I've seen in New York. Sparkling lights hang all over the ceiling, twisted with what looks like sheer curtain panels. Rustic bookcases are angled across the space, holding an eclectic array of products. The walls are lined with dresses and blouses. It's quite adorable.

I hear the sound of my ginger friend's voice behind me, pulling me from my admiration.

"There she is. In the flesh. The brilliant writer—Seraphina Daniels."

I spin on my heel, holding up my hand to silence her. "Knock it off."

Kat's red hair is much longer than it was the last time I saw her, and she's noticeably thinner. It was only a week ago that she told me her surprise news. Is this gauntness the result of barely eating the past week? Or have things been rough longer than she'd let on?

I reach out to her for a hug, and she feels tiny in my arms. I'm six inches shorter than her, but I would guess that our weight is close now, and I'm New York-skinny.

She squeezes me. "You have no idea how glad I am that you're here. I need you."

"You have me." I rub her back gently. "I'm not leaving unless I have your approval." I release her and give her my serious eye squint so she knows I meant it.

"Then, never. How's never?" She mock pouts.

"Already you're just getting greedy. Other people love me too, you know," I tease.

She swats at my arm and grins. "Oh, I know. I've read every magazine article about you. Everyone loves you. You go to Hollywood parties and date movie stars."

" _One_ movie star." I'm never going to escape this. Or that asshole.

" _The_ movie star. Shit. I'm sorry. Every time someone asks me about Charles I want to cry all over again, and here I am, bringing your ex up too. Shit."

"It's no big deal. It wasn't a bad breakup." It's the truth. There was no yelling, no crying. No begging on either end. All of which only further justified my reason for ending it. There was nothing deep there. Tristan was the first man in years I'd fallen for without turning our romance into a story. Which is a shame, considering how great the sex was.

I still hadn't found _him_. The man to make me write something meaningful for once. The man to touch my skin without bringing dirt forth.

I change the subject, knowing it'll likely come up again that evening. "Where are we doing dinner tonight?"

# RUNNIN' OUTTA MOONLIGHT

## MARCH 9TH

I spend the rest of the afternoon helping my friend around her store while she catches me up on small-town gossip. I help her move boxes around in the back room and check in a new shipment that FedEx drops off after lunch. The hours pass quickly.

For dinner, Kat chooses her favorite restaurant—Fire—one town over. I didn't expect anything else, and made a point earlier to grab a decent amount of cash for a tip. We haven't seen each other in years. This isn't going to be a short or cheap dinner.

The atmosphere at Fire is one of its biggest draws. It makes me forget I'm in the middle of the Midwest. There are two levels, each one suited to different needs, and we have a reservation on the underground level.

The upstairs has a more casual feel; weekdays I imagine it's littered with nine-to-five'ers, grabbing cocktails before heading home. The lower level is a perfect spot for an intimate date or, in our case, a get-together with your closest friend.

The waiter leads us to a table in a back corner and I waste no time asking him to bring out a bottle of my favorite wine. He bows and leaves, saying he'll come back for our food order.

"I can't believe I'm back here," I state once he walks away, grabbing my napkin and arranging it in my lap.

"I know," Kat agrees, her tone low when she adds, "I never thought you'd come back."

I nod. "I'm sorry I haven't visited."

Kat and I were inseparable all throughout high school and college. When we earned our degrees, I opted to stay in New York City, but we vowed to stay in touch, agreeing that she'd come back to visit after her return to the Ozarks. Soon after, she got married and my first book hit it big, which made it harder and harder to stay close.

"I'm sure it's difficult to find the time. With the movies and writing." She hushes, adding, "And...Tristan. I still can't believe it."

"You and me both." _Goddamn cheating ass liar._

"Are you over him?"

I take a moment, thinking about Tristan and the way my relationship with him changed my life. "More or less. He's just a normal guy when it comes down to it."

"Um, have you looked around?" Kat motions around the room. " _These_ are normal guys. Tristan Kane is not. Are the magazines right about him? About what happened? I wanted to text you and ask but it felt tacky. Then I thought I'd call, but, I don't know. I'm sorry. I should have asked. I was just so wrapped up in what was going on in my marriage."

I see the remorse on my best friend's face. It's unnecessary. "It's not like you're the only one who's done that. I was so caught up in the thing I had with him...I needed to step away. And yes, it's true. He cheated. But it was just a year of my life. It's nothing in comparison to what you've had going on." I reach for her hand, squeezing it. Then I confess. "I just needed to get away from it all. I stopped writing. I haven't written anything in over a year."

"Oh, wow."

"Yeah. My publisher isn't thrilled. I should've had something new out a long time ago. They wanted something to ride the coattails of the success of the trilogy and movies. I've always had ideas bursting out of me." In high school, I couldn't stop writing poems about that idiot Rex. In college, it was my damn reckless side that started this whole career I have now. "I think I'm tapped out."

"You're telling me you were with Tristan for a _year_ and it didn't inspire you at all?"

I shrug. "I could never write about us. Do you know what kind of shit storm that would cause? I can see the headlines now. ' _Jilted Author Exploits Relationship with Movie Star.'_ "

"True."

"Enough of that crap. Tell me how you're doing," I say.

Earlier, at Kat's shop, I brought up her husband a few times to no avail. She said she didn't want to cry at work, so I left it alone and busied myself attending to my social media duties while she worked on paperwork. Now that we're away from her place of business, I want to test the waters again.

Her eyes immediately well just as the server comes back. She whips her menu in front of her face, and I take my time ordering, asking questions about the chicken. By the time I make my selection, Kat appears relatively fine, but as soon as our server is gone, her eyes fill again.

She tells me everything. Everything she's kept from me so I wouldn't think her marriage was flawed.

As I expect, dinner lasts for hours, and our tab is large. On the way home, Kat and I sit in silence, content with the low sounds of the radio, lost in our own thoughts. After hearing the whole story, I decide she's better off without her husband, Chuck, but I keep my opinion to myself for the time being. She needs to process it all, without me chiming in with my opinion, but I'll have it ready if she asks for it.

She leaves me with a promise to have lunch again the next day. By then, I'll have my car and the ability to pick her up. After we say goodnight, I fumble in my purse for my new key, the wine making my head fuzzy. Eventually, I find the key and open the door, stepping into the house before slipping my shoes off and quietly making my way up the wooden staircase. I don't want to wake Chace, but maybe he's up with little Miss _Nose-In-Her-Phone_.

I successfully make it to my room without any loud crashes and fall face-first onto the large white comforter for the second time today. I lie there for a few minutes before hearing the downstairs door shut.

The living room is right below my bedroom, and it has a direct door to the outside that leads to the large wrap-around porch. I crawl to the side of my bed, reaching for my discarded purse and digging for my iPhone to charge it. Below me, I hear a guitar and pause.

Slowly, I pull myself from the bed and tiptoe over to my balcony door. _Can I open it without making a sound?_ The damn house creaks like no other. I chance it, slowly turning the knob and inching the heavy door open. No sound on my end. _Thank you, Jesus._

I sit down in the doorway, listening to his guitar. I lean my back against the doorframe, propping my feet up on the other end. The music stops and I hold my breath. If he catches me listening, I'll have to avoid him for at least a week. We've barely spoken, and becoming that creepy lady living in the house with him is not my goal.

I wonder if this is the time of night he usually plays, or if he chose now because he assumed I'd be fast asleep.

If an audience bothers him, I'll be a horrible housemate. He'll quickly notice that I'm a night owl, preferring to write—or attempt to write—into the twilight hours.

The setting feels ideal. It's peaceful out here. I'd forgotten the sound of the cicadas at night. The soft howl of a coyote in the distance, soon accompanied by his brethren. It's everything I hoped for on the flight out. If I can't find my writing again, _here_ , I should just hand in my laptop and give up.

The guitar picks up again and I exhale. The melody is soft and soothing, and I know I shouldn't be sitting here invading his privacy. Chace seems shy, and he already told me he'd only taken to the stage to fill in for another.

I make myself as silent as the light wind I feel on my bare arm; better to be safe than sorry.

He plays for about a half hour, and not a single word escapes his lips. I hoped to see if he was serious about not being able to sing. Musicians fascinate me. My friend Andi, a fellow writer, and I would often go to jazz bars in New York City. It wasn't my favorite type of music but I grew to appreciate it. We would gather a few of our mutual girlfriends once a month and have Gatsby nights, dressing in glitzy jewelry, flapper dresses, setting our hair in beautiful waves.

I attracted the attention of a sexy baritone player on one of our fun nights out. Soon he and I were having our own fun nights, and in turn, I wrote a sexy novella about him.

The porch below me grows silent, the minutes stretching out. _Did he sneak inside?_ I slowly move from my spot, legs numb from being in one position too long. I bring my lifeless limbs around into the house and flatten my stomach across the doorway, bringing my eye to a small crack between the boards.

I can't see much, but I do see Chace sitting in one of the wicker chairs. His guitar is still in his lap, his left hand holding a pen over a notebook. He's been writing in his silence, never singing a word aloud.

_Fascinating._

_Fuck._

I don't personally know any songwriters and can't help but wonder how many others practice this way. I have writer friends—novelists and playwrights—and there seems to be a million ways we go about our craft. Some map out their entire story, chapter by chapter, breaking everything down. Some simply write out their synopsis and go from there. I start with my first sex scene. If I can't write my characters getting it on from the beginning, then there's no story to tell. I start there, with no names for my duo, right in the nitty-gritty.

Considering the inspiration for my stories, I'm not surprised by my method. The story is secondary to the sex. My readers don't buy my books because they're looking for a Nora Roberts romance. They're looking for something to light their fire, something to perhaps put a little pep back into their relationships.

Chace lifts his guitar from his lap and sets it down, then reaches for his phone. He props his feet up on the small ottoman in front of him and begins tapping out a text. When he's finished, he reaches for his guitar again and begins playing. Inside, I hear my phone ding.

I slide up to my knees and walk on them over to my bed where my iPhone lays. The text is from Chace.

**Chace:** Did I wake you?

_Shit._ Of course he heard me up, being creepy.

**Me:** With the 'Did I wake you?' text?

**Chace:** Haha no with the guitar

**Me:** I was already awake. You didn't hear me come in about five mins ago?

**Chace:** No I didn't. I'm glad I didn't wake you up. It's the best time for me to write.

**Me:** Ditto.

**Chace:** Am I interrupting your writing then?

**Me:** Not tonight. I'm in a slump.

**Chace:** The block huh? Pretty bad?

**Me:** So bad I moved to Missouri.

**Chace:** Damn. Yes. That is bad.

**Me:** I'm doomed.

**Chace:** No, you'll get it back. How long has it been?

It's painful to type out. Especially to another writer. Any kind of writer. I can always see the pity on their faces. I'm thankful he's a full floor below me.

**Me:** I haven't been able to write in over a year...

**Chace:** Oh

**Me:** Yeah. Doomed. I hope I won't interrupt your playing when I throw myself from this balcony.

**Chace:** Dramatic, much? All that will get you is a broken arm and wounded pride.

**Me:** Well, I already have one of those. Hey. You stopped playing.

**Chace:** I'm a man of many talents, Sera. But texting and playing the guitar simultaneously is one I have yet to master.

**Me:** Smartass.

**Chace:** :)

**Me:** Okay, I won't text you anymore. Play on.

**Chace:** As you wish.

Did this kid just quote _The Princess Bride_ to me? His personality is different in text. More confident. Although that's common in people.

I listen to him play for ten more minutes before deciding to head to bed. Sleep takes me swiftly.

# SOMEBODY'S BEEN DRINKING

## MARCH 10TH

The next morning, a call from the car dealership wakes me up around eight. A salesman is on his way to drop off my new Mustang. I thank him and roll over, burying my face into the pillow.

There's a warm breeze flowing through my open window. Perhaps spring is finally arriving. I sigh and whip the comforter off my body, padding to the bathroom. I rush through brushing my teeth and applying moisturizer to my face before throwing on a pair of black leggings, an oversized T-shirt, and slipping on my white Converse.

I half-jog down the stairs to go outside but the scent of maple syrup stops me in my tracks. Chace must've made something for breakfast. I saunter over to the counter, my eyes catching a note on the island that reads: _Your food is in the microwave._ He used a typewriter to write it. I like that.

I open the microwave door to find pancakes, sausage, and eggs on a plate. My stomach grumbles. I eat quickly and then go outside.

Chace and a young boy are trading free throws back and forth at the old basketball hoop by the detached garage. Chace sinks the ball from the edge of the pavement and smiles at me when he sees me. "Morning."

"Morning." I offer a slight wave. "Thanks for breakfast."

"No problem." He shrugs and then begins dribbling the ball around the driveway.

The young boy with Chace turns to me and smiles, so I give another half-wave. _I never know what to say to kids._

"Hi," he beams.

"Are you, uh, Chace's brother?" I don't know much about Chace Holloway, other than the fact that he's my brother's best friend.

"No."

"Oh." I look up to see Chace's shy grin again.

"Are you Chace's girlfriend?" the child returns.

"No. I think I'm a little old for that." I instantly regret my words and glance at Chace with my red face. I'm rewarded with a smile, along with a questioning eyebrow.

"Well, you don't look old," the child responds.

"Thanks. The gray hairs I've been finding would argue with you on that." I reach up and run my fingers through my long locks. I need to look through them again to see if another evil gray bastard has emerged.

"Do you live here?" This kid would be great at twenty questions.

"Yes."

"But you're not Chace's girlfriend?"

"No. I'm his...roommate."

"Oh. Is that your car in the garage?"

"No. That's my mother's old Mustang." A _nd soon, I'll have my own._

"I like it."

"Me too." I smile.

"Are you going to play basketball with us?"

"No, I don't play sports. At all. I'm bad at them."

"Okay, cool." He turns to Chace. "Can I use the bathroom?"

"You know you don't have to ask." Chace sinks the ball again.

With that, the boy takes off toward the house.

I take a seat on the bench next to the garage and Chace walks toward me with the ball under his arm.

"That's Aiden," he explains.

"Cute kid."

"Yeah. I used to tutor him. He doesn't get much attention at home."

"Oh." Growing up, I always received attention from my family. Whether I wanted it or not.

"Yeah. So, I try to get him out of his house as much as I can."

"That's nice of you." _Who is this guy? And how is he friends with my mouthy ass brother?_

"I try. Did we wake you?"

"No, I just got a phone call. The dealership is on its way to drop off my new car. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't be up. I don't keep normal hours." The sounds of the woods and nature keep us company for a moment. The silence with Chace is bearable.

"Do you have big plans for your first weekend back in the Ozarks?"

"I'll probably go over to my friend Kat's and help her with her new place. I need to keep her as busy as I can."

"You should come out to Senor's tonight. I'm working."

"That's the new Mexican restaurant, right? I think Kat might've mentioned it."

"Yeah. They have a deal on fajitas on Fridays. But come to the bar side. I work over there."

"I'll run it by her." _Yes. I'll run this bad idea right by her._

When that night rolls around, I'm able to convince Kat to leave her apartment for dinner and a movie. So far, she's been ordering in pizza and Chinese food. How she's managed to stay so thin living off such unhealthy crap is beyond me.

She ducks out of work a bit early so we can catch the four-thirty show of the new Hugh Jackman movie. Kat loves to see every film he's in, so he definitely helped in getting her out of the house. After the flick, we head to Senor's. Although she protests, I order two appetizers as soon as we sit down.

I spot Chace behind the small bar.

"That's way too much food. I won't be able to eat my meal," Kat says with a groan.

"Tough. You need to fatten up a bit, missy." I cross my arms, aiming a motherly look at her. For once, I feel like I'm the one taking care of her.

"I just never feel like eating anymore."

I've been there for a few friends during bad breakups, watching them go weeks without many full meals.

I've never been that upset by a split. Not even with Tristan. "I know. But I'm afraid a strong gust of wind is going to blow you away."

"Drama queen." Kat waves her napkin at me, laughing. "So, how are things out at the house? You like it there?"

"Yeah, it's nice so far, hard to tell this early. I wish I didn't have my iPhone or iPad. There's no Internet there now and I could just be off the grid."

"What? No. You're in love with technology. I could live out there and do that. Not you." Kat points to the huge iPhone that's face-up on the table in front of me.

"Just because I know how to use Twitter and you don't, doesn't mean I'm in love with technology." _Lie._

"How's the roommate?"

I glance over at Chace behind the bar. "He's a nice kid." _Kid. He's a damn kid,_ I remind myself.

"Do you know much about him?"

"Just some of what my mom has told me over the years, and the little bit from what he mentioned when he dropped me at your shop Monday. He's going to school to be a teacher." I fumble for the information I know so far. "He graduated with my brother—I guess they were close in high school. He writes music for Andrew's band, which I did _not_ know existed because I'm a shitty sister."

"What does he look like?"

I bite my lip and motion with my thumb slowly for her to look behind me. "He looks like the bartender."

"Oh, _really_?" She peeks around my shoulder. "He's hot."

"Yeah, that's him."

"Oh! He _is_ the bartender! He's...pretty."

"Nope." I shake my head. "I don't see it." _Denial is a powerful drug._

"Are you kidding me?"

"I'm not blind, Kat. I'm choosing to _ignore_ the fact that he's appealing." I've done the bartender story arc before. It isn't going to light any new fires under my ass. I want to write something fresh. "Mr. Bartender is young. He has many years of breaking hearts ahead of him."

"How old is he?" she asks.

"He's twenty-two. And fun fact, I'm pretty sure he has a girlfriend," I say, thinking of the girl outside of Kat's shop.

"Yeah, probably." Kat shrugs, taking my cue. "How's your mom?"

"Good. I'm supposed to go over there for lunch on Sunday. It'll be nice to see my brother. It feels like it's been forever. I haven't seen him in two years. He's always too busy to fly out with my mom and his dad, which is strange considering how hard it is for him apparently to keep a job."

"I haven't seen him since he was a little kid! I can't believe he's an adult now."

"Well, you and I are old as dirt now, so it shouldn't be a surprise," I observe.

"True. But isn't thirty the new twenty these days?"

I look over at the loud table next to us, filled with kids around that age. "I wish."

The waitress returns to take our entree order, and just as she's walking off, my phone dings. I stare at Chace's name on the screen.

**Chace:** Come up to the bar. I'll buy you two a drink.

"Do you want a margarita?" I ask Kat.

"Sure. Frozen, strawberry."

"Okay." I push off the table and turn for the bar, where I find an opening next to an empty stool on the end and wedge myself between it and the wall. The man on the stool next to it immediately turns to me and smiles, and I offer a polite smile back.

Chace is down the bar taking an order, and I see his eyes quickly dart in my direction then back to his customer.

"Well, just who are you?" the guy next to me asks, turning toward me.

"Sera." He's tipsy. I can hear it in his voice. _Ew. And smell it._

"I've never seen you before." His eyes are big, his tone creepy.

Older men always cause knots to fill my stomach. _Is this the town's resident drunk?_ Old Larry passed when I was in high school. He used to wander the streets on Commercial with a brown paper bag clutched in his right hand. "Just moved here."

"Why? Why would you want to move _here_?"

"I grew up here," I say dismissively—I hope.

Chace walks over, interrupting my conversation with my new _friend_. "What would you like?" he asks me.

"I'll take a margarita on the rocks. Salt. Kat's requested a frozen strawberry margarita." I can feel the drunk man next to me still ogling.

Chace looks at the guy a few times, and when he leaves to make our drinks, the drunkard wastes no time.

"So, will I see you around here now that you're settled in?"

I fidget. "Ah, maybe. It seems like an all right place."

"Well, I'll have to buy you a drink sometime. Watch my seat. I gotta piss."

Chace comes back with our drinks as the man hops off his stool, and I glare. In return, Chace laughs. "Okay, I didn't know if you needed help there or not."

"I needed help!" I hiss. "Couldn't you see the look on my face? And he smells like an ashtray."

"He always does, and I thought so, but I didn't want to interrupt if you were into the guy."

"Very funny. No, I'm not __ into older men. Thanks. Next time help me."

Chace smiles. __ "Okay, just give me the look and I'll get the dude gone."

"Thank you, Mr. Bartender. And thank you for these drinks." I raise them and smile. "I owe you one."

"Yes, you do, and I'm collecting tonight."

_That was hot._

_Wait, what did he say?_

I scrunch up my face at him, causing him to chuckle.

"I won't be home tonight. Can you make sure my dog, Artax, has food? I'd appreciate it," he says.

"Yeah, yeah, no problem. Anytime," my words tumble out. "Well I'm going to head back to my table before Smokey the Bear gets back. Thanks."

"Any time." He smiles that small smile again and turns.

_God. That smile._ I'm beginning to enjoy looking at it.

# WOULDA LEFT ME TOO

## MARCH 10TH

The next couple of weeks in Missouri fly by. Each day I wake around eleven to get ready for lunch with Kat. We try a new restaurant each day. Some of the old ones from years ago are still here, but many new ones have replaced failed establishments.

After lunch, I drop her off and head home to check for any of the million packages I ordered. My mother's old closet fills up more each day.

I spend a few hours on my author Facebook and Twitter pages interacting with fans, while also trying my best to ignore angry comments over having no news to offer about a new book.

After that's taken care of, I change clothes and head back into town to meet Kat at her new place. She decided to be the one to move out of the house she shared with her husband. Her downtown store has a living space above it, a roomy two-bedroom loft apartment. It's been vacant for years and needs a lot of sprucing up, but I'm here to help.

First thing we set our minds to is painting the walls. Kat's been sleeping on the couch in the living room, surrounded by boxes. I know she's glad to have so much work ahead of her. It'll keep her mind off things. And it'll keep _my_ mind off the blank computer screen waiting for me at home. While helping my friend, I can pretend it isn't there—looming.

I know I'm finding new excuses to avoid writing each week, just as I've been doing for over a year, but I'm not sure how to stop.

When I'm not with Kat, I keep busy in other ways—like binge watching the entire series of Game of Thrones, washing my new car, walking the woods. I download fifteen audio books. I even do manual labor, pulling weeds and tulips from the flowerbeds after noticing it on a to-do list Chace left pinned to the fridge. He thanks me numerous times.

I clean the house every other day, and I hate cleaning.

Although he isn't there often enough to dirty it, I pity Chace having to take care of such a large house alone. Dust settles no matter what. Floors need sweeping and mopping. Rugs need vacuuming. The large front porch needs care; dirt is always landing on it. The massive yard alone is exhausting to upkeep. Having spent so many years in the city, I don't know where to start on any of it. So, I keep an eye on Chace's list and phone my mother when I finish some tasks. Chace asks me not to worry about any of it, assuring me it's his way of paying for room and board, to which I remind him that I live there now, too.

To my shame, after just a week and half of all the upkeep torture, I find someone in the paper to come clean the house. I have a housekeeper in the city, so it's more my style to just pay someone.

Overall, I see little of Chace.

Mornings are not my favorite, one of the many reasons I don't emerge until nearly mid-day. I hear him moving around at ten each morning and then he leaves the house. I don't hear the sound of his Jeep making its way back down the drive until nearly midnight.

I wonder when he has free time, recalling my college days of juggling school and full-time employment.

It's even been quite some time since I've heard him play his guitar. Some nights I hear him outside playing with his dog before they both come in for the night. He must feel remorse for having to leave him alone for so long.

The dog is always on the porch. When I leave for lunch, he's there. When I return, he's there. When I come home at night, he's there, always staring at the driveway.

I find myself staying up until around three in the morning—my usual. The later I stay up, the better I write, not that it's helped for a long time.

Now I spend the quiet hours simultaneously switching between Facebook, Twitter, my blog, Instagram, and Google. It's a complete waste of time but I can't break the cycle. Google is the most depressing. _Never fucking Google yourself._ There are many articles circulating about me, none of which stray from the Tristan topic. Two articles mention my exodus from New York. They describe how heartbroken I am, and that I left New York to avoid running into my ex.

Tristan is filming in New York, so kudos to the press on that one. I try not to let it get to me, but being painted the sad heartbroken woman is _not_ sitting well with me. Not one magazine or newspaper has contacted me to get my side of the story—likely because I changed my number immediately after the breakup—but I do have an email address.

I can't control what's written about me, but I can control what I say about it, which has always been nothing.

Saying nothing is probably what drove Tristan away.

Kat is my ear through all of this. My life seems exotic and intriguing to those living here, but I have nothing in common with the friends I left behind. I'm the minority among the females that live here. I'm nearly thirty and have no urge to get married. I don't have baby fever. I _think_ I want children one day, but my clock isn't ticking, though some would argue that it is.

I've accomplished so much on my own already; I see no need to lean on anyone else. Maybe that's why I never find myself in serious relationships—save for Tristan, the closest I've ever gotten to anything real.

I never felt out of place with these views in New York, but here I do. Despite my lack of warm giggly feelings toward diamond ring commercials since returning home, I feel the need to find someone. The one-night stands and casual flings, in general, need to stop.

I want someone who can stay over at my place without me feeling the urge to kick them out at dawn. My relationship with Tristan lasted longer than normal due to the strangeness of it. He was the hottest celebrity in the world, I almost felt obligated to fall for him. Like there would be something wrong with me if I didn't.

And it was easy when I felt suffocated. I could stay home while he was on location. When I craved him, I could fly out to him, once spending two months in Scotland while he filmed. We didn't have to wake to each other every day, go through the standard trials and tribulations of a normal couple.

Possibly, because of my lifestyle, an ordinary relationship just isn't in the cards. At least that's the excuse I often make for myself. But, I can write from anywhere. My job is flexible.

I debate staying here in this small town each night. My mother would love that. _Wait. Why am I even toying with that idea?_ I escaped this tiny prison years ago, and I'm certainly not going to find anyone to settle down with here. New York is ripe with attractive, smart, successful men. I'm here for work. If I plan to take someone seriously, it can wait until I return to the city.

Whether near or far, my mother calls me every day. One weekday I visit her classroom while she takes lunch, learning a few things about Chace in the process.

I'm sitting at one of her students' desks with my feet propped up on another across the aisle when I bring him up.

"How's everything going so far?" she asks.

"Great. It's been forever since I lived with anyone, though Chace _is_ gone a lot. Most of the time I feel like I'm living alone."

"Are you two getting along?"

"Yeah." I laugh. "I don't see how anyone could _not_ get along with the kid."

"He's a good one. I wish Andrew would, you know, take after him more."

"Yeah, you mentioned that. I know. Maybe he'll figure it out." I shrug. I still haven't gotten to see my stepbrother since I returned home. He's up north, in Kansas City with his mother, wanting to get away after yet another disagreement with his father. My mother says he'll be coming back soon, though. "So, Chace mentioned being out at the house a lot as a kid. It sounds like he practically lived with you guys."

_"_ He did. He was like Andrew's brother."

"Why wasn't Chace at his own house much?"

My mother sets her fork down. "Well, Sera, he had a hard childhood. I thought I told you years ago."

"No, I don't think so," I reply, taking my own lunch from my lap and putting it on the desk.

"It was just Chace and his father at home. I'm glad he was with us so much."

"He wasn't, like, abused or anything was he?" My stomach lurches.

My mother shakes her head. "No, he wasn't abused."

"Did his dad work nights or something?" I press.

"You're awfully curious about him." My mother cocks an eyebrow.

I grab my salad and brush it off. "You know me. I ask questions. I'm a writer. Anyways, lunch this Sunday. I'm going to invite Kat."

"Oh, that'd be great. I haven't seen her in forever. How's she doing with everything?"

"I don't know. When I got here I could tell everything hit her hard. But, something's up. The past two days she's been blowing me off. I'm worried about her. I don't know of any other friends she has. She doesn't need to be holed up in that place all alone. It's not good."

"A couple of days is nothing. Sometimes you need solitude. Maybe you can get her out here Sunday and things will swing back around the other way."

"I hope."

"Is Chace coming on Sunday, too?"

"He hasn't mentioned anything," I tell her.

"I'll make sure he __ comes out. If he can get off work. __ That boy works too much. I told him he could live there for free so he could work less, but he insists on working long hours."

_"_ Use your mom-voice. It always worked on me as a kid." I laugh. "I'm surprised Andrew's living there with you guys and not out here with Chace. Wouldn't that be the ideal place for a twenty-two-year-old slacker to live?"

My mother rolls her eyes. "Well, Andrew got the bright idea that he could live out there with Chace rent-free as well. But his dad said he would have to pay rent because he isn't in college."

"Ah, makes sense."

"Now they just drive each other crazy. Andrew with his music, his father with the constant ' _get-your-life-together'_ talk. That's why your brother had to get away for a while. I agree with Paul, he needs to get a plan, but I'd be foolish to believe college is for everyone."

"Mom, you're getting soft." I smirk.

Later that night I replay the conversation with my mother repeatedly in my head. I still can't believe she said that. She used to shove college brochures down my throat. I didn't put up a fight, because I wanted to go. _Poor Andrew._ I hate that he's fighting with his father, that he feels like he needs to run away from his home.

I know the feeling.

At least Andrew has a place to run. When I ran away, I didn't have anywhere to go, so I ran away to the written word.

In Chace's case, it sounds like no one at home cared about him growing up.

In my teens, I might have fantasized about trading places with him. I stare up at the ceiling, from my mother's old bed.

When this house suffocated me, I ran to the woods. I ran to the words trapped within the pages of the journals that littered my room. I've always loved to run. I learned to cope that way from a young age. I ran away from my mother's questioning eyes on the nights I would cry for no reason. I ran away from the truth, blaming my tears on a sad book I'd read, on any excuse I could find.

I feel a tear run down my cheek, landing on my mother's comforter. I sit up and wipe my eyes.

A sound outside my window pulls me from my past. It's the distinct sound of a basketball methodically hitting the pavement.

# ASKING FOR A FRIEND

## March 25th

I don't hear Chace pull up the driveway, assuming he made it back while I showered earlier. _I need more friends here,_ I muse. It isn't like I'm writing. I pull off my robe and search for warm clothes since the nights still hold a chill.

I find him outside shooting the ball, with his dog relaxing close by on the pavement. I intercept the ball and he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of me.

"Shit! You scared me." Chace clutches his hand to his chest. "I'm sorry. Were you asleep? Did I wake you?"

"Nah, I was still up." I can't help but grin at his scare as I walk to the edge of the pavement, plopping down and pulling my ankles in close. "Do you normally play basketball by yourself on the Friday nights you don't work?" I roll the ball back to him.

"What can I say? I'm a party animal," he jokes. "It's been a long ass week. I'm glad it's over." He dribbles the ball around slowly, circling.

"You seem to be a pretty busy guy. Do you ever have free time?"

"Yep. You're looking at it right now."

I smile. "So, you go to school full-time, you have two jobs, and you keep up with the house." I'm genuinely impressed.

"Yes, ma'am. Although you've been helping with that a lot lately. Again, thank you."

"No big deal." I don't think he's caught on yet that I'm now paying someone to do the work. "Maybe you should quit one of those jobs."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Have you been talking to your mom about me?"

"Maybe," I hint, looking up at the sky and faking innocence.

"Has she recruited you to her side?"

"I don't have a strong opinion on it. You're young. If you want to burn the candle at both ends, that's your prerogative."

"Well, I'm actually considering quitting one of my jobs, so your mom should be happy."

"Mother always knows what's best. And mine was always right," I admit.

"Your tone implies you know that all too well."

"When I was growing up, we got into _so_ many arguments. I was stubborn as hell. I'm still stubborn, and I don't regret testing her because I think she liked that I did. And maybe she wasn't _always_ right. When I decided to go to school in New York, she said I'd end up back home."

"But, you _are_ back home."

"Technicality. Not for good, just a short while," I say to him, trying to convince myself.

"I see."

"I did miss this place, though. I didn't realize how much until I got here. It's beautiful. Where I live, I can't sit outside and listen to the crickets at night. I can't see the stars like this. There are a million other places across the Midwest. But it feels _different_ here." The open Ozark air is invigorating. Outside, I don't feel the ache the house inflicts.

"It's home. I would love to raise a family in a house like this. On land like this," Chace says.

"You know, you and my brother are so different. I can't believe you two are friends. You seem mature. You have your priorities together." I miss Andrew.

"I think Andrew will get it together. Once all his friends start to settle down and he sees he's the last one acting like a teenager, it'll kick him in the ass. At least I hope. He has to do it in his own time. No one can make him do anything." Chace bounces the ball, seemingly unworried about Andrew.

"You're right."

"Your brother's a good guy. The best, actually. He'd do anything for anyone. He's like family to me."

"Seems like the rest of my family feels that way about you, too."

"Yeah. Your stepdad is kind of a hard ass, though."

"He always has been. I mean, ex-marine-turned-lawyer, what else could he be?" Paul is a hard ass, but he loves my mother fiercely.

"True. Andrew doesn't stand a chance against him." He stops dribbling and pacing, making his way to me before taking a seat on the pavement as well.

I feel nervous by his nearness. "The way my stepdad looks at my mom, though...he's never a hard ass with her. I can't help but ask, "What are your parents like?" I haven't learned enough from my mother.

"Ah, well, I just have my dad. He lives up in Saint Louis. I was born there, and once I graduated high school, he went back. I try to get up and see him when I can."

"Any siblings?"

"No." He twirls the ball in front of him, focused on it.

"Well, I know what it's like to be the only child."

"Did your father ever have any other kids?"

"No. He didn't even want to have me."

"What?" Chace turns to me, away from the ball spinning in his hands.

"I always asked my mom about my father. She never wanted to tell me anything, so I invented stories in my mind. Most of my friends had families that were whole, ya know?"

Chace nods like he understands what I'm saying all too well.

"It took me a while to realize how lucky I am to have the mother I do. We were an odd household, with my grandparents here. It wasn't what some would consider a _normal_ family. Eventually, when I was around seventeen, I got her to confess, though."

"What happened?" Chace asks, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at me.

"My mom met my father in her freshman year of college, when he was a senior. When she finally graduated, he proposed. It wasn't until after they made their vows that he admitted he didn't want to have children. He'd...misled her, but she kept her vows, as she does all promises, even though she felt cheated. According to her, he agreed children would be in their future before they got married. When she turned thirty-one, she couldn't take it anymore. She desperately wanted to have a child. Despite his begging, she filed for divorce. He fought to keep her—promised her the world—but the one thing he couldn't promise was what she desired most. After she moved back in with her parents, she found out she was pregnant. When she told her estranged husband the news, he stopped begging for reconciliation."

I've never told anyone this story before, not even Kat. I look down into Chace's eyes. They're the reason for my confession.

"What an idiot." He doesn't need to say anything else.

"I don't even know why I'm blabbing about all of this." I never open up to strangers. I barely open up to those I hold close. But here I am, doing just that.

Chace's voice is low when he says, "I don't mind."

"I've never talked to anyone about this," I admit.

"Sometimes it's easy to tell someone you don't know that well the things it's harder to tell those tied closest to you."

_Is this guy in my brain?_ "Do you have a girlfriend?" I can't stop myself, thinking back to my first day here when the pretty girl got into his Jeep once he dropped me off at Kat's shop.

"No. Not anymore." Chace shakes his head. "Recently single. Does it look like I have time for one?"

"You must have a ton of girls your age chasing you."

"I've never actually had a serious girlfriend before. If you don't have time for someone, you shouldn't be in a relationship. No one wants a half-ass boyfriend. My ex ended up resenting me because I never took her anywhere. But I seriously just never had any time. I knew it would happen, so it was my fault."

"She was hot, huh?" I accuse.

"You are correct in that assumption." He laughs. "That's what got me. A pretty face can turn a man to goo sometimes."

"Well if you quit that job you'll have more time on your hands."

"I don't know." He sits up and tosses the basketball in front of him. We both watch it roll over to the grass. Chace leans back on his elbows again.

I turn to him. "Would she be willing?"

"Yes."

"Whoa, no hesitation there." I lean back as well. "Has she mentioned it?"

"She comes up to the bar a lot. Her eyes...it's there." He doesn't sound thrilled at her chase.

"You're a heartbreaker."

"No. No, not true." He laughs, softly. And I believe he doesn't think he's a heartbreaker. But the boy has all the tools to be one. "So, do you miss it?"

"Miss what?" I ask.

"The city?"

"Yes and no."

Chace hops up at my answer, startling me. "I'm going to get a beer. Do you want anything?"

"Wine. I need wine." I need something to calm my nerves. Something to stop me from asking dumb questions like, _'Do you have a girlfriend?'_

He returns quickly, handing me a glass of Merlot. "How much traveling do you do with your job?"

"A lot, at times. When you mix in the promotion I did for the books and then the traveling for the movies, that's a lot of frequent flyer miles."

"I'd love to travel," he says.

"Have you been anywhere?"

"Not since I was a kid. Well, no, about two years ago I drove down to Nashville for the weekend with your brother." Chace smiles, and I can tell he likes the city.

"Oh, I like Nashville."

"I'd live there."

"Do you think when you graduate you'll try to teach here?" Though he mentioned raising a family here, I can see him leaving. I can see him doing anything he desires.

"I haven't decided yet."

"Well, you have time. What, two years left?"

"Yes."

"What made you want to become a teacher? Please don't say my mom." But I know that'll be his answer despite my plea.

"Your mom."

We both laugh. "So, her persuasion worked on you, then. She tried with me."

"Nah, she didn't have to say anything to me. I think I knew for a long time but never admitted it. The two years after I graduated high school where I just goofed off, my future wasn't at the forefront of my mind. I did great in school, I thrived there. Sometimes that's the only place a kid can be around people who truly care, and your mom was one of those people. I'd love to be that for someone, too."

"Like Aiden."

"Yeah, like Aiden."

"I'm glad my mom has you around to help out." I glance around at the flowers and greenery surrounding the driveway.

"I owe her a lot." He speaks of my mother the way most do. "Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?"

"Yeah, I just never expected to make any money from it." I laugh. "Or to be writing in the genre I do."

"Would you ever write anything else?"

I feel my stomach dip, the way it always does when I think of my writing. "It's hard to switch once you have a solid fan base that expects a certain product from you." I recall all the places my writing took me as a child, and during high school. I miss it. I miss the creative freedom. My words have become a burden.

"You can do anything you want," he encourages. "Even if it seems scary, it doesn't mean it isn't worth a try."

"Yeah, I guess." I take another sip of my wine, unconvinced.

"Don't let fear sway you. You're not your past."

His words feel like a knife. They slip between my rib bones and nestle in with the poisonous parts. _If he only knew._

"Do you ever write anything besides music? Do you ever write lyrics?" I want to hear him play again. My balcony is lonely without his guitar below it.

"Ah, yes. But never for anyone else's ears." He crosses one arm over his eyes.

"Why?" I turn on my side, facing him. Closer to him than I should be.

"I don't know. I just can't imagine someone else singing my words, expressing feelings that belong to me. But, I've been thinking of letting Andrew do some of my songs at a show soon. Maybe. It's scary, you know?"

"Yes, I completely understand. It's hard to be vulnerable in that way. And for all I know, you write crappy songs." I don't believe this for a second. But I'm enjoying the back and forth between us.

"This is true."

"I find that hard to believe, though."

"Why's that?" He removes his arm and looks up at me.

"You have the face. The ' _I-write-lyrics-that-make-women-swoon'_ face."

"I didn't even know that was a thing." Chace laughs—it's a beautiful laugh—and it's music.

"It is. I just created it." I lie down next to him, feeling awkward leaning over him like I am. Like I'm hitting on him.

"Well, the best songs come from sadness. And I don't think your brother's band wants to sing songs like that."

"You like country music, don't you? All sad, sappy songs?" I didn't listen to country music once I moved away. Lately, I'm surrounded by it again.

"They aren't all sad. But yes, country music is home to the most meaningful sad songs."

"I don't think you come off as a sad guy at all. So I'll just say yes, you write swoon-worthy music."

"If you're trying to get me to sing a song I wrote to prove you wrong, it won't work."

I shrug. "Can't blame me for trying."

"I think you're adopted."

"What! Why?" I roll onto my side again, nearly knocking my wine glass over.

Chace quickly grabs it, then sets it in the grass. He stares at the sky, never turning to me. "Your mom is the sweetest woman in the world. You're mischievous."

"Am not," I pout, caught.

"Yes, you are. This is the first I've seen it. But it's definitely there."

"Whatever. You've barely been around since I moved in." _You didn't move in,_ I remind myself. _You're visiting._

"You're shy, but once you get a glass of wine in you, watch out." Chace's smile is something to behold, even from the side.

"The wine is mischievous. _I'm_ an angel."

"I like it." He still won't look at me.

"Thanks." I make myself lie on my back again. Perhaps I'm making him nervous. "My mom mentioned wanting to have lunch over here Sunday—or at her house. I can't remember. She said she needs to take another look at the landscaping. So yeah, here." The wine is making me fuzzy.

"Yeah, she texted me about that too. About an hour ago."

"You want to help me take care of the food?"

"Yeah, I can do that. Anything in particular you have in mind?" He stretches his arms out and nestles them under his head.

I watch the way his muscles move. _Shit._ "Mexican."

"What exactly?"

I pull my attention away from his arms and focus on food. "Nacho bar, and I make these amazing steak tacos."

Chace leans up and tips the last of his beer back.

I find myself watching his movements. The wine is doing bad things to my brain.

He turns and catches me staring, returning my gaze with a shy smile. "Want to see something?" he asks, standing.

I nod, and he offers his hand, which I grab. His touch isn't helping, so I drop his hand as soon as I'm on my feet.

I follow him to the shed on the other side of the house. Upon reaching it, he slips a small key from his pocket. Growing up, my grandfather always kept this building locked. I haven't been in it since I came back. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, so I reach up, rubbing my nerves away.

I follow Chace in, curiosity pushing my anxiety away. He flips the light on and there's no question as to what he's intending to show me. The shop is littered with bicycles. It's too much to take in all at once. My eyes rapidly scan. Some are new, some old, some rusted, some with brand new paint. Cruisers, road bikes, mountain bikes. I see a tandem bike in the far corner. They're all so beautiful.

My eyes come back to Chace, who's bouncing on the seat of an older model that's been restored—candy apple red.

He smiles at me. "I have a problem, huh?"

"No. It's awesome," I reply, in awe. "When'd you start buying them?"

"High school. It's become an obsession. Honestly, it's part of the reason I have so many jobs. This hobby isn't cheap. I should just sell some of them and take a semester or two off from work. It'd be easier. But I can't part with any of them."

My mother had been the same way with typewriters. She had tons when I was little, and she could never resist when we found one at an antique mall. I loved them, too. They were so beautiful, and she left many behind here. They were never just for looks. She used them. She let me use them.

"Do you ride all these bikes?"

"I try to get all of them in running condition. If not, those are the ones I sell. They aren't appealing to me if I can't ride them."

"How often do you ride?"

"Every week from spring until winter."

I recall the bike rack on the back of his Jeep. I haven't been on a bike in years.

When I was a kid, I desperately wanted a teal mountain bike. I saw one at Wal-Mart and it was love at first sight. My mother and I had ventured to the store in her small car, so taking it home along with the groceries wasn't an option. At dinner that night I talked incessantly about the bike. I wanted one of those little license plates on the back with my name on it. I begged to return to the store to purchase it.

My grandfather told me he had a perfectly good bike in the shed I could use. He'd give it a new paint job and it'd be good as new. Of course, this wasn't an even trade in my young eyes. I wanted the shiny new one at the store. Most of my friends had new bikes of their own. I never got a bike that year, but my grandfather worked on the old Schwinn in the garage. _Out of guilt._ _Hush money._

The next spring, he had our mile-long driveway paved. Some might have thought it was a waste of money, but my grandmother wanted somewhere to walk, and driving into town each day to circle the park was a pain. My desire for a bike came back just as he was finishing his restoration. He'd installed a new seat and a basket. The body was painted sea-foam green, and a new set of tires were put on. It was beautiful. I loved it.

I'd ride back and forth down the drive each night, passing my grandmother and saying to her in a sing-song voice, "I'm faster than yooouuuu!" She'd laugh at me and wave me on.

When I went off to college, I reminded my mother repeatedly that my bike was never to be sold. The memories I shared with my grandmother were tethered to it.

I don't know where it is now.

# I'M ABOUT TO COME ALIVE

## MARCH 27TH

Sunday brings beautiful weather—ideal for the get-together at noon. I took two Advil PMs the night before to ensure I fell asleep at a decent hour to rise early and assist Chace. My mother will be coming over, as well as Paul, my stepfather, who I haven't seen yet since making it home. He works often.

My mom remarried the summer after I graduated high school. She'd been engaged to Paul for two years, and they didn't live together until after their vows. It was a strange thing to do in those times, but my mother didn't want to move me out of the house we shared with her parents so late in my high school years. I should have told her it would have been a relief.

Paul doted on my mother and was always warm toward me. His son was important to him. He wasn't a half-ass father, and shared custody of Andrew with his ex-wife. I didn't get to spend much time with Andrew back then, between our parents living in separate houses and the time he spent at his own mother's, but I loved him.

He was a hyper child, always making me laugh. I knew early on he'd be like a flesh and blood brother to me.

I'm happy he's back in town, that I'll get to hug him soon. I want to see him interact with Chace. I'm curious about their friendship, seeing as they're so different.

Chace has Aiden over—another relationship I'm curious about. I can hear them downstairs in the kitchen as I apply my makeup and fix my hair. I love the noise of the house now. Maybe I can stitch up my wounds with these new sounds.

My open balcony door allows for a breeze to enter. Being back here reminds me I don't need a regular family. The first stories I wrote were of all the different ways my childhood could've been with a loving father around. After finding out he had no desire to play a role in my life, the stories changed.

I wondered how and if we could ever meet. If our relationship could just start anew. Other nights, I fantasized about telling him off, screaming at him. How horrible a father he was, and that I had a new and better dad. When I began writing poetry, many pieces were about him. I never let my mother read them. I feared she'd blame herself, and I never wanted to cause her pain. No other mother, in my eyes, could be her. I wrote about him to exorcise him from my mind. Certainly, he'd forgotten about me long ago.

Now here Chace is, all of twenty-two, being a positive male figure in the life of a child. It's attractive.

I find the two boys around the kitchen island, chopping vegetables. Chace, working on his own pile, darts his eyes over to Aiden every few seconds—the child's hold on his knife perfectly matching his mentor.

"Need any help?" I offer, wanting to be useful. In a real way, not in a way I can buy.

Chace stops chopping and waves me over. "Can you finish this? I'll go out back and start pulling the patio furniture out of the shed." He hands the knife over to my reluctant hands.

I'm a lousy cook with only a few go-to recipes to turn to. _Surely I can handle what he has left._

Once Chace heads outside, I walk over to the small radio on the counter and begin switching stations. I find a country station playing Garth Brooks and immediately stop. I know every hit he's put out, thanks to my mother. I remember her excitement when he came out of retirement. I turn back to the counter and Aiden's unimpressed face.

"You like country, too? That's all Chace listens to in the car. I hate it." He scrunches up his nose and shakes his head animatedly.

"New country is horrible. This is old country." I know every nineties country hit by heart. My mother would blast them in the summers when we rode into town to pick up groceries. The windows would be down, our hair whipping in the wind as we sang at the top of our lungs.

"That's what he says. I don't like any of it," Aiden says.

"How 'bout we finish this song then you can pick a station. Deal?"

"Deal," he says, smiling before returning to the task at hand.

My phone dings in my pocket, so I pull it out and see that it's Kat.

**Kat:** What should I bring today? What time again?

**Me:** Just whatever you want to drink. Noon.

**Me:** Actually, bring tortilla chips. And sour cream. You can never have enough.

**Kat:** Sounds good. See ya soon.

Chace walks back in as I set my phone back down. He raises an eyebrow at me and my small pile of vegetables.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I'm not a fast chopper."

He playfully bats me away from the cutting board before turning his attention to Aiden, and I walk around to the barstool. "Aiden, why don't you go outside and get Artax? He needs a bath before people start coming over and petting him. You can use the downstairs bathroom. His shampoo is already down there."

The child sprints off at full speed, and Chace laughs.

"I'm glad I have today off for this," he says.

"Why do you work so much anyway? Other than to buy a million bicycles," I tease. But in truth, I'm glad he's here too. "Do you have a big payment on your Jeep or something?"

"No, that was a high school graduation present from my father," he answers flatly.

"Oh." I don't want to ask more about his family. _Lie._ I do want to, but I'm afraid _._ I've learned a little, but I haven't pressed.

When Chace is near, I feel off. He's a strange mystery. I want to read him, know his secrets.

"I want to take the summer off," he says. "From school and from work. I want to hang with Aiden when school lets out. His mom works two jobs and goes to school full-time. She doesn't have family around to watch him, and I don't want him stuck at some babysitter's house all day."

"That's...that's amazing." _Fuck._ His heart. It's something beautiful. Men his age, unattached, don't want to do these things. They want to have fun and be free.

"Nah."

"No, it is," I affirm. "This kid isn't your family. I'm assuming you don't want any money to watch him, correct?"

"Of course not."

"You're doing something wonderful." I know he's aware of this. It's the reason he's doing it; because it's the right thing to do. He's not the type to tell someone to receive attention. He does it simply because he's good.

I want to be good the way he is good. I'm grim gray-toned morals and sin. A woman wearing bruises from when she was ten.

"Thanks. He needs a man in his life. Someone to set a good example. Someone he can count on."

Poor male figures break little boys just as easily as little girls. "You're going to be a great dad one day," I blurt.

If only my father had been this kind of man. How would I have turned out? Would my life have been the way my silly stories described? It's no use to wonder. I have this life and I don't need him. I've proven that time and time again.

"Yeah, maybe in five or ten years," he says. "Not until I'm completely stable and ready."

"You're not in a hurry like every other kid your age around here?"

"No, definitely not. I have a lot of things I want to do before I start a family, places I want to travel to—like you have. There's this huge world out there away from this town. You know that better than most. I want to see it."

"You said you could raise a family here one day, but have you ever thought about moving away? You mentioned Nashville. Is there anywhere else you could see yourself?"

"Saint Louis is another possibility. It's where my dad and aunts are, but I'm not close with any of them. I'm close to your family. I'd move for them sooner than my own."

_My family is his family. What's his own like?_ "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he insists. "Family's important to me, but things happen. People drift apart. Or are torn apart." He stops chopping vegetables and goes to the sink to wash his hands.

"I know about drifting apart, and I _do_ miss my family. I fly my mom out every summer and holiday." I feel a little guilty for not being there more for the family he loves so much. I just couldn't bring myself to face this house until now.

"I always wondered about the daughter who never came home," he says as he turns back to me, smirking.

"Yeah, kinda shitty of me. I just figured giving them a chance to visit New York was a better option than me coming back to this tiny town. I have no excuse though."

"What's the hardest part of your job?"

"Book signings." Without question.

"Why?"

"There's never enough time. Before I sold the rights to my books, my signings were smaller, more intimate. I could talk with each reader. The events would last for hours and I always felt like I was there for just a moment. Now, it's insane. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for my success, but these days I only have time to sign a book and take a photo. I know it upsets people, and I don't blame them. Some fans drive for hours to be there. I just wish I had more time to give. I try to throw a little bit of goodness out there to make up for it. I do big prizes at the events."

"I'm sure they appreciate that."

"I guess." I shrug. "I just hate letting anyone down and after each signing, I get emails expressing disappointment. I've done more signings recently though, despite not having any new material. I figure since I can't write I should get out there a bit and see people."

"That's good of you. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. You can't help the fact that you have too many fans to take the time to talk to each and every single one of them."

"Thanks." It doesn't feel like enough sometimes.

"You're living the dream, though. Aren't you, Sera?"

I flush at my name. "I'm fortunate. All from sitting in my treehouse, scribbling away on my spiral notepad. Who would've thought it'd end up this way?" All this success for writing that isn't from the heart. It feels like the biggest lie of all. It's been luck. Chance. I don't deserve it. Would I have been a hit with my poetry? Probably not. I stare at my hands on the counter in front of me. _Who am I? Someone living a borrowed life?_

"I'm sure anyone ever who picked up your work could have guessed."

"Maybe I'm a horrible writer. I doubt you've read anything." I want to joke with him. I want to pull myself from the ugly feelings that have crept inside my head.

"You don't think I read your books?" Chace cocks his head to the side, coming around the island to where I sit on the barstool.

"There's no way you do." I turn in my seat to face him. No way has he read my stuff. No freakin' way. All my sin and debauchery, the thought of his eyes on it makes me blush. He's pure and all things good. I'm the devil, sitting in this kitchen with him.

"Maybe I do read erotica. You don't know me."

"What have you read?" _Say all of it. Say none of it._

"Everything." He doesn't smile. He simply stares into my eyes, without blinking.

"Quit messing with me." I hop off the stool, warm from his gaze. I go to the refrigerator and bend to take the orange juice out.

"I'm not."

I pop back up and look at him over the door. "For real?"

"This whole town has probably read your books! Even the ones who like to bad-mouth them. You're my best friend's sister. You're the famous writer who emerged from our tiny town, the only one besides Mikey Finn to do something extraordinary."

"Mikey Finn?" I want to change the subject. Desperately.

"He graduated a few years ahead of me. He's in the NFL now."

"Oh, wow. That's great." I shut the refrigerator door and turn away from him.

"Yeah. Quit trying to distract me from complimenting you." Chace's voice dips low when he adds, "You're a great writer."

"Thank you, Chace." I pause, looking down at my feet. "I can't believe you've read the books." Then I pull a glass from the cabinet and begin pouring.

"Well, it's not like I carry them around to class with me. I'd never live that down. But, you have this huge library here. And your mom has all your books in it." He walks over to me and pulls a glass out for himself. "Can you pour me some, too?"

I reach for the glass, avoiding his fingers. "Sure."

"Thank you."

"In New York, space is a hot commodity. My apartment is pretty roomy, and I have a library there, just not like this one. I send books here all the time."

"Was that room always so big?"

"No, my grandparents' room was directly above the study. I had my mom hire someone to take the floor out. To put in floor-to-ceiling shelves and ladders." I'm grateful she never pushed back on the idea.

"It's awesome. You've never thought about coming back here to live?"

"No. Never." _Finally, a truth._

"I see." His mouth turns up slightly when he says it.

"Why?"

"I remember what it looked like before you made the bestsellers list for the first time. You've had a lot of work done out here since then."

"I like to spend money," I confess. I needed to change this house. To rip it apart and start new. I'd do it all one day. One room at a time.

"Yes, I know you like to spend money. I've noticed all the packages being delivered."

I shrug, smiling. "I collect clothes the way you do bikes."

"I love those bikes."

"How many can you ride at once?" This is becoming our thing—teasing each other. I love the friendship that's forming. I need it.

"One. Not relevant, though. Each serves its own purpose."

"Mm hm."

"You should come riding with me some time," he says.

"I don't have a bike." I decided last night, before popping my Advil, that I needed a road bike to ride with Chace. I jumped online and began researching, then made an appointment at the nearest bike shop.

"I know someone who does."

"You have men's bikes."

"No, I have others. I have a few girl bikes. And you're short enough. They'd probably be perfect for you."

"So, why cycling?"

"It's easier on your joints than running."

He seems a little embarrassed with this answer, and I can't imagine why, but something's suddenly on the outskirts of my mind. Something I should know about him.

I feel like he thinks I know more about him than I do. What have I been told about him in the past? He's been Andrew's best friend for years. My mother surely brought him up on the phone from time to time. What am I missing? I'll ask her when she shows up today.

# WE MUST BE THINKING ALIKE

## MARCH 27TH

The house quickly fills with the kinds of sounds I love inside these walls—laughter and the bustle of moving bodies.

My mother and her husband show up a half hour early, as usual.

My brother, who's back in town, shows up a half hour late, also as usual. Kat, some of my mother's friends, and Andrew's band members stop over, too.

I miss my grandmother's presence.

The boys, sans Chace, start up a game of volleyball in the backyard, pulling the net from the shop building.

My stepfather and Kat even join in. It's nice to see them let loose. My mother, along with her friends and I, watch from lawn chairs. I don't have aunts and uncles, but I have many stand-ins since my mother has numerous friends, mostly teachers. They're as warm and intelligent as she is, which made it easy to go to any of them with my problems over the years.

Surprisingly, my mother did lose one friend when my first book was published—a religious woman with strong opinions on my work. My mother, of course, defended me. So the relationship became strained and eventually died. I felt bad, to blame, but my mother assured me I wasn't.

I'm lucky to have strong women sitting next to me today on the land I grew up on. Kat is as well. She never had a positive female figure in her life. Her mother chose meth over family, and she spent a lot of time at our house.

My mother was forever taking care of children, in and out of school. Much like Chace with Aiden, who's taken the boy to play baseball, beyond the volleyball madness.

I have no doubts that Kat will be a wonderful mother one day. Yet, I'm unsure of myself. I'm not like my mother, not like Kat...or Chace. I haven't been what one would consider outgoing and warm since I was young. I don't have an easy way with children.

I'm a loner, maybe a bit selfish. Friends have suggested this is why I fear commitment, avoid family. They've always suggested it in a nice way, but it still stings to know my truth can be so easily read.

I push my insecurities aside and take in my surroundings again.

Kat's staring adamantly at her phone, furiously typing. I wonder who she's texting, hoping it isn't her ex. Her flushed neck makes me think it is, and that he might be starting an argument with her. I clear my throat to get her attention and her eyes fly to me. I mouth, " _You okay?_ " and she nods. Though I don't believe her, I don't press. Instead, I motion for her to come into the house with me. She smiles and nods before following me.

"Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?" I ask her as I reach the fridge.

"Yeah. Where do you want to eat? Peppers?"

"No, I'm not in the mood for Mexican," I answer, finding a Cheshire grin on her face. "What?"

Kat leans on the island. "How are you going to live with that guy and not fool around with him?"

I brush the hair from my forehead. "Chace? What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Kat says pointedly.

"Like I've said a million times, he's just too young. And look at him out there. He's like family." It's already in my mind. My friend doesn't need to plant it there. And it isn't simply because of his looks, which would catch the attention of any woman. But his heart...it's getting to me. I want it. I want mine to be somewhat near its size.

"He's like family to _your_ family. Not to _you_. You've been gone. And it's not like he's a kid. Hell, your brother isn't a kid anymore."

I scrunch up my face. "Kat, no. Are you saying you think Andrew's hot?"

"He is! Sorry." She shrugs her shoulders.

"Kill me. Please, kill me now." I make a gun with my finger and place it to my temple.

"I'm not saying I'm going to hit on your brother. I'm just saying," she pauses, "I know age won't be an issue for you if you get some wine in you."

I hate hearing that, not because it isn't true, but because it's a part of me I want to leave behind. The promiscuity. The recklessness. I don't want to sleep with Chace; I want to be more like him. More like Kat. More like my mother. _Not like Andrew._ I just don't want to be me anymore. Kat sees the change in my face. I always wear my emotions; I can't hide them.

"Shoot. I'm sorry, Sera," she apologizes. "I didn't mean it in a bad way. You just do what you want. You live in the moment. There's nothing bad about that."

"I don't want to be that way anymore. I just want to _be here_ —to write again. I want to be here for _you._ See my family more. Let's face it, I haven't been the best friend, daughter, _or_ sister. I never come home, and I should. I'm that person who gets rich and forgets where she came from. And look how beautiful it is." I look out the window. The land is beautiful, and the trees keep my secrets. All my guilt is catching up to me and I'm surrounded by everything that matters today. All the things that should matter to a person.

"You didn't forget us," she assures me. "You called all the time. Not a week went by when you didn't text. And look at this house. You've helped keep it beautiful. I think you knew you'd come back. I think we all did."

I guess Chace isn't the only one who thinks I've been renovating this house because I'll return. They're off. _So_ off.

My friend continues with, "You know what I know? I know today is great, because you're home. Look at us all out there. We love you."

I pull my hands to my face. "I love you so much."

"I know," Kat says, reaching for me.

I hate hugs, but I need hers. My oldest friend needs me more than I need her right now, but once again, Kat's taking care of me. Even when her life is falling apart.

I dry my tears and we head back outside. To my surprise, she's able to get me to join in a volleyball game. I'm horrible, but it helps the rest of the day pass quickly.

When my mother and Paul are getting ready to leave, they hug me tightly then do the same with Chace. After helping me clean, my new roommate leaves to take Aiden home. He's barely out of the driveway when he texts me.

**Chace:** Don't get ready for bed. Let's have a drink on the deck when I get back.

I feel a rush at this, followed by guilt, but I stamp it down and find a bottle of wine. A half hour later, his Jeep lights up the drive as I sit reclined on the back deck.

Chace goes inside, grabs a beer, and joins me. It doesn't take much small talk before he asks about my ex.

It startles me it's so unexpected, and something men generally do when they're interested in a woman. _Am I a presumptuous idiot?_

"What was it like dating a celebrity?" He takes a swig of his beer.

"Weird. Different. The same." I've been asked this question many times, and I never know how to answer.

"How? Explain it to me. If you don't mind, I mean."

"The weird? People in the street waiting for us to leave a restaurant so they can get a picture. I didn't like it. Being a successful author isn't in the same realm as being a successful actor or musician. I didn't sign up for that. So, we went to great lengths to avoid the public. There was no enjoying the outside patio of our favorite bistro on a summer day. It felt like something was being taken from me. The different?"

I reach for my neck, thinking of Tristan's smile. "I was with someone who was as passionate about something as I am. His career was as important to him as mine is to me. It'd been a while since I cared about anyone who didn't seem to be drifting through life, or had a job that just paid the bills but didn't ignite passion. When he and I started, I was avoiding the thing I was most passionate about. I wanted to pretend he could fill the void."

I feel my old feelings flare up. Tristan was like me in so many ways, which is likely the reason for our failure.

"And the same?" Chace asks, not letting me off the hook.

"The same is...we drifted. He lied, I avoided. He left, and I didn't cry." _And that bothered him._

"So it ended pretty mutually, then?"

"Yes and no. I went to this cabin I write in from time to time. I told him I needed the weekend to focus, to get my head on straight. About the middle of the next week, I got a text from my best friend in New York saying I needed to check out People Magazine's website. I found an article saying Tristan had ended his year-long relationship with his author girlfriend. It wasn't the first time I'd seen something false about me in the media, but the picture of him kissing his blonde co-star from the film he was working on was undeniable." My throat feels tight, but I continue.

"It could've been an on-set photo, but he was wearing a shirt I bought him. I didn't even get a chance to grab my phone and call him. Someone must have told him about the article. He just texted me ' _Sera, I'm sorry'_ and nothing else. No explanation, no denial. I knew I should call him. Cuss him out, cry, or throw something. Anything. But I didn't respond. I went back to the city and found him at my door. He looked sad, but not guilty. He told me he'd never been in a relationship where he felt alone. He said he'd fallen for me before our first kiss. Every day he saw me on set, completely passionate about the books and the film. He would watch me take notes or write, and he said it was beautiful to him. But I hadn't written a word since that first kiss. He said he couldn't be the reason I had writer's block. Because I wasn't who he fell for. I was distracted and aloof. He wanted me to fall in love with it all again." Saying Tristan's reason out loud breaks away another rock in the pit of my stomach.

"He sounds like a coward to me," Chace says.

"Yeah, he just wanted to screw that chick." I tip back the last of my glass and laugh.

"Oh, thank god." Chace's voice sounds relieved. "I thought from the way you were telling me how he explained himself that you felt _you_ were to blame."

"No. It was a chicken shit move. The way he let himself be photographed out in the open like that, when we were so skilled at avoiding the cameras? It was obviously deliberate. I still don't understand why he explained himself at all when he could've left it alone after knowing I saw them."

"Regret," Chace mumbles.

"I guess so," I consider. "But he wasn't wrong. I _was_ pretty aloof with him. I think it pissed him off more than anything that I never cried. What about you? Tell me more about that hot ex of yours."

"Ah, Caroline," he opens. "I don't know if she even counts as an ex."

"What do you mean?"

"We only dated for about a month." He changes the subject back to me, "So who was the boyfriend before Mr. Movie Star?"

"Ah, no one. Not since college." I reach for the throw blanket at my feet and wrap it around my arms. I feel warm from the wine but the goosebumps on my arms are telling.

"I don't believe that," he says, a flirtatious tone to his voice.

"It's true. I spend a lot of time alone. Nothing is stable. It can be, but I guess I like the change. Once I moved to Austin, Texas for three months just to get out of the city. Just so I could write in a new environment, from a new perspective. And the way I bounce around, it's not exactly the easiest life for relationships. So, I tend to always keep them casual."

"I see. And what was the college boyfriend like?"

"Casual," I tell him with a laugh. "We weren't serious. But, he's actually the man to credit for my career."

Chace raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I regret this conversation." I throw my arm over my eyes and bite my lip.

Chace reaches over and pulls my arm away. His fingers run across the tattoo on my forearm. _A kiss may ruin a human life._ Oscar Wilde. I say it twice in my head before pulling away quickly.

"Come on, tell me." He lays his hand in his lap, where I see his knuckles tighten.

"No. I don't want to now."

"You can't leave it like that." Chace groans and then, "I'll go nuts wondering what you meant. Was he a college professor who discovered your writing? Something like that?"

"No, no. Not that tired old cliché. He was a senior, like me."

"Your face is so red. You don't have to tell me."

"No, I'm going to. Okay, um...well, he and I had a great sex life. We didn't hold back from each other. It was fun, and he knew I loved to write. So, he uh...he said I should write about our sex. And I did." _This is going into dangerous territory._

"I wasn't expecting that."

"I wrote up a little story about how we met, and everything about us. We had fun with it. I gave it to him and he loved it. He said I should try to publish it. I was adamant that I wouldn't, but he eventually convinced me. I changed our names and everything, and I only posted it online, but it blew up."

Chace's voice dips. "And now you're a bestselling author."

"Yes."

"Do you still talk to him?"

"Eh, about twice a year we email."

"This is a weird conversation." He stands and points at my glass, which I hand to him.

"Yeah, I was trying to avoid that." It's too easy to talk to him; he brings something out of me.

Chace retreats into the house to refill our drinks and returns quickly, armed with more questions. "Do you turn red every time you tell that story?"

I reach for the half-full glass in his hand. "I _don't_ tell that story. I just say it all comes from my imagination. Every book."

"Do they all come from real life?" He turns to me, eyes burning into my profile.

"Yeah." Another thing I don't tell people. I can count the people who know this on one hand.

"I see."

"I bet you're thinking about them now, right? My books _._ " _Why did he have to tell me he read them?_ I shouldn't have admitted this. My dark truth. I feel cheap. I'm the demon in my own life. Loneliness doesn't seek me out. I hunt it down.

"How many people know you write about your actual sex life?" Just then, Artax runs up the steps to Chace and lays his head on his owner's outstretched legs. Chace reaches down to pet the dog lovingly behind his ears.

"My assistant. My college boyfriend. My best friend in New York." _My therapist._

"That's it?" His blue eyes burn into my side.

I avoid his gaze as he did mine on the pavement two nights before. "Yeah. And now you." I tip back my second glass of wine, feeling dizzy and warm, and a certain relief as well. I'm telling a man I've known only a short time more than I've told Kat. And it feels great.

"How long has it been since you've written? You said a year?"

"Longer." I hate the reminder. I don't need it. It's etched in my skin, feeling nearly as permanent as the ink covering my surface.

"So, you haven't had sex in over a year?"

"No, I've had sex. Tristan and I only split, what, a month ago?" Our sex had been amazing—worth writing about, but I didn't.

"Then why the block?"

"I'm over it, I guess." I was over it before the madness.

"Over writing?"

"No. I love to write, but I want more. I want to write a novel about something more. Something important to me. I don't want to write any more synonyms for cock!"

Chace nearly spits out his beer, and I finally turn to him. "Oh, is that all?" he asks.

"I want to write the way I did when I was a kid. The way I did in high school and college before this whole crazy train left the station." I've forgotten what that even looks like. _I need to find my old journals._

"I bet anything you write is great," he says.

"Thanks." He's only read my published work. The commercial work. He doesn't know. _I want him to know._

Chace clears his throat. "Why'd you tell me all of this?"

"You're easy to talk to," I admit. "I can see why you have so many friends, why my family loves you. The kids you teach are going to take one look at your face and know they can trust you with any secret they have."

_I feel like I can, too._

# TIME MARCHES ON

## APRIL 1st

_Tick..._

_Tock..._

_Tick..._

_Tock..._

_Shut..._

_The..._

_Fuck..._

_Up._

_I._

_Am going._

_To smash._

_My watch._

How can it be that loud from across the room? Another five days have gone by in Missouri—no writing—and I'm staring down the barrel of a lonely Friday night.

I've been so busy that the week flew by. Lunches with Kat, dinners at my mother's. I interrogated her about Chace, so sure I'm missing something about him. It nags at me. When she finally told me, my memory woke as well and I recalled his story before she even finished. _How did I ever forget?_ It's tragic, and I'm afraid I'll look at him differently, but not in a bad way.

There's been little sight of Chace. It appears another busy week has taken him from our shared home.

He texted me a few times, asking for favors with his dog. I welcomed the tiny things he asked of me. Now, though, the house is too quiet, and the desire to close my laptop and turn on the television burns me.

I take my phone off the nightstand again. No texts or calls. My loneliness and boredom mingle in my belly. Kat and my mother are most likely asleep. My best friend in New York, Gemma, is on a date. And Chace is likely at work.

I can't text him or go downstairs for company when he gets back. _Can I? Do we know each other well enough for me to do that?_

I draft a text to him, then delete it. Then I draft another, and delete it. _Why is my isolation bothering me right now?_ I'm no stranger to it. I've been on solo writing retreats many times. I flinch at the sound of Artax's bark, pulling me from my thoughts. _Chace is home._

I hear the sound of gravel crunching as I still myself in the dark of my room, my face illuminated by the screen of my MacBook before I slowly close it. Maybe he'll play guitar on the porch tonight. It'd cap off this horrible and wordless day nicely. I melt into the pillow behind me, listening to Chace talk softly to his dog on the porch below.

Then my phone vibrates in my hand.

**Chace:** I hope you didn't fall asleep with that door open.

I glance at my balcony door, smiling, then text back that I'm awake and would never go to sleep with the door open.

**Chace:** Do you own a bathing suit?

**Me:** No??

**Chace:** Are you unsure if you do?

**Me:** I don't.

**Chace:** Shit. Do you have anything to swim in?

**Me:** Why? It's midnight. We don't own a pool.

**Chace:** I had a shitty day. I wanted to see you in a bathing suit.

**Me:** Um...

**Chace:** Kidding! Just trust me. It'll be fun

**Me:** Okay. Only because of your shitty day.

**Chace:** Meet me outside in a bit.

I meet Chace outside, by his Jeep. He's kneeling by his dog, ruffling his fur. He has on a pair of dark gray running pants, a tight white T-shirt, and a pair of eyeglasses. _Those are new._

He stands at my approach and nods approvingly at my clothes. "You look properly attired for breaking and entering."

I halt my steps. "What?"

"Nothing. Hop in," he says.

He's energetic and alive. I can feel him, and I choke out a breath, half-laughing at his playfulness. "I believe I heard the words _breaking_ _and_ _entering_. No way I'm getting in that car." I cross my arms over my chest for emphasis.

"Trust me. We're going to have fun. I can't go alone." He walks over to his vehicle and swings the door open, hopping in.

"To where?" I sound like an old lady as I begrudgingly follow, opening the passenger door and pursing my lips. I stand outside, not ready to jump in yet, staring at his blue eyes.

He loses his smile and stares up at the sky for a moment, then moves his eyes to me. "I've had a horrible day."

"Me too." I need inspiration. I need more than the glow of a handful of Apple products. I have a slight ache in my right temple from the stress of it all. It always happens when I stare at a screen for too long with still hands.

"Then get in."

The moonlight reflects off his glasses and my resolve vanishes right then and there. _I need inspiration._

Moments later we pull out of the driveway and head away from town. I'm unfamiliar with what's in this direction. Due to the fact that I had no friends or family living farther out, I never explored. My mother always drove me to school, so I didn't ride the bus in this direction either.

The cool April air dances in my hair and I move my right arm in the air outside the window. Beside me, Chace begins to sing softly to the radio. Too afraid he'll stop, I keep my face away from him.

I assumed he didn't sing with his guitar playing due to an unpleasant voice. I was wrong. His voice doesn't sound like one you'd associate with country music, which is what his guitar playing sounds like. His singing voice matches the one that spoke to me earlier—calming, soft _._ In no way feminine, but never booming.

"I thought you didn't sing," I say to the passing air.

"This doesn't count." I hear a smile in his voice. The light one I love to see.

"Why?" I turn to him.

"Singing to the radio doesn't count. Everyone does that." Chace reaches over and lowers the volume.

"So?" I want to hear more. That voice, _god,_ there's nothing like it. He's letting his guard down. From the moment I met him, I've had this pesky feeling he's more reserved in my presence. These little glimpses of the guy I feel he truly is have emerged recently.

"So that would mean everyone's a singer," he counters playfully. I like the way the wrinkles look around his eyes.

"You know what I mean." I turn the volume up, just a little, testing.

"I don't sing what I write. And it's easy to sing along to someone else's voice."

"You have a nice voice." _Does he sing for anyone else?_ Maybe he sang on the deck, before I moved in.

"Thank you." He turns the radio off.

"Now you're not going to sing?" I pout.

"No, we're just almost there. We have to be quiet." His voice falls to a whisper and he lowers his head a little.

I mimic his movements, like a shadow. "Where?" The moon shines high in the sky, illuminating everything. I have no fucking clue where we are.

"You haven't figured it out?"

"I never went down past the house. Where the hell are we going?" I start to take a good look at my surroundings. All I can see are trees and the glow of the lines on the road from our headlights. We pull off the road to the right, before the bridge ahead of us, onto a worn-down path, leading us below the overpass.

Chace kills the lights and turns to me. "You ready?"

His excitement is palpable. It feels tangible and I'm afraid the feeling will grab ahold of my arm and never let go. _I want it to._ I'm afraid I'll follow it—and him—anywhere.

But this is _not_ what I signed up for. _A bitter spring creek? Snakes? Slime-covered rocks? No._ It's not warm enough to get in the running water. A summer float would be amazing, but it's definitely not summer. "I am _not_ swimming in this cold ass creek at night."

"Good, me neither. C'mon." He exits the Jeep and begins walking back the way we entered, toward the main road.

I curse and fling my door open, scrambling after him. At the top, he crosses the highway to the road that leads us left. I catch up and see his destination, freezing on the centerline. "No way, man. No way."

"What?" He turns and begins walking backward, grinning while crooking a finger at me—beckoning.

"I'm not breaking into a church camp pool." I furiously shake my head to emphasize my point, not moving from the middle of the road. Luckily, the pavement stretches out on both sides. No one will be popping around a corner to lay me out.

"It'll be okay." He turns again, walking forward once more.

"No way. I'm not doing it," I protest, following him anyway. F _uck, it's true. I_ will _follow him anywhere._

"You can't just sit in the Jeep," he calls over his shoulder, making his way down the hill to the bottom, where the pool sits. I can see tiny little cabins surrounding the water, a big grassy area with two soccer goals, and a building at the far edge of the field by the tree line.

"Why not?"

"Because I won't let you sit down there alone. We'll just have to leave. I want to swim though. Please." He stops and gives me large exaggerated puppy eyes. I'm sure they work on everyone and probably got him out of trouble in the past. The moon makes his eyes glow.

I turn to the right and see my way out. "There's a house right there! Someone is going to see us!" I smile, because he can't argue with that one. _Right?_

"No, I know who lives there. They're out of town. See—no garage, no cars. It'll be fine. This isn't the first time I've done this. There's a spot where the chain link fence separates. It's easy to get in."

I follow him, reassured by the fact that no one is home across the street. Once we get to our destination, Chace bends and begins tugging on the fencing.

"How many times have you done this?" I glance back the way we came as he unwinds wire, holding two sections together.

"A dozen? I don't know, I've lost count."

"I'm surprised. I never would have pegged you for the trespassing type." I kneel down next to him, hiding from the road and any cars that might drive by.

"It's been a long time since I've done this. It was a common occurrence before I started college, the year I was acting like a huge ass hat."

"A huge ass hat?" I can't imagine him as anything other than the saint he is, but I'm seeing a new side of him tonight.

"Yeah, or in your mom's words, _a small-town loser who drank a lot and didn't give a shit._ " He yanks his hand back and sticks his index finger in his mouth. "Fuck."

"I can't picture that. You're Mr. Responsible." But I like the way the curse just sounded coming from his mouth.

"Yeah, Mr. Responsible who got a C on his test today." His tone deflates and he goes back to work on the top of the opening.

"Hence the bad day?"

"Hence the bad day." Finished, he pushes the fence to the side and slips in. Once inside, he pulls it back for me to slip through. "So, I quit the bar. I should've given two weeks' notice, but I was so mad at myself that when I showed up for my shift I told Sheila it would be my last. I felt bad afterward, but I didn't know how to take it back. I could just _hear_ your mom's voice telling me I needed to focus on school more. So, I did it. And I'm glad I did. I'm just kind of...disappointed in myself."

"Tomorrow will be a better day." I walk around the pool, peering into the water. I can't tell how clean or unclean it is without the lights on at the bottom. I hope nothing is swimming around in there.

"Today has already improved." Chace walks in the opposite direction.

"So, who'd you used to come out here with during your brief irresponsible phase?" I imagine him skinny-dipping with pretty girls. He said he hasn't had a girlfriend since high school and I wonder if he plays the field often. I wonder if he's more like me than I thought.

"Well, your brother would come out here with me. And girls, of course."

_Bingo._ I smile to myself. "Oooohh. Were they super impressed with your breaking and entering skills?"

"They were easily impressed," he answers, his tone matter of fact. "How was your day?"

"Mine was also crap. I've been sitting in that damn bed all day staring at a blank screen." The dull ache in my temple is nearly gone. The Ozark air is healing, and my mind is thankful for the stimulation. For life, not the digital imitation of one.

"That bad?" He laughs.

I hold up a hand and sigh. "Dramatic, I know."

"Do you always write at home?" He leans up against the fence and laces his fingers into it above his head.

I try not to look at the sliver of skin exposed below the edge of his shirt. "Not necessarily at home, but always in my room. I've rented a place north of New York where I can write. I can write in a hotel room. Always in bed. I hate sitting at a desk."

"So you do your job from bed. Rough."

"Hey, it can suck." I stop and stare full-on at him from across the pool. I'm beginning to feel nervous.

I'm alone in the dark with this beautiful man and despite resisting, I'm beginning to feel _want_ for him.

"You're not the kind of author who sits in a little coffee shop with her iced caramel latte writing all day?"

"No. I get distracted by people and noise. I need to be in a room, in bed, with music playing softly. No television. It's best if my iPad is across the room. Sure, I can surf the web right there on the computer but for some reason, my iPhone and iPad tempt me more."

"Have you ever thought of trying something new? Maybe it would lift the block."

"Maybe." _What else can I try?_

"When something stumps me, I try to attack it from a new angle. That's what I want to teach children. To think outside the box and step outside their comfort zone."

"I could try something new and still be in this spot. A big fat boulder with no chance of moving."

"You act like you have something to lose."

"You're right," I surrender. "I'll try it." I don't know what exactly he's suggesting I try, but I'm exhausted.

"Tomorrow, then. I know exactly where we can go." He pushes off the fence and edges toward the pool.

"Shouldn't I choose?"

"Nope. I know where we can go. I have the day off since I won't be at the bar anymore."

"I don't write around other people. I have to be alone. That's why I don't go to coffee shops, and I guess that's why I live alone. Hey, maybe _you're_ the problem." I point at him. "You should move out."

"Sera, I'm not taking you to Starbucks or anything like that. Give me some credit. Do you have hiking shoes?"

"Once again you're asking me about specific clothing I own and planning to take me to an unknown destination." _And I like it._ I like that we came here. I'm seeing this small county that raised me with new eyes. This place was nothing more than a synonym for too many ill words in the past. Boring. Stale. Stifling. Wounding.

"Do you regret coming here?" He breaks me away from my thoughts.

"No." I feel calm for the first time in months, in this moment. _He's safe._ For years, I've run from anyone who reminded me of those words because safety is a lie. And I don't think Chace is dull, or ordinary. He has a wildness in him. I can see it here with me, now. His playful side. His youthful side.

"Well, what are you going to swim in? You _are_ swimming, right?" He bends his knee and reaches down to one of his feet, pushing off his worn Converse and slipping his sock off before he dips a toe into the water and swirls it around. "It's a little chilly, but we'll warm up."

I had changed into a matching set of undergarments before we left—black. They don't show much more than any of my bikinis do, but I'm reluctant to undress. The moon is full. "Yes, I am."

I take my time, making my way over to the small ladder. Chace's eyes leave me as he turns his back and pulls his shirt over his neck with one hand. I find it hard to keep my eyes from his skin; it glows in the light—unblemished. It begs to be touched. _This is a horrible idea._ Desire burns inside of me, and it feels foreign.

I've lusted after many men, but this is new and leaves me feeling weak and lightheaded. I turn and begin undressing, overly conscious of my own exposed skin. Lines of script are tattooed all over my surface. My arms, my back, my ribcage, my collarbone, my thighs. I love words more than anything in the world, so I've branded the combinations closest to my heart all over my body. My left arm is covered in various pieces of art—a newly completed sleeve. I sense his gaze on my back.

"I know you're thinking about it." His voice is low.

I turn slowly. "About what?"

Suddenly, I know what he's referring to, and I meet his eyes. He's removed his glasses, and the blue is unreal in the light. He's open. I want to be as open as he is in this moment.

"My leg," he answers. "I wasn't sure if that's why you hadn't turned around. I figured you knew."

It's only partially true. The majority of my shock still stems from the warm feeling his words have been triggering in my stomach all evening. "I didn't. I mean, I did. I forgot." I look down at my hands, clutching my top.

"I figured your mom or Andrew would've mentioned it."

"They did, a long time ago." I still can't believe I forgot his story. I'm sick inside with the memory. I try not to look down at his leg. I don't know what's worse, staring at it or avoiding it.

It doesn't bother me. It doesn't make him any less beautiful to me. And _fuck_ , he is beautiful. His broad shoulders, his arms, his eyes and his lips when he smiles. Everything—everything about him is perfect. I want to make my way around the pool to him. I want to touch him. He's wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He's exposed, but the air around him is closed. He's worried about the way I'll view him now.

"When did you lose it, again?" I sit down on the edge of the pool, lowering myself into the water, away from his gaze. I know the story; I'd just heard it again.

But I want to hear it from him.

# A STRANGER IN MY PLACE

## APRIL 1st

"I was eight," he begins as he makes his way to the steps on his end, descending into the water. "My family and I went on vacation to Florida. Like every summer, my parents, my sister Sasha, and I spent time with my dad's family at their beach house in New Smyrna.

Sasha and I would spend the days building sandcastles and chasing seagulls. At night, my mom and dad would go out on the town while we stayed behind with my aunt and uncle, looking for tiny crabs on the beach. My mom loved to dance, drinking, so my father would take her out to make her happy. Sometimes I'd hear them fighting when they came back. My dad wanted the entire trip to be about family, but she wanted to have her own fun too." Chace's voice changes at the last sentence—anger woven in his brow.

I lower my jaw into the water so only my nose and eyes remain above water. No words come to me, and Chace continues.

"My mom had my sister when she was sixteen, so I guess she felt like she missed out on a lot. My dad was only eighteen, but I doubt he ever had a wild streak. Family was important to him, and I guess it was different for my mom. They were opposites. One afternoon, my dad went fishing with his brother, and my mom left right after he did. Sasha and I stayed on the beach with our Aunt Viv. A couple of hours later, Mom came back and waved us up from the beach. She wanted to take us for ice cream. Once we got in the car, I could smell the alcohol."

He stops speaking and I remain silent, letting him tell the story at his own pace. He dunks himself under the water and wipes his face, keeping his eyes from me, training them on the sky.

"I asked if we could wait until Dad got back but she said he wouldn't be back for a couple of hours anyway. I felt weird being in the car, but...she was my mom, so I didn't protest. I remember my sister reaching her hand behind her seat, looking for mine. I grabbed it. I didn't want ice cream anymore."

My stomach lurches at his words. I straighten my legs and rise halfway out of the water, pulling my hair over my shoulder and wringing the water from it.

I want time to stand still.

I don't want to hear the rest. I know how it ends, but he needs to tell me.

Finally, Chace looks at me. "We went over a bridge, but we never made it to the other side. My mom was smoking, something she never did. I assume it was a habit she only indulged in while drinking. We had the windows open and the air off even though it was sweltering. She dropped her cigarette and reached down to get it. Her head was below the top of the wheel. She wasn't looking at all, and her hands were away from the wheel. I remember my sister screaming and trying to steer from the passenger seat, but it was too late by then. Our front bumper hit another car and bounced us off it, sending us fishtailing. I grabbed the seat in front of me and closed my eyes. We went into the bay. With our open windows, the car filled fast. My mom and sister hit the dash and were unconscious. I tried to get Sasha, but she was too heavy for me. I barely made it to the surface. I didn't know my leg was broken then. I was in shock."

His voice trails off, and I feel relief. I don't know if I could have listened to any more.

The silence surrounds us, and my voice sounds small when I speak again. "You didn't have to tell me all of that."

"It's public knowledge. Google me." He shrugs, and his voice is light again. He wants to move away from the story—from _his_ story.

"I would feel bad for doing that," I say.

"Why? I've Googled you before." His smile comes back.

"Why?"

"I wanted to find anything you wrote. After that summer, everyone knew what happened to me. I couldn't take the staring. It made me feel worse—broken. My dad couldn't look at me, so I hated being home. The teachers and my classmates pitied me, so I hated being at school. My old friends didn't know how to act around me, so I spent most lunches sitting alone. Then, one day your brother sat down next to me."

I smile at the thought of my silly brother sitting next to a shy, quiet Chace. He makes everyone feel comfortable around him. He's so good at that.

"He was new. That was the year he started living with his dad and your mom. He didn't say anything. He just smiled at me and started to eat his lunch. It felt nice to sit next to someone and not worry about how bad they felt. You can _feel_ pity. And...he was just there to eat lunch. He came back the next day, and the next. At the end of the week, he said I should come over to his house after school to hang out. It was the first thing he said to me, but it felt like we were already friends. We went to the old house with your mom—when she was working on packing up things in the attic—and we just ran all through the woods. I was a kid again out there. The next week I went over there three times and we did the same stuff. My dad didn't care that I wasn't home. He had more time to sit in his office and drink without having to bother with feeding me."

He dunks his head under the water again and comes back out, shaking his head like a dog. Little droplets of water hit my face.

"School became bearable again," he continues. "I had your brother there. At night, I had your family. I dreaded the weekends when I'd be stuck at home with my father. I wasted my hours alone, watching movies. And my dad never cooked, but he kept us stocked up on bread for PB and J sandwiches, along with boxed mac and cheese. A lot of cereal was consumed. I started to view the time I spent at home as visiting, because at your mother's, it felt like the place I belonged."

He felt like he belonged there. In that house. He escaped his nightmare in the place mine began. He had somewhere he could go when his home was the thing that wounded him. _If only I had._ I wrap my arms around myself as a chill runs up my spine.

"Years ago, on one of the first cold fall nights, your mom insisted Andrew and I stay inside instead of roaming the woods," he starts. "She picked up pizzas that night to stop him from complaining about it. She was going to spend the evening painting the room I stay in now—your old room. Your stepfather was out of town on business. I remember us hanging out in front of the fireplace. Your mom pulled out a three-ring binder. I knew she was a teacher, so I figured she was about to give us some sort of assignment. Instead, it was a book. She said, ' _my daughter wrote it when she was in high school; it's never been published'_ —and __ your brother groaned. He said he wanted to play a game, so, I took it. I read until it was time to go, and your mom said I could take it with me. I went straight to my room when I got home and stayed up until one in the morning reading your story. I finished it. That was one of the first nights I didn't dream about my mother and sister. I dreamt about the story you wrote instead."

I feel like I haven't taken a single breath the entire time his light voice hummed around the pool. My chest rises and falls erratically, my eyes trained on the ghost of a shadow of my legs below the surface.

I pull my gaze away and look at his face. The belief that the eyes are the windows to the soul is well known. Everyone knows that damn saying, and for good reason—it's true. I feel like Chace's soul is staring back at me.

I wrote countless stories when I was younger, so I have no clue which one it could have been. I've forgotten nearly everything. Time will do that to you, and part of me is glad I forgot them. I've learned a lot about writing, and if I were to look at those stories now, I'd pick them apart.

But I know my heart is in them.

That's the real reason I don't want to read them again. The stories told back then will be more _me_ than anything I've published. The stories that have made me a millionaire.

"Which one was it?" I ask.

"It was about a man who played guitar by the sea," he says softly.

"For the mermaid," I say. That obsession was brought forth by a certain red-headed Disney princess.

"Yeah." He begins circling around the back of me, and I twirl in the water to continue facing him. "For the siren."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Life goes on. I get by pretty well. I play sports, I run, I swim. I don't let it get in the way. I've been without that leg for over half my life. I don't remember what it's like to have the other one." He smiles, hesitating. "You're not the only one surprised right now, if that makes you feel better."

We both know I didn't mean his leg when said I was sorry. And, he's obviously not held back by it. It's his story, his tragedy, but if he doesn't want to talk about it anymore who am I to blame him? He opened up to me. We've been doing that a lot lately—exposing scars, the way lovers do when their guards are let down and intimacy is inevitable.

"What are you surprised by?" I cock my head to the side and my brow furrows.

He points to my collarbone, to the lines inked along my skin. "You have a lot more tattoos than I would have guessed."

"I hear that a lot." _After I've undressed, before sex._ Men always point them out. I blush at the thought. Surely Chace can figure out when I hear that statement from men.

"Once the books took off, and I knew for sure that I could do this for the rest of my life, I couldn't stop myself," I explain. "I knew I'd never have to cover a tattoo for a job interview so I could get them anywhere. They're addicting. I started to reward myself with them. I'd get one when I completed a project, or when one of my books hit the bestsellers list. I'm running out of places, though. I'll look like a walking book one day if I don't stop. One that doesn't make sense." I laugh.

"How many do you have?"

"If you count my arm as one?" I look up at the stars, and they wink at me. _Devils._ "Twelve."

"Wow." He's still circling me, and I'm still spinning.

I have the urge to walk out of the water, to let him look my body over and count for himself. I silence my forward thought. _This is my roommate, not book research._

"You've never wanted to get a tattoo?" I ask, though his skin is too perfect to mark. I love all men. Tattooed, pierced, clean cut. I'm not a woman with a type. Men are beautiful, and how they choose to paint their canvas is entirely up to them. I love the art of them.

"Ah, not seriously. I mean, having a sleeve like that would be awesome, but I could never have one with my job."

A teacher with tattoos in a small Bible Belt town such as this would be frowned upon. It's a town of gossip, judgment, and tight-lipped fear. I can see his point.

"One of my best friends is working on her second sleeve," I tell him. "She's pretty badass."

Gemma—my best friend in New York—is the one who gave me for my first tattoo, and every one thereafter.

"A sleeve on a woman is hot. I will not deny that." He smiles, his eyes crinkling slightly and the white of his teeth glowing.

"How many girls have you brought here?" I grin back and arch a brow at him. _Am I flirting?_ I can hear it in my tone of voice. There's a large switch inside of me, and I know when it's been flipped. I know when every word coming from my mouth is a hook, a snare, a net. I know when I'm hunting. I've been fighting it, been stamping the need down. It's out now; I need to shove it back down.

I shiver suddenly, and he notices.

"You ready to go back?" Chace asks, avoiding my flirtation.

"Yeah, I'm turning a bit blue." I sigh, swimming to the side of the pool where the ladder is. The two towels Chace brought sit next to it. I climb out and grab one before drying off quickly. I can hear Chace swimming over.

He pulls himself from the water and grabs the other, toweling off next to me.

There's nothing like the rush of being near someone you find attractive. Knowing you want to touch them, but can't. I keep my back to him as I dry myself off, and he walks past me toward the break in the fence, his towel around his shoulders. I can't keep my eyes from his leg. It doesn't diminish my attraction to him, doesn't deter me in any way. If anything, it makes me want him more. All that he is, in spite of what happened to him, is beautiful.

The thought of losing Andrew at such a young age makes my stomach knot. That kind of pain is foreign to me. It's all because of the selfishness of his own mother, a woman who wouldn't grow up. Her actions ripped a family apart, sent two of them into the ground, and left two behind, broken. I'm broken still. Death didn't shatter me, but I'd take the death of the innocence I once owned over the death of someone I love.

The drive home is quiet. Chace keeps the radio off and I wrap myself in the blanket he's pulled from the back. My hair dries in the cool Ozark air.

I feel alive—happy. My anxiety lessens in his presence. Maybe Kat's right, and I'm eventually going to cave and act on this attraction. Maybe that's okay.

I'm looking forward to the next day with him, riding the high of spending time with someone who leaves you lightheaded and warm. I've felt it before, used it as fuel and burned it off in pages. But I don't want to do that with him. What would my family think if I burned him just like all the rest? I'd have to go back to New York—shut them out again. But that's not something I want to do. I don't want to be the girl holding the can of gasoline anymore.

We make it back to the house, and at the bottom of the steps to the second floor, we hesitate to say goodnight. I feel a lump in my stomach—the first date _will we_ or _won't we_ lump. I can see a change in his eyes as well, so I dart up the stairs before I can make a fool of myself.

And I sleep. I sleep well.

# I FOUND A REASON

## APRIL 2nd

For the second time since I've moved to Missouri, I find myself leaving the house with Chace, with no idea where I'm going. There is fear—fear of slipping into old reckless habits—but Chace is unlike any other guy I've pursued in the past.

_Not that I'm pursuing him._ I need to remind myself of this, to narrow my attraction.

I woke up feeling a little ashamed of my thoughts from the night before at the pool. I'm familiar with _next morning_ shame, but I didn't drink last night and wake up in an unfamiliar bed.

I didn't need to wash someone's sex off my skin.

In the past, I've dated around my age and slightly older. _Why do I find myself wanting this young guy?_ The obvious reasons fly to mind.

He's beautiful. One could describe him as hot, sexy, cute, etcetera. He's all of those things. But I see beauty, and it's hard to listen to him speak; his soft voice sends me over the edge. He takes care of his body, doesn't take it for granted, and never lets his leg hold him back.

But his mind is what draws me to him. He cannot sit idle. He devours new information. Is this what I've been waiting for? Is this why I never let anyone in and found excuses to cut every man out of my life?

This young man is perfect, and I don't write men like him, because I don't date men like him. I write sex-crazed alpha males, and I hate those kinds of men, but it sells well. _I'm a sellout._

This boy—this man—I could possibly want more with, and the thought scares me.

How can I know something like that? We're only beginning to get to know each other, so it has to be lust. It's those blue eyes, that perfect smile. It's his hands. It's the way he looked at me in the pool. _What will today bring?_

I dress warmly. Spring is emerging more each day, but a bite is still in the air. I skip makeup, throw my hair into a ponytail, and slip on a ball cap. The house is empty when I make it downstairs. Chace is already outside loading his Jeep, wearing shorts for the first time since I've met him. I guess insecurities tend to disappear once you strip down to boxers in front of someone. I warm at the memory. _Stop it, Sera. Stop it._

Chance smiles at my approach, looking down at me when I make it to him—his height, suddenly more pronounced. "You ready to do this?"

I pretend to mull it over. "Sure. Although, I'm still not sure what this little trip is about."

"Does it have to be about anything?" he counters. "Warm weather's coming. I have the day off. You've spent nearly all your days inside, which is a crime." He sweeps his arm around and we both glance at the tree line. The once tiny buds of green are growing more each day.

"Ugh. You're a nature lover. I despise your kind," I joke, half-serious.

"How could you live out here and not love it?" He raises his arms wider, and he isn't wrong.

I love it here—out in the open—but playing outdoors is something I've done little of since moving away, unless you count long walks in Central Park. I shoot him a smirk and hop in the Jeep. He replies with a grin and then joins me.

We take off down the driveway, making small talk for the forty-five-minute drive to Camdenton. I ventured to this town during my high school years to shop at the mall in Osage Beach. It's a small town, known for its football team. I remember hearing about the castle there, but I never visited. Chace reminds me on the way there.

It's not a _real_ castle. The structure was built in the early nineteen-hundreds by a wealthy executive who passed away before its completion, in one of the first automobile accidents. His sons finished the project in his honor. The castle acted as a hotel before it was destroyed by a fire in nineteen forty-two.

When we pull up, I immediately regret not coming to see it sooner. I've seen real castles in Ireland and Scotland, but there's something charming about this one. Perhaps because it's so close to my home.

I hop out as soon as we park and start walking toward the trail leading to the structure. Chace calls after me to wait and I turn to see him pulling a large box with a handle from his trunk, along with a blanket.

"Let's leave our phones here," he says.

I walk back to him. "Leave our phones? Why?" I don't go anywhere without my phone. I'm a slave to technology.

"No distractions," he says, shutting the trunk.

"From what?"

"From that." He motions to the castle. "From the outdoors."

"But what if we need help? What if one of us falls or something?" I clutch my iPhone in my hands, desperately.

Chace laughs. "Okay. I'll keep my phone. You leave yours here."

He holds out his hand to me, and I stare at his palm. "This sounds like the beginning of a missing person case," I say, cocking an eyebrow at him. I'm not scared of him, but I like giving him a hard time.

I stroll past him, over to the Jeep where I toss my phone into the glove compartment. Then I turn to him, flashing a _happy now?_ smile. He gives me my answer with his.

We head up the trail to the castle, and it doesn't take long to meet the structure—beautiful in its ruin. I walk slowly, Chace trailing behind with his box.

After twenty minutes of solo exploration, I find the spot where Chace has settled. He's spread his blanket next to a ledge of the castle, his secret box open, showing me what he lugged up the hill.

A typewriter. A beautiful black typewriter. One of my absolute favorite things in the world.

My mother is obsessed with them, and many antique models litter the home I'm now living in. All are in astounding condition, but this one I don't recognize.

"Where did that come from?" I ask as I take a seat next to him.

"It's your mother's. A recent find," he replies.

"I knew I didn't recognize it. I remember every one she's ever bought. She always had names for them." I run my fingers over the keys.

"I remember. I always wanted to play on them. Eventually, she let me."

"She was always protective of them. This one looks like it's from the thirties?" I've seen so many and gone on numerous antique trips with her. I always liked making a guessing game of when they were created and was nearly always right.

"Yes."

"Wow. I love it," I gush. "Why'd you bring it up here?"

"For you to write on."

"What do you mean?" I turn to Chace, who's lying out on the blanket, propped on his elbows, his crossed legs next to the typer with his artificial one resting on top.

"You said you can't write. That you get distracted. Well, you can't check Twitter on this. No Facebook. Nothing. It's just you and your words." He smiles shyly, proud of himself.

"True. But I can't imagine writing a novel on that."

"Just try it. You told me you moved across the country for writing. This isn't that crazy of an idea. What's the craziest thing you've done for writing?"

Basically prostituting myself is definitely the worst, but he knows that now and still wants to be around me. "I've done a lot of weird things. I myself was once in the bartending profession."

"Do tell." He sits up, leaning to one side on his arm, and I frown.

"It was only a month. I was horrible at it. I broke bottles and messed up drink orders. I assure you the character born from that experience was much more adept at it." I cringe at the memory. _Worst month ever._

He laughs. "What else?"

"I bought a pickup truck with one of those tops over the bed of it, threw a mattress back there, and lived in it for three weeks in Montana."

"Just three weeks?"

"Yeah, that's all I could manage. When I was a kid, I didn't want to be a writer. I wanted to be an actress. I loved pretending to be someone else. I would perform little shows for my stuffed animals. My mom encouraged me to write down the stories I acted out. I don't know how she knew I would excel at it. Maybe she didn't, maybe she just knew I would have been a horrible actress." And she was right. I can't hide my emotions from my face. I can't fake ones that are not there. I'm not talkative, and I don't need to be, because every emotion I feel is always evident on my face.

"Okay, so using a typewriter doesn't seem all that crazy." Chace stands. "I'm going to walk around a little. I'll be close. Just shout if anyone tries to kidnap you."

# SATURDAY AFTERNOON

## APRIL 2nd

I reach up and pull my ball cap off, loosening my hair tie then piling my dark strands into a knot. I situate myself on the blanket in front of the machine, running my fingers over the round black keys. I haven't used a typewriter since in high school. My mother purchased a nineteen-forties Royal for me—ebony and beautiful—saying it matched me. I wrote poetry on it, loving the sound it made, throwing the words out as they came. No backspace. No delete. It was all so real and permanent. I bled for that machine, but burned most of the pages.

How did I forget the way it made me feel to write on one of these? I can't imagine using the one in front of me for anything else, but I haven't written poetry in years. I abandoned it, and the idea of making money from it back then seemed ludicrous. Still does. Poetry seems to be a forgotten art, and modern poetry isn't as it used to be.

I've witnessed poets reach some fame after posting their work on Instagram. The most popular writers wrote one-liners and clearly sought out Insta-fame _._ They didn't write honestly, not the way I did as a child, and I didn't click the _follow_ button on any of the shallow, soulless accounts. They're easily identifiable. I did manage to find a handful of gems, though.

I banish my thoughts of the digital world—grateful my phone isn't within reach. Then, I take a deep breath, and begin to type. The words fall from my fingers, and I should've known they'd be about Chace. I don't want them to be. I don't want to repeat old habits. He isn't like the others I burned. I don't want to make a dime off anything that might come from this. Perhaps, that's why they fall so freely.

He's walking poetry.

I hope he won't ask to read my work when he returns.

I pound the keys quickly, the typewriter in immaculate condition, even with its age. It takes time to get everything out. I tap out poems, scattering them randomly across the single page, front and back. I then rip the paper out and fold it over many times, slipping it into my pocket before pulling out a fresh sheet from the back of the box.

I feel as if I never stopped, that poetry has been spilling from my hands for years. In this moment, I mourn those years. The years I didn't use poetry to feel the kind of relief and release washing over me now. What would have come of those years? From the experiences of my twenties? It may have been wretched prose; it may have been perfection. I'll never know.

I don't need to write to live. What I've published to date can carry me on for the rest of my life financially, but I need to write to _survive._

I've been slipping further and further into depression with this writer's block, but now I can feel warmth creeping inside my chest. I could _kiss_ Chace. I could kiss him. How did he know this would happen? Can I show my fans this style of writing and have them accept it? The anxiety, it's still there.

I lie back down on the blanket, resting my right hand on the typewriter keys, closing my eyes and willing everything to be okay.

Chace finds me like that a half hour later.

"Get anything done?" His voice breaks into my daydreaming as he falls onto the blanket next to me.

"Yes." I sigh.

"Good."

I wait for him to ask to see it, to ask about it, but he doesn't.

"Want to put the typer away and hike some? It's beautiful up here," he finally says.

I sit up and lift the typewriter out of its box. My mother always put their name there, and I've been tapping away, with no introduction. I smile at the name staring back at me. It fits, she's dark and beautiful and brutally honest. _Olivia._ I love the name.

I stand and begin gathering everything scattered around me, then we walk back to his vehicle to secure our items before finding a trail.

I follow Chace since he's more familiar with the area and I haven't been on a hike in years. Many areas leave me winded, and Chace never seems to break a sweat. We come upon a few anglers down by the edges of the lake, and a few people riding mountain bikes.

"Do you ride here?" I ask as a couple rides by us. It seems so scary and dangerous. The steep hills have caused me to slip numerous times in my boots.

"I have. It's fun and definitely challenging," he says over his shoulder.

"I'd like to try it sometime." I don't know why I say it because the thought terrifies me, but trying new things seems safer with him.

"Really?" He stops and turns to me, forcing me to look up into his eyes. "It's not easy. I'm not saying you couldn't do it, but it can be dangerous."

"I'd like to try it sometime," I repeat. "I've been looking at a few bikes online."

He turns and begins climbing again, holding a branch out of the way, letting me pass him. "We can do that."

We're at the top of a bluff, and the lake below is beautiful. I hold my hand over my eyes and smile. The blue is clear from up here.

Chace sits on a large rock and rests. "I used to come here a lot—to think, and write. I would bring my guitar up here and just play a whole Saturday away. I'd scribble the music down in a notebook. Then bring it home and revise it over and over and over. I'm glad I'll have time now."

"Why didn't you go to school to be a music teacher?" It seems like the perfect job for him.

"It's crossed my mind," he admits. "Sports and music, I love them both. Both can help children belong. The way the government's been killing the music programs in schools is awful. It's just as important as anything else. I was just afraid if I got my degree for that I'd have a harder time finding a position."

"Does Andrew have any gigs soon?" I reach down and begin re-lacing my boots for the trip back down.

"I'm not sure, but I can find out. Do you want to go see him play?"

"Yeah, I definitely should. I'd like to see how good he is, see the thing he's passionate about. He always flew from one hobby to the next as a kid, never settling on anything. But from what my mother says, he cares about this. I know his dad doesn't take it seriously, but if he's good maybe I can help. I know some people in New York who might be able to help him out. He could fly back with me when I go home."

Chace's face twitches a little at my last few words. "When do you think you'll leave?"

"I don't know yet. I did write some earlier. So maybe this place is helping." Maybe facing this place is helping. Maybe _he_ is helping.

"Well, I hope it isn't soon. It's been nice not living alone."

"I agree."

# SAME OLD YOU

## April 6th

In the middle of the following week, I get a text from Gemma. I haven't been keeping in touch with her the way I should, assuming the goings-on of a small Ozark town would bore her. She's a born and raised Jersey girl.

**Gemma:** How's Missouri?

**Me:** Good. Nice.

**Gemma:** Any hotties down there?

**Me:** That's not what I'm here for, remember? WRITING!!

**Gemma:** I know, I know, but what's the harm in having some fun too? Seriously though, how's the writing going?

**Me:** Horrible until yesterday. Mostly I've just been distracting myself with other crap. I'm spending a lot of time with Kat, so no complaints there. She's the other reason I'm here.

**Gemma:** How's she taking things?

**Me:** Okay I guess. She's eating more and settling in at her new place. Focusing on work. I try to keep her distracted the best I can.

**Gemma:** That's good. Have you heard from Tristan at all?

**Me:** No? Why would I?

**Gemma:** Just curious if he's realized what a tool he is.

**Me:** Doesn't matter. And don't forget, I changed my number,

**Gemma:** I'm sure he could get the number if he tried.

**Me:** I hope he doesn't.

**Gemma:** Wow. So you're serious about being over him, huh?

**Me:** Yeah. I don't even think about him.

**Gemma:** When you said you were moving away to the middle of nowhere I just figured it was because he broke your heart.

**Me:** I can see how it would look that way, but not the case.

**Gemma:** Who's the new guy?

**Me:** What?

**Gemma:** There has to be a new guy. Spill it.

**Me:** There isn't......

**Gemma:** What's with all the "..." ???

**Me:** Super busy. GTG.

**Gemma:** I KNEW IT!!! Tell me now!

**Me:** Well, I'm living with someone.

**Gemma:** ARE YOU KIDDING ME!! WHAT!!

**Me:** Not like that. My mom kind of rents the house to one of my younger brother's friends. Gem, he's perfect. I couldn't write someone like him if I tried.

**Gemma:** How long have you been seeing him?

**Me:** I'm not. He just lives here. But honestly, sometimes I can't think straight when he's in the room with me.

**Gemma:** I need pictures. Send me a pic.

**Me:** That's not creepy at all...

**Gemma:** Facebook?

**Me:** Brb. I'll go to his page and screenshot a photo.

I quickly find Chace's page and send Gemma a photo. She begins typing immediately.

**Gemma:** Son of a bitch. Your life isn't fair. It's not fair at all! You get the best guys.

**Me:** I don't have him. Let's not get carried away. It will never be like that.

**Gemma:** Why not?

**Me:** He's 22. I'm beginning to believe my own mother thinks of him as a son. Plus, he lives here with me, remember?

**Gemma:** You're bumming me out.

**Me:** I came here to learn how to write again. To quit acting like I'm a kid.

**Gemma:** I understand. I want to visit soon.

**Me:** No way. I know what you're thinking. I'll just come to you.

**Gemma:** I hate you.

**Me:** You adore me.

**Gemma:** True. Heading into the shop. Ttyl. Hit that.

I laugh at her sign-off before texting Kat to make sure we're still on for lunch, considering she's worked through her break the past few days, which is odd. I know she's trying to keep her mind off things, but I feel something's more off than usual. She seems distant in her texts. Not depressed, but just not herself.

She texts back quickly, confirming our plans, so I get out of bed.

I want to go to the bike shop a few towns over, and I want to be able to ride with Chace on the road and the trails at Ha Ha Tonka. After researching a little more, I decided on a hybrid bike suitable for both, if I were up for the challenge. And I am.

I'd been a runner in New York, never brave enough to cycle in the busy streets. I started running to get to the point where nothing on my body could jiggle anymore. After I completed my goal, I found that I couldn't go more than a couple of days without hitting the pavement. I ran through the winter months as well.

When I run, I let my mind run too—drafting scenes in my head, stopping to record them into my iPhone while my body is on autopilot, waiting for traffic to cross and the walk signal to blink.

I lose myself while I run. I feel free. I reset.

My mother worried about me, running in a busy city. I assured her I always ran in the morning and took the same route every time, arming myself with my cell phone, a slim knife, and a bottle of pepper spray.

Whenever a man would start to run behind me, I'd stop to tie a shoe or check my phone, always facing him, waiting for him to pass. Strangely, the crowds of the city soothe me. I feel more unsure about running here, and thus have given up that love since coming home.

The lack of physical activity has only worsened my anxiety and depression, so I'm looking forward to exercising with Chace. _Though my mind can think of better ways to work up a sweat with him._ Since that night in the pool, he's infected my mind. And ever since the castle, I can write again.

It started early Monday morning. I woke with a start at four in the morning, my sheets damp with sweat. It's not the first time inspiration has hit at such an odd hour. Sometimes, my best words come to me as I sleep. If words wake me, I get to my laptop before anything slips away. What came to me had filled me with unease, and a slight tingling sensation.

I had the most vivid sex dream about Chace and immediately felt guilty. He took me out the day before to spark my imagination, and there I was, having perverted fantasies about him. _Old habits die hard._

I'd pushed my guilt aside along with my covers and tiptoed over to my computer, powering it on. I couldn't let it slip away, no matter how bad I felt. _And why did I feel bad?_ I never wrote badly about a man I slept with. The men in my past who'd been hurt knew before getting into bed with me that I wasn't looking for anything serious. If they developed attachments and the inevitable broken heart, it wasn't my fault. Not that I have any intention of getting into bed with Chace. He's too young, too nice. _Too living with me._ No, no. It isn't going to happen. But fuck, if it does, and is anything like my dream, I'll be ruined for life.

I wrote for three hours that night about Chace—his eyes, his hands, his touch. I know too much about him. I study him more than I want to admit.

Chace has more time on his hands, so he's been playing on the deck again. I lie on the balcony above, notebook in hand. My typewriter is too loud to write with as he plays, but it's the perfect tool for the writing I'm doing. I'm writing poetry again, and I've experienced three days of calm. I don't care if it isn't what my fans want, and I know this blind passion won't last. Eventually, it'll catch up to me. But for now, I don't care to stop. I'm writing for myself and for Chace—my muse.

I fictionalize us in many ways, doing what I've done before, only without hurting someone. I'm using my attraction for him, but it won't wound him as long as I keep our relationship platonic.

In truth, I want to share my words with someone. The desire is there. I never had that with the poetry I wrote as a teen, as it was mostly about things no one could know of. I had a small lockbox in the back of my closet, where I stored each piece.

I decide to tell Kat about my poetry at lunch, where I meet her at the deli across from her shop.

I dump the news as soon as our waitress leaves the table. "I've been writing."

"What?!" My friend sets her phone down and stares at me with her large green eyes. "Really?"

"I know. I feel...less heavy." I sigh, sitting back and relaxing.

"What's the book about?" Kat asks.

"No book." I smile. "I've been writing poetry."

"Wow. I remember when you wrote poems back in school. You never let anyone see them."

"I know. I know." Too many secrets live there.

"Is that how you still are when it comes to your poetry?"

"Actually, I brought some. I want you to read them." I pull a few of the folded papers from my purse and hand them to her. She takes the small stack then begins to read.

I feel a knot in my stomach immediately, but I want to get over this fear. I want to show someone what's inside of me—to feel a deeper release than the one I feel when the words leave my fingertips. Kat smiles, and some of my fear subsides.

When she finishes, she hands the papers back to me. "Who are they about?"

"Chace," I admit.

She smiles a knowing smile in return.

I want her to know, to confess to her that I have to have a muse. I burned the rest, sure, but I needed them. She's my oldest friend, the sister I never had, and I want to tell her.

"I don't know what to do, Kat. I can't get him out of my head." I groan.

She arches one brow. "Is that a bad thing?"

"I think so. Yes? I don't know. He's too... _good_ ," I say, as the server brings out our subs and drinks.

"What do you mean?" she asks, lifting her sandwich.

"He's kind. He's smart. He's stupid hot. Ugh." I pick my sub up and take a large bite. _It's superficial. It's a crush. It needs to be fleeting._

"And these are reasons he sucks?"

"They're reasons _I_ suck. Reasons I shouldn't go for the perfect guy." Deep down I know he's too good for me. He's too good for a woman with a track record of using men.

"What do you mean?" Kat leans both her elbows on the table and stares at me.

I swallow another bite. "I've never told you this, but everything I've ever written is true. All my books...I did those things. I can't write unless I have someone to write about."

"What's so wrong with that? Isn't that what most writers need? A muse?" She grabs her water and takes a drink. She isn't staring at me with judgment or shock. She's staring at me with her honest, open, Kat eyes. The ones that comfort me.

"Yeah," I manage, grabbing my own drink, suddenly parched. "But other writers don't hurt them all. I can't do that to Chace. I didn't just come back here to write. I came here to break the cycle."

"I think you're being too hard on yourself. I think you've let this feeling that you're doing something wrong, halt your writing. Maybe that's why you haven't written in so long. Maybe you think you're doing something you shouldn't do."

"But how am I not? I would seek guys out, just to use them for writing." _Maybe she doesn't fully understand my confession._

"Sera," she says firmly, placing her hands on the table, "you have to put that behind you. Men use women all the time. Men use men. Women use women. Humans use humans. I know I'm the wrong damn person to talk to about this right now. You're just going to have to accept that I'm on your side."

"I don't want to use Chace."

"That," she says, pointing to the folded papers by my phone, "feels different. I've read all your books. They're hot, they're fun. But this, this feels like, I don't know...it's not sex poetry. I mean, some of it is, but it's more. I'm not saying you _love_ the guy—that's just stupid—but, if this is coming from him, don't fight it."

"He mentioned the idea of you and me going with him and Andrew this Saturday. I didn't commit to anything. Go with me?" I press my hands together and pretend to beg.

She laughs and picks her sub back up. "Where are we going?"

I bite my lip. "Some honky-tonk dance bar. Midnight Cowboy?" It isn't my scene, and I doubt it'll be hers.

"I've heard of it."

"Thank you," I say, taking a bite.

"No problem."

"Not for saying you'll go," I clarify. "For supporting me. You always do."

She tilts her head and smiles her warm Kat smile. "I always will."

# ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER

## APRIL 9th

Saturday turns out to be one of the best days since my return to the Ozarks. Kat and I travel two towns over to the closest mall because I need a new outfit for that night.

_I need to start drinking at noon. I need a tranquilizer. Fuck._

My mother meets us for lunch and drinks. After, we continue shopping to the point of exhaustion. I find myself nervous about the night's event. It's not a date, but I feel everything I used to feel before dates. The anxiety. The fear. The euphoric wondering.

Kat comes straight home with me after our manic shopping and we eat a light dinner, spending most of the time getting ready. I promise to make up the couch for her if things get out of hand. She'd probably benefit from a little reckless fun. She did say she wanted to act more like me, after all.

I haven't put on a pair of cowboy boots in years, but I purchase a new pair that day, tucking them under dark slim boot cut jeans with a billowy white top that falls off one shoulder. Kat curls my long dark locks, a task I hate and normally pay someone to do. In return, I take the time to straighten her wavy red strands. _We're always trying to be who we're not, aren't we?_

I pull a bottle of wine from the fridge and pop the top, pouring each of us a glass as we sit on the porch and wait. After a glass and a half, I hear Andrew pull up in his SUV.

I tip back the last sip of my drink and we head inside. I already feel a little lightheaded and wobbly from the wine as I walk through my room, gathering my things and shutting everything off before we head out. Kat rushes to my restroom, the wine hitting her.

I take my time on each step downstairs, convinced I'll trip and fall easily in these clunky new boots.

Even with this extra care, I feel my heel slip a bit on the last step when I reach the bottom floor. "Fucker!" I bark out as I grab the banister and drop my keys. "Mother fucker." I sigh.

Reaching down, I hear a low chuckle behind me down the hall, where the door to the laundry room is open. I snatch my keys up and make my way around the banister to face the person laughing at my misfortune. Chace is smiling at me as he folds laundry—shirtless. _Fuck._ _Well, that's hardly fair._

"You all right?" he asks, still smiling, and staring directly into my eyes.

I feel my face heat immediately. "Yeah. Damn boots." I point down as if he doesn't know where my feet are. When I look up I see him slowly take in my entire outfit, and when his eyes finally make it back to mine I'm thinking thoughts I shouldn't be having, thanks to the wine. _He needs to get dressed. He needs more clothes on. Now._

Andrew walks in the front door loudly, the way he does everything, pulling my eyes from his friend. "Honey, I'm hooooooooome!" he sings. "Jesus, Chace, put a damn shirt on in front of my sister. What the hell goes on in this place while I'm away?"

I hear Chace laugh behind me, and Kat's giggling from the stairs. I join in but roll my eyes at my brother and walk over, slapping him on the arm.

He flinches dramatically. "But seriously, man, put a shirt on and let's roll. These ladies can't be out late. They're getting up in the years."

I slap my brother harder, and this time he flinches in earnest.

Andrew insists that Kat should sit shotgun so they can catch up, leaving me stuck in the back of the SUV with Chace for the hour-long drive. It feels like I've been shoved into a dark room with him with no windows. During the entire drive, he leans forward and inserts himself into the conversation our friends are having. I don't know if that's better or worse than him focusing his attention on me.

Kat's encouragement has me thinking something with Chace—something real—is possible. That it might not be the end of the world for everyone who knows us. I want to continue to write about him, regardless. This is a bad thing, and I'm not in New York anymore. I can't use someone and discard them easily, knowing the chance of running into them is slim. I'm _living_ with my new muse. I now consider him a friend. Each night that my fingers hit the keys, I push aside the guilt, reminding myself how much I need this to create a story, something more than my past work.

Chace and Andrew haven't been to Cowboys before tonight, as it's still relatively new. The place has only been open for about two months, the dance floor packed with people still enjoying the newness of the bar. Despite being a so-called _western bar_ , the company is mixed. Floating amongst the cowboy hat and boot wearing are those dressed in the trendy attire you'd see downtown.

We stroll by the dance floor, a familiar old country song hitting my ears as I take in the line of smiling people moving in sync to some sort of line dance. It's George Strait. That's _real_ country music.

We find four empty barstools on the outside of the railing that borders the dance floor. Directly behind us is the largest of the three bars in the huge, open room. College-aged girls lean over the bar, flirting with the bartenders, sipping their drinks, and laughing. Andrew offers to get the first round and retreats with Chace.

"This feels awkward," Kat says, nudging me with her arm and directing her gaze at a girl who's obviously the same age as the guys we're with. "Do we look like cougars?" She points her thumb in the direction the boys just went.

"Let's not forget you said this would be fun." I raise my index fingers to my face and pull my smile wide, staring at her creepily.

She slams her palm against her forehead, causing me to drop my hands before we both start laughing. "I'm going to go check my makeup. I'll be right back," she announces.

Andrew and Chace return with our drinks moments later. My brother takes a swig of his beer and plants his feet in front of me, obstructing my view of the floor.

I look up at him. "Can I help you?"

"Kat is hot. Smoking hot," he declares.

I roll my eyes and swirl my drink around with the straw. "Oh, brother. Nope."

"What?" He shrugs his shoulders.

Chace chuckles to my right, his shoulders bouncing up and down.

I narrow my eyes at my sibling. "You can't say that about her." I take a long drink of my cranberry and vodka—and it's strong.

"Why? It's true," he says.

"Okay," I say, setting my drink down and squaring my shoulders. "She's going through a divorce." I hold up my index finger. _That's one._

"Sis, I'm not saying I want to date her. I'm not saying I want to do anything with her. I'm just saying she's hot. It's just a _casual_ observation." He holds up his hands—one open, one wrapped around his beer—in defeat.

"Good, because you're too young for her." I hold up my other finger. _That's two._

"Well, that's not true," Andrew scoffs.

"She's too mature for you." I hold up the third finger. _That's three._

"Ouch." He clutches his chest dramatically. "And touché. I'm just having fun. I think she is, too."

"I can tell she is. Thanks. I just wanted to get her out of the house so she could see that the world is still turning. I'd say we've been successful," I say.

Kat returns just as I finish talking. Chace moves from his spot next to me and offers his stool to her.

"Do you girls know how to do this?" Andrew asks, gesturing to the synchronized dancers.

The foot stomping and hand clapping mesmerizes me, and for a moment, I wish I had the nerve to dance. But I never do. I'm the wallflower, the observer.

"No. I've never been to a place like this," Kat says, toying with her straw. "And Sera doesn't dance."

"You don't dance?" Andrew asks me incredulously.

I'm rewarded with this kind of reaction every time it's brought up. Various outcomes come from this. Some men immediately write me off as uptight. Some take it as a challenge, wanting to be the guy to get me out there. Some sit next to me the whole night, never leaving, knowing I have nowhere else to go. "Nope," I answer, hoping the subject will change.

Kat rescues me. "Do you know how to do that?" She nods her head to the dancers, and we all look back at them again.

"Oh yeah," Andrew says. "I had a girlfriend who loved line dancing. She taught me everything she knew."

"He's actually pretty good," Chace cuts in—and his voice sounds close.

I look up at him over my shoulder, and he smiles.

"C'mon. Let me show you." My brother motions to Kat with his hand, and she downs her drink quickly then follows him into the ocean of sweaty bodies.

_This can't be good._

"And then there were two." Chace laughs.

I huff, my smile resembling a grimace more than anything. He walks behind me and takes Kat's abandoned stool. It'll be snatched if we don't keep it occupied.

After watching our friends move awkwardly around the floor for two songs, in silence, Chace wanders off to the pool tables located near the entrance, leaving me to scowl alone. I place my hand on the stool, daring anyone around to try to steal it. No one attempts to ask me to dance, my resting bitch face scaring off potential suitors.

I know it won't last long, though. There's always one fool who saunters up, swaying confidently, throwing out a lame line, like: _"It can't be that bad girl, let's dance. That'll put a smile on your face._ " My response is always a tight-lipped, " _No, thanks_." I hear someone walk up behind me and I wait for them to pass me to head for the dance floor, but they don't.

"She looks happy." It's Chace.

"Yeah, she does," I admit. "It's nice to see her smile. She'd gotten a little weird on me for a minute there, on her phone a lot. I worried she was talking to her ex."

While she hasn't been glued to her phone all night, she did wander off in a few stores earlier with her phone in her face. Something's up.

"The ex-husband?" Chace asks.

"Yeah, she kept texting. Every time I asked who it was she said it was her mom, or her sister, or so and so. I knew she was lying. But she's done a one-eighty tonight."

"Well, that's good."

Silence stretches between us. This evening has been strange all around. Chace has turned shy again, and I don't know if it's because we're with other people or not. It's the only thing to explain the difference in his attention.

He turns to me. "You really don't dance?"

"I don't know any of those dances." Nearly everyone on the floor seems to know what they're doing. I don't know any country dances. The people in front of me are swirling, twirling, smiling machines.

"You can two-step," Chace states.

"Is that a question?" I turn to face him.

"No. You can two-step. Anyone can two-step. Come on." He stands and walks around me, reaching for my hand and gently pulling it.

"No, I can't." I quickly pull it out of his warm grasp.

"You can't always be the wallflower. Let's go."

He reaches for my hand again, and after a moment of hesitation, I grab it and let him lead me to the floor. We stay on the edge, away from the mass of bodies, and he positions us in the correct stance—pulling my left hand into his before grabbing my right and placing it on his shoulder, then resting his other hand at the small of my back. I warm at the feel of his hand against my bare skin there. My top sits a few inches above my jeans.

"Now, watch my feet," he instructs, his breath on my ear.

I fight the urge to look up into his eyes and train my eyes down at our feet, where I mimic his movements with my own boots.

We move around the floor effortlessly, and every part of me is aware of him. I feel him in the places his skin touches mine, and the places I want him to. My pulse, beating in all the spots I crave his mouth, drowns out the music. Slowly, I move my body closer to his.

His hand digs a little into the small of my back, and I sigh slightly in his ear. _Fuck._

His own mouth, so close to my ear, sets me on fire. His soft voice sweeps through me when he says, "You say I'm easy to talk to, but I hold myself back sometimes."

I catch Kat's wide eyes over the side of Chace's arm, so I turn my face and tilt my head up toward his ear. "Why?"

"I'm an outgoing guy, despite everything in my life. I think I can talk to anyone, and I make friends easily, but I don't do serious talks. Not with many people. I mean, a lot of guys keep feelings in, so I guess it's not entirely abnormal."

"I guess." Society pushes men to believe they need to be stoic, and I disagree. I'm attracted to artists and creative minds. They tend to be more open. If they have trouble voicing their feelings, it comes out in their music, their work, their books. Often, I'm the taciturn one in the relationship. _Like with Tristan._

Chace pulls back and looks down at me. His gaze is penetrating. "I like you," he says, simply. We both know there is nothing simple about those words.

I stare back, noticing then that we've stopped dancing. Couples zip past us, most likely shooting daggers our way, but I don't care. "I like you, too."

"As more than a friend," he states. His tone is confident. His eyes are not.

"Me too." I feel something release inside of me. I've said it. Not to myself, not to Kat. To _him_. Everything will change.

"Okay," he replies.

It's all I need to hear, and he pulls me close again. We dance for one more song, and then make our way back to Andrew and Kat, where they're wearing knowing looks.

# ARE YOU GONNA KISS ME OR NOT

## APRIL 9th

The drive to the bar was hell, but the drive home burns hotter. It feels as if Chace is all around me.

Chace—after only having water and soda all night—is the DD, while I'm drunk on vodka and his touch.

Andrew jumps in the back as soon as we reach the parking lot, and Kat follows him closely. Too closely. They're both quite drunk, rambling loudly in the backseat, demanding we turn the volume up when we reach a song either of them likes. They sing at the top of their lungs and carry on about a couple that had bumped into them while they were dancing.

I'm not worried about my friend falling into something reckless with my brother. Although Kat's tipsy now, she always does the mature thing. She's the anti-Sera.

Chace and I are completely silent. Nothing we might want to say can be said in front of the two jabber jaws in the backseat. Not that they'd remember it.

The hour drive drags on, and I stare out the window, too afraid to turn my face. Chace's scent fills the vehicle. It isn't overwhelming, but it's all I can focus on, so clean and male.

An old nineties country song comes on the radio that I recognize, so I turn away from the window and reach for the volume. Chace catches my eye.

"I love this song," I murmur.

"I do, too," he replies, meeting my gaze.

I turn back to the window, and when the chorus starts, I hear Chace begin to sing along. I smile lightly and sing softly to myself.

Maybe I don't want to make it home. Maybe I want to sit here in this seat and listen to him sing for the rest of my life. But time speeds up, as it always does when you experience a perfect moment.

I'm having more and more of those perfect moments with him.

The closest I've ever been to a serious relationship is the one I shared with Tristan. Yet, in the short time I've known Chace, I feel more drawn to him than my ex. I don't know his favorite color, or how he likes this steak. I don't know his favorite sports team or any other random facts, but I _know_ him. And he knows more about me than most people who've been in my life for years. All of this happening without our lips touching. I feel lost. Chace sings to nearly every song for the rest of the ride.

As soon as we park in front of the house, I propel myself from the vehicle. I feel fuzzy from my drinks and Chace's voice.

I make it inside quickly and busy myself in the living room and the downstairs bath, setting everything up for Kat. I pull out a brand new toothbrush from under the sink and set a fresh towel on the rim of the clawfoot tub.

In the living room, I pull out an extra blanket from the large antique trunk sitting under the front window and place it at the foot of the couch. Satisfied, I exit the room to find Chace grabbing blankets from the hall closet for the leather couch in the office. I walk over to the room and peek in to find Andrew, already face down. I look over at Chace who shrugs, and we both laugh quietly.

"Where is she?" I ask in a whisper, even though it's unnecessary. My brother will not be waking.

Chace motions toward the kitchen so I walk past him into the room. Kat's tossing a pill down her throat—probably an Advil—and chasing it with a large glass of water. _Smart girl._

"I set up the couch in the living room," I begin. "It's comfortable, I promise. I napped there last week." I reach for the cabinet door and get a glass down after spotting the Advil container on the counter. I pop out a few and throw them down my throat before chasing them with a large gulp of tap water.

"Thanks," she says, followed by a groan as she takes a seat at the bar and smiles. "Tonight was fun. I haven't laughed that much in a long time. Your brother is still hilarious."

"Yeah. He's always been the class clown." I grip the counter behind me and hoist myself up onto it. Andrew's the guy who can make everyone laugh. I always figured it came from his mother, because his father has a wooden sense of humor.

"Yeah, I remember. He was always cracking jokes and trying to get our attention. But we were _mature_ teenagers and thought his jokes were silly back then."

"Oh yeah," I reminisce. "Very mature teenage girls." We both laugh.

"Well, I'm going to crash," Kat says through a stretch. "Be good." She raises her eyebrow at me and walks out of the kitchen.

I don't reply, silently hoping Chace is already in his room. I can't handle seeing him any more tonight. The liquor is coursing through my veins. I've been able to keep the old me at bay for a while, but she's close to breaking free.

Once I hear Kat close the French door to the living room, I rush toward my bedroom. But I don't make it far.

"Where are you going?" Chace sits at the top of the steps—directly in my path. His arms rest on his knees, hands crossed at the wrists in front of him.

"Bed." I point to the door on his left.

"Why are you going to bed?" His shy smile is back.

I stare down at my feet. "Would you prefer a lame excuse or the truth?" I look back up.

"Dealer's choice." He stands.

"I don't want you to touch me anymore." It's a truth, though just a half-truth. If he doesn't touch me, I can go to sleep and wake up a good girl again—not the girl I was in New York. I can resist him from the quiet of my room. I can resist him if he's out of sight.

I can sit up there and write about all the things I want him to do to me in this moment. It's harmless. This—here, now—is not.

"Lame excuse it is." He smiles, rising, then makes his way down the steps toward me.

I back up toward the kitchen, missing the doorway and hitting the wall in the small hall while he rounds the banister, still walking in my direction. Chace stops in front of me, closer than arm's length, and reaches out tentatively to brush the hair off my bare shoulder.

"You need to quit that." I inhale.

"You don't like me touching you?" He moves closer, his fingertip slowly trailing down my arm, tracing the lines of script there.

"Irrelevant." I swallow. "You're too young for me to be doing this."

"Well, at least we're past denial now." He lets his hand fall to his side and stares into my eyes, unwavering.

I want to turn away. I need to. But we stay like that for what feels like forever. Until I'm able to gain control. "This is a horrible idea." I turn my head to avoid his gaze and my hair falls to the side, exposing my neck to him—an invitation.

Chace moves closer, and I want him to taste me, but I only feel his breath there. He won't touch me until I tell him what he needs to hear. I know this.

"Tell me goodnight," he whispers, brushing the hair from my face, lowering his mouth to my ear. "And I'm gone."

I'm frozen. No sound comes from my lips. No _goodnight._

His opposite hand settles on my hip, his thumb dipping under my top. "Do you care about my age right now, Sera?"

His question causes me to whimper as I grip the wall behind me. He's barely touched me I'm burning, wet. _What will I do when he kisses me?_

"Do you want me to kiss you, Sera?"

_Fuck_. I clench my thighs and another incoherent noise escapes my lips. "Yes," is all I can manage, my voice breathless. Every nerve in my body is at attention, waiting for him.

Then, he's everywhere all at once. His legs press against mine and I part them to let him enter the space. His right hand moves to my face, his fingers lightly sweeping the curtain of hair from my eyes. His left hand circles my wrist, slowly drawing my arm behind me.

I turn to him, making eye contact again, and his eyes are dark pools of inky blue. I reach up, grabbing his shirt and making a fist.

I don't want _gentle_.

Chace moans, pressing his forehead to mine. With both hands he grabs my ass and lifts me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around him as I press into him. Another noise escapes his lips, and I want them on mine. _Why isn't he kissing me?_

As if sensing my thoughts, he answers, so close that his breath flows into me—cool and minty. This has escalated into territory I'm all too familiar with, where I'm comfortable. Lust. Seduction. Need.

And yet, I feel off kilter. With him, everything's different. My heart is in it, and that scares me.

"I want to kiss you right now, Sera, but I don't want you to be drunk. I want you to remember it tomorrow." His voice is low, so close.

My stomach flips. _Did he just say that?_ I feel my face heat up, and I pull away. Despite his words—the _need_ —I feel rejected. Chace is one of those people who always maintain eye contact. It unnerves me, and right now, it's burning into my core like a laser. I stare at my hand, still gripping his shirt, and start to release my grip. My breathing is erratic and I know he's taking this all in.

"Chace, you're too young for me." I immediately regret the words and it's now the second time I've said them. But, after his touch burning into me the way we both know it has, I feel wrong for saying it. It's dismissive—maybe even condescending—because, in truth, he's the most mature guy in his early twenties I've ever met. Certainly miles past the ones I dated when I was his age. I peek up at him and am met with a sly smile. I haven't wounded him.

"That's why I can't kiss you. You're tipsy. You keep repeating yourself." He sets me back down and my boots make a loud sound on the wooden floor. I grimace, remembering my brother's proximity; he's just around the corner. If he's awake, everything would have made it to his ears. I hear a snore and let out a relieved breath.

Every nerve in my body is waiting for Chace's touch to return. _God, I want this, don't I?_ _How did this happen?_ Seven years separate us but the only distance I can see is what's now between us. I move my arms to the side of my body and grip the wall behind me.

He walks past me into the kitchen then tosses out the comment, "I know you don't care about my age."

"It just doesn't seem smart." I follow him, smoothing out my ruffled clothing.

"Do you always weigh the pros and cons before you kiss someone?" He has me there.

Chace grabs the barstool closest to him and sits on it, facing me. I want to crawl into his lap. _Fuck. No. I'm not fighting this because of his age._ He's wearing dark denim over scuffed boots, and a fitted heather gray T-shirt. A loose plaid shirt hangs on his shoulders, his light brown hair freshly cut. A light stubble covers his jaw, and his full lips are inviting, begging to be kissed—crimson and raw. _Jesus, I want him._

One could argue that this would be monumentally stupid, considering our circumstances. Kat would disagree. She's now pro-Chace.

"No, I don't," I finally respond.

He sits up and walks back to me, where he reaches out to take one of my hands again, sending electricity through me. I can feel the heat from his body and his voice is low and close to my ear when he says, "Okay." He pulls the tender side of my wrist to his lips, places a light kiss there, then he's gone. I watch him walk slowly past me toward the door to the kitchen.

He turns and backs into the doorway, raising his hands above his head, gripping the frame. The smirk is still there, taunting me. "I'm going to bed. I think I'm going to get up early tomorrow morning."

The change of subject is unexpected, and slightly disappointing. I like the game, the feeling of being pursued. I think most women do. We crave feeling desired. It makes giving in so much more rewarding.

I don't often pursue. I know how to play my strengths, know how to lure them in.

But I need to feel wanted. It gives me power, makes me feel worthy. The realization hits me as shallow and sad. _When did I become this girl?_ I know the answer, but I push it away.

I let out a heavy breath and reach behind myself, gathering my hair and pulling it over my shoulder. I see Chace's gaze flicker to the opposite one, the one exposed by my falling shirt—the one his mouth had been so close to earlier—and then his eyes land back on my face.

I'm toying with him now; it's ingrained in me. He laid his desire out for me to see and now I have to pull him in.

"Okay," I say.

_This will not affect our friendship._ W _e can go back to normal after this confession. I won't feel the need to ride this train after the alcohol's been rinsed clean from my system_.

Chace winks at me and turns to go.

I follow, looking around the corner as he makes his way to bed.

He stops a few steps into his room, his last words curling over his shoulders. "I'm going to kiss you, Sera, and you're going to want me to."

_Well, shit._

# WE'RE NOT FRIENDS

## April 10th

The next morning brings spring rain and I wake at seven to the pitter-patter sound on the rooftop. It's soothing, and nearly lulls me back to sleep. Until I remember the previous night.

I remember Chace's hands on me, his breath so close. There's no way I can go back to sleep, and I wonder how it'll be between us now.

Below me, I hear the sound of dishes and voices. The man is inhuman.

To me, rain on Sunday morning means you should sleep in until noon, get up, eat some food, read a good book, take a nap, eat some dinner, and then settle in for a movie.

All of that sounds divine. _What does Chace do on rainy days? Would he survive a day cooped up inside with nothing to do?_ He doesn't appear to have an idle gear.

I groan into my pillow and roll myself off the bed then head to the bathroom. After rubbing some moisturizer on my face and brushing my teeth, I slip on my robe and slippers. The hardwood floor stings my toes, and it feels like the rain's brought back cooler temperatures.

I open my door, greeted by the scent of breakfast food. Downstairs, I find Chace and Andrew in the kitchen, talking, with Artax at their feet waiting for scraps.

"Morning," my _roommate_ calls over his shoulder.

"Morning." I take a seat next to my brother at the bar, and he smiles a greeting.

"It's supposed to rain all day," Chace reports. "I know we talked about riding, but it looks like that won't be in the cards." He pushes eggs onto the three plates set on the island.

"Darn," I say.

"I can tell you're heartbroken," Chace says as he reaches for another pan on the stove.

"How in the world are you guys up right now? I mean, I know how you are, Chace. But, bro, you were plastered." Andrew's face is in his hands and I nudge him, causing him to nearly fall out of his stool.

"I have band practice at noon and I can't sleep in if I'm not in my own bed. Stop talking so loud," he whines.

I ignore him. "Do people ever go to those? I still haven't heard you play."

"Yeah, sometimes. You can come with Chace when he brings new lyrics." My brother lifts his head from his hands and points at Chace's back. "Man, you owe me some."

"I'll probably write some today. What're you doing today, Sera?" Chace walks to the fridge and pulls out orange juice, then retrieves three glasses from the cabinet.

"Attempt to write, too?" My brain isn't up for writing at the moment, but maybe after a nap.

He hands me my glass. "I have a long list of spring-cleaning chores to do. I've been trying to knock a few off the list each week."

"I can help if you want," I offer. It's the least I can do, especially since he's made this delicious breakfast for two useless zombies.

"Nah, you don't have to. Doing chores is my rent. Plus, now I have the time."

"Again, I own the house, remember? I can help." I stick my fork into a piece of sausage on my plate.

Chace starts to eat, still standing at the island. "I don't mind. It's okay."

I point my fork at him. "You can either tell me something on the list, or I'll just randomly clean something. Your choice." I shrug my shoulders and aim my fork at my hash browns.

"Okay, but only one thing on the list." Chace smiles at me, and there's something in his eyes that I sincerely hope Andrew can't see. "Maybe instead of cleaning, you can help me give Artax a bath?"

"Is that a two-person job? Aiden gave him one before."

"Yes. He hates baths." He stares down at the dog at his feet. "Yeah, _you_." He looks back at me. "Just not when Aiden does it for some reason. It's a huge pain in the ass to give him one. And he's starting to smell. He doesn't understand that if it's raining he should probably come sit on the porch, not hang out in the yard and get drenched."

"Yeah, I can smell wet dog right now." I scrunch up my nose.

"I thought that was you, sis." Andrew elbows me, laughing at his own joke, which he always does. He doesn't need anyone else to laugh. He cracks himself up.

"Funny," I say, through a mouthful of eggs and sausage. "Where's Kat?" I completely forgot about her.

Andrew laughs again. "She left right before you came down. Don't worry, I walked her to her car and gave her a big smooch for you."

I choke on my food and my brother pounds on my back as I swallow.

I glare at my sibling. "You _are_ kidding, right? Please tell me you're kidding," I plead, my eyes probably the size of my plate.

Andrew smirks. "Yes, I'm kidding. Calm down. But seriously, she left a little while ago." He scrapes the last bit of his breakfast into his mouth and puts his plate down. Burping, he pats his belly and grins at us. "I better get going, too." He takes his plate to the sink and then waves a goodbye just before leaving the room.

The rest of the meal is rather quiet with no buffer around. At one point, Chace asks me how I'm feeling today and I tell him I'm fine. I then ask him how he feels, immediately feeling like a dumbass since he didn't drink last night. Then, we continue eating in silence.

When I'm done, I rinse my plate and leave the kitchen, feeling Chace's eyes on me the entire time.

I retreat to my room—away from the tension—and tend to social media, where I set up ten giveaways for my trilogy on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. I arrange for the books to be sent here so I can autograph them as well.

I always do giveaways around the release of my next book, and since I have nothing for my fans, maybe this will harbor some good will and patience.

After that task is complete, I open my balcony door and plop onto my bed to think. The rain outside caresses my ears, making me drowsy. The dusty room is cozy, and my down comforter surrounds me. Back in New York, I often played storm sounds through a small speaker attached to my iPhone at night, but nothing compares to the melody playing now on the blue tin roof above me.

On stormy writing days in New York, I always found myself weaving the rain into the story, as if it had infected my soul and then slowly dripped through my fingertips. The scent of the moist grass fills my room, an aroma I've missed.

As a child, I loved and hated rainy days on this land. I'd wake with a sense of adventure, after already having planned an escape the night before, only to wake to rain. We always occupied ourselves with fun and meaningful activities indoors but I'd still pout at my ruined plans and the suffocation I felt.

On one particular Saturday in spring, I snuck out into the rain. I thought it'd be fun to climb up the barn and play in the downpour atop the metal roof. I was able to enjoy my fun for nearly ten minutes before my mother caught on. I'll never forget how mad she was at me. She scolded me about how I could've been struck by lightning.

I retreated to my room, where I remained for the rest of the day. I was grounded from the fun plans my mother had made for the four of us. She brought me my favorite lunch, though—peanut butter and jelly, with extra jelly. Therefore, I knew she still loved me.

# HEART'S DESIRE

## April 10th

I write poetry again, the previous night fueling me as I type furiously on the typewriter at my vanity. Everything seemed pretty normal at breakfast, but there was a charge. I hope Andrew didn't notice that, either.

After an hour of writing, I change clothes and head downstairs to brave the tension, where I find Chace mopping in the kitchen. A long list of cleaning chores is on the counter. Without saying anything, I pick a chore and set out to do it.

We continue like that for the next two hours, wordlessly walking by each other. When he sees my finger grazing over ' _mop living room'_ on the list _,_ he grabs the mop for me, and I thank him with a small smile.

I don't know what we'll say when the chores are done, and I wonder what's being said now in our silence.

He walks by me once, a bottle of Windex in his hand, the other slightly grazing my arm. A burn is left behind where his skin touched mine. I keep my eyes on the ground, my face a deep crimson. When I finish my last task, I head to the kitchen and find him crossing out his last chore.

_Was I foolish to believe this wouldn't happen? Two young available people, with a mutual attraction, living under one roof with no real obstacle in the way of hooking up?_

Finally, Chace speaks. "Do you want to watch some TV? I'm not ready to write."

I nod, not yet able to speak, and then follow him to the living room. I take a seat on the opposite side of the couch. Every sound is grating. The hush of my breathing, the rain on the roof, the sound of the television powering on.

I hear his final words from the night prior, over and over, but I try to silence them as he turns something on, finally landing on Friday's Tonight Show episode.

"Good choice," I say.

"I love Jimmy Fallon. He just seems like he'd be a nice guy."

"He is," I bait him, relieved we'll have something interesting to talk about that might break the tension.

He turns to me, not yet pressing play. "What do you mean, _he is_? You've met him?"

I shrug. "Yeah. I was on his show."

"No...no way." Chace sets the remote on the coffee table and swings his leg onto the couch, facing me full-on.

I laugh. "Way."

He shakes his head and I sneak a glance, smiling.

"I've seen every one of his Tonight Show episodes," he says. "I would've remembered you being on there."

I settle back into the couch, reaching for a throw blanket and then wrapping it around me. "Well, I was on his Late Night show. It was right when the first movie adaptation of my book was releasing."

"You have no idea how jealous I am right now."

"You must not be that huge a fan if you haven't seen all his shows," I tease.

"Must've been before I got a DVR. I work late, and when I don't I just pass out."

"Well, I'm sorry you missed it." I glance at him again, and then at the silent television.

"Did he have you play a game with him?" he asks.

"Yes." I blush.

"What was it?" His voice tells me he's noticed my skin turning.

I sigh. "Well, he had the Roots read dialogue from the first book—some of the steamy scenes—and they did it comically. I had to keep a straight face during it." I laugh loudly at the memory. "I failed miserably."

Chace laughs and shakes his head. "I'm going to have to look that up."

I point to his phone on the coffee table. "It might be on YouTube. His show was by far the most fun I had promoting the film. I'd love to go on his new show."

"There's one more movie coming out, right?"

My laughter leaves me, and I shudder at the reminder that I'll have to promote again, alongside Tristan. I have to smile, laugh, and pretend, all with the man who cheated on me. "Yeah."

"Well, maybe you'll get to."

"Yeah, maybe. They usually go for the stars of the movies and the directors before the author. I got lucky with that last one."

"You never know. I hope you get to go back on," he says.

"Me too," I offer, even though it's a lie and my thoughts are turning dark. I don't want to have Tristan and our drama on my mind, but it's there. I've been living in a nice little bubble. A place where reporters, agents, and publishing companies don't exist.

That life—my real life—isn't gone. It's waiting for me, like a scorned lover. It'll be back once this tryst is over. I look over at Chace.

He starts the episode, smiling at the television. He isn't some simple affair, or some simple distraction. He's more. We fought it last night, but I know the temptation isn't gone. It'll be back for us. It'll rush back with a simple brush of fingers, a lingering look.

He's the only lover I'm concerned with. My past can wait a little longer.

After a couple of hours, Chace says he needs to start writing. I agree and head up to my room to type.

Before long, I hear him on the balcony below, strumming his guitar, so I decide to join him. I grab a pad and a pen, not wanting to distract him with the loud noises of my typewriter.

Chace stops playing for a second as I grab the chair across from him, then begins again when I open my notepad.

We continue our silent conversation from the couch, and I feel him glance at me as I write. When I look up, he's looking down at his guitar. It feels like we're dancing again.

When he pauses to write in his own notepad, I pause as well, listening to the scratching of his pen. I wonder what his lyrics say, longing to go to one of Andrew's shows, to hear the words coming from the man before me.

I don't want to deny my feelings anymore. I don't want to stay away. If that's the only option, I'll have to move back to New York. I can't continue to live in this house with him, feeling this tension day by day. It's more dominant than the demons that live here.

The consequences may eventually outweigh the passion I know we both feel.

I worry what my mother will say. I've done plenty of things she wouldn't approve of—far from here, where she couldn't see it all play out. Surely, she'd frown upon this.

The guy before me is as close to her as her own stepson.

I'll always be a selfish girl, taking lovers and running from consequences, and Chace is too good for that. Too good for _me_.

I look up to see him staring at me, his blue eyes light in the gray of the rainy day.

"What?" I whisper.

"You stopped writing." He points to the pen dangling between my fingers.

"Yeah. Just thinking." I set the pen down and stretch out on the reclining chair.

"How's the writing been going? I hear the typewriter upstairs a lot." He too relaxes, putting his notebook to the side.

"I've been writing a lot, actually. I don't know if I'll be able to do anything with it, but I guess I'll worry about that later." I shrug. I've been thinking more and more about organizing all the poems. Maybe a book will come of it. Maybe not.

"What changed?" he asks, turning his head to the side.

I can't give him the truth. _You changed everything. You made me a poet again. No, not again. You reminded me that I_ am _a poet._ "I don't know," I lie.

Chace lays his guitar to the side, perhaps pondering my answer. I wonder when we'll discuss the night before—if we ever will. It's generally a _woman thing_ to want to pick things apart, over-analyze them, dissect every situation. It's a trait I own and also my job. I'd share a night with a man only to tear apart every bit of it the next day on a page. I always carry a notebook with me in my purse, but they've been empty for a long while now.

I feel sick at the thought of my past. _I'm a parasite_. Chace has to know I'm writing because of him. That I've written all morning about the night before. He's not an idiot, and although I can bullshit most men, I feel Chace might be immune to me. Honestly, I have no desire to bullshit him.

Still, I just can't bring myself to confess. I see Chace stand from the corner of my eye.

"Go put your rain boots on," he instructs. "Grab an umbrella or a jacket. I want to show you something. Bring your notebook."

After I grab everything, he walks outside. And once again, I follow.

Chace grabs my hand and starts to run across the lawn, toward the woods. I know where we're going and I smile at the thought, at the feel of his hand in mine.

# LOVE ME LIKE A GIRL

## April 10th

Our destination isn't far into the woods. My rain boots are stiff and hard to run in, so Chace doesn't go too fast, allowing me to keep up. We reach my old treehouse in no time, though.

The one my grandfather built for me, many summers ago. The one bright spot left behind, the perfect distance away from the house.

I used to escape here, feeling like I was in my own world, still close enough to hear my family call me to come inside at dinnertime.

I always lost track of time, sometimes falling asleep with a pencil in my hand.

My grandmother would make her way all the way out here to fetch me, sounding her birdcall straight up the ladder, sending me ten feet into the air. She'd laugh every time, and I would scowl at her.

I loved writing out here. _This guy,_ _he knows me better than I know myself,_ I fear.

Chace lets me climb up first before he gets halfway up, handing me the guitar case so he can travel the rest of the way. I grab it and set it on the old wooden floor, then look around.

The small space looks the same as it did years ago, just a bit smaller. My old futon still sits against the wall, only clean blankets cover it. A small end table is next to it, and on the other side is an old schoolhouse desk. Another spot in which I loved to write. I walk over to it and sit down.

"I used to come out here all the time," I say, running my hand over the surface in front of me. Two windows are on the walls around me, letting the dim rainy light inside. Everything is dusty.

Chace walks over to the futon and sits down. "Your brother and I used to come play out here."

"I miss my grandmother," I admit, mourning my lost relationship with her and the closeness we once shared. When I moved away, my relationship with her suffered the most. I didn't call, because I didn't want my grandfather to pick up. For a dark while, I blamed her too. I wondered how she could've been so blind to the evil living inside her husband.

"Have you spoken to her recently?" Chace picks up his guitar and starts strumming idly, leaning back in the process.

I turn sideways in my seat to face him, resting my elbows on my knees, placing my chin in my palms. "I flew down to Florida a couple of years ago for Christmas."

It's the last time I've seen her. I feel guilty in her presence. My absence at her husband's funeral causing that guilt, no matter the circumstance. I need to fly down to see her soon, to mend.

Chace stops playing and looks up at me. "You left something here, you know."

"I did?"

"I found your notebooks," he answers.

"I know, you told me. My stories." I turn and face forward in the seat again, stretching my feet out in front of me.

"No, not those." His voice is soft as he looks down at his hand and starts strumming again.

"What do you mean?" I turn my head back in his direction.

"It's like I said with my ex," he says after he stops playing again, "I'm not into games. I always want to be straight with you."

He sets the guitar on the ground and crosses his arms over his chest—bracing himself for something.

He swallows and says, "I read what you wrote as a teenager. Not just the stories your mom gave us. After your grandparents moved, your mom brought us out here when she was packing stuff up and doing repairs. She put me in your room—your old room. The one I have now. She said to start packing the books to move to the library, so I did. I was cleaning stuff out from under your bed and I saw a loose floorboard..."

He pauses so I can process the words _._

_I know what he found._ I didn't think anyone would ever find them. He sees from my face that I know. He doesn't have to elaborate.

"I think I wanted you before I even knew what it was like to want someone," he begins. "I was just a kid, and I saw your pictures all over your mom's house. I couldn't tell Andrew how beautiful I thought his sister was, and I felt ashamed for reading your words when it was obvious they were ones you meant to keep hidden—ones you hoped no one would ever see. I...I started falling for you through your words, and never expected to meet you. You didn't feel _real_ to me."

A shake of his head and then, "When I found out you were moving back here—to live in this house with me—I freaked out a bit. Your mother never knew I found your poetry, but I loved reading it. I fell in love with the written word through you. I could escape in those words, where I wasn't the skinny kid with a broken family missing a leg. I was whoever I wanted to be. I fell in love with your voice, Sera, with your brokenness. The first time I saw a picture of you on the mantle, I thought I fell in love. I was twelve I think. And then you hit it big. You made a career out of a dream you had. So, I thought maybe I could have a dream of my own, that there was more to life than this shitty thing that happened to me, that happened to you. I told myself I'd no longer let it define me like my father did."

I stare down at my hands, in shock, unable to speak. I'm not angry at him for reading my secrets. He was just a kid when he found the truth in my journals, and kids are curious by nature. If it had been me, I would've done the same.

I blush at the thought of him reading my words—my poetry, so raw. Then I feel sick. _He knows. He knows the truth._

His words burn into me. _"I think I wanted you before I even knew what it was like to want someone."_ He's wanted me for years. He knows what happened to me, and he still wants me. I recall his shy smile the day we met on the front lawn.

This kind of shit doesn't happen in real life, it happens in the silly stories I wrote as a child. It happens in Disney movies and romantic comedies. _What is my life right now?_

_Those pages..._

_Fuck._

"Where are they?" My low voice echoes in the small space, and I feel a tear trickle down my cheek. I wipe it away before he can see.

Chace motions to the desk, and I slowly reach for the cubbyhole beneath me. My fingers find leather and worn pages. I pull my hand back as if I've been bitten.

_I'm not ready._ I don't want to see the words, to imagine him reading them. I bite my lip, still at a loss.

"I'm sorry," he offers—and it's genuine, always saying exactly what he means.

"I'm not mad. Actually, _I'm_ sorry." I chuckle, running my hands over my face. I don't know how to feel. Anxiety crawls up my throat, and I try to choke it down.

"What for?" he asks.

"That you had to read that. I never showed my poetry to anyone, because it's the writing I'm the most unsure of." I feel more exposed on those pages than I ever do, bare, in front of a man.

"Nothing compares to your poetry," he states. "I mean—I'm not saying your other writing is bad. You're an amazing writer. But your poetry...it's _you_. I know writer's block is killing you, but the words have always been there. I changed the day I read your words." He looks down at his feet and laughs.

I changed into rain boots to run out here, but he didn't. He's wearing a pair of Converse. _He's always wearing Converse._ I have a few pairs, but he has many. I always laugh when I see a new color. Today he's wearing bright green high tops, untied.

"It's right here," he says.

"What is?" I ask, squinting in the light and narrowing my eyes at his shoes.

He smiles, looking a little embarrassed. "I write dates on them. On my shoes. My old black ones, the ones that are falling apart, I wrote the date my sister died on them. I don't need it there to remember, but I write it back in when it gets rubbed off. Every black pair I get, because it was a black day. I have a pair with the date I met your brother. A pair with the date I graduated high school. The date I wrote my first song. I carry them over, when it's time to throw one away. This pair has the date I found your poetry on them."

"Why green?" I ask, mesmerized.

"Green, for me, is about becoming new again. I could breathe again when I read your words. I believed I could grow after reading them, despite my past. I felt hope."

We sit, silent for a moment. He waits for me to absorb his words, and again, I don't know what to say.

Eventually, he cuts in again. "I'm glad you decided to come back here. I'm glad it's helped." He smiles, and I know I have to tell him. Especially after everything he's told me.

"It hasn't," I say, never wavering from his eyes.

His forehead wrinkles. "But you said you're writing? I know you've been writing."

"It's not this place, though. It's _you_."

I don't want him to say anything. Instead, I want him to get off that futon, come over to me, and kiss me. To put me out of my misery. These walls are closing in.

The scent of him, his confession, my own, my past...it's choking me. I need his lips, his hands. I need him to breathe into me, to calm me.

To make me feel clean.

But, he stays still. His light eyes burn into my own. We stay like that for a while. Finally, I break the current, looking down at my hands, and at my notebook. I hear Chace move around, then the sound of his guitar lightly fills the space again. I look at him, and he's looking down.

His voice is low when he says, "I don't want to play games. So many people want what they can't have, but I'm a simple guy. When I like a girl, I ask her out. When the feeling is gone, we don't go out anymore. I know you're a little caught up in how this looks instead of how it feels, but I know I'm not alone in this."

"No, you're not," I whisper.

"Okay." He pauses. "Then come sit over here with me, and let's write something—anything."

# CRAZY GIRL

## April 16th

Over the next week, I have no alone time with Chace.

After class and work, he has Aiden over. The boy's mother has taken extra shifts, needing someone to watch him.

I get to know the child pretty well. He's loud, but polite and funny. The three of us eat and cook dinner together.

Kat joins us some nights, and I inform her of everything that's transpired with my _roommate._ She becomes a more vocal _Team Chace_ member, and I spend lunches with her, dissecting every move he's made and what it might mean. I feel like we're teenagers again, examining our crush's movements and words, tearing every sentence apart.

Once, while preparing dinner, Chace walks by me to get milk from the fridge and lightly touches the back of my arm, sending heat through me. He smiles as he walks back, knowing.

I'll explode if I don't get alone time with him to figure this out. The only thing that eases the tension is our near-constant texting. We ask each other questions, we offer truths, and it thrills me.

One thing I learn about him is that he plays hockey but hasn't had time to lately with his crazy work schedule. Now that that's over, he'll be playing again in an adult league and wants to find time to teach Aiden to skate as well—giving me something else to admire about him. He doesn't let anything hold him back.

I begin hounding my brother about his band, and he informs me that they have a gig lined up this weekend. I ask Kat if she wants to go. And Chace.

I plan to stay sober. I don't want Chace not to kiss me. _I've never wanted anything so badly._

I start riding my new bike up and down the driveway to relieve some of the tension, and I write. I've found new confidence in my poetry due to Chace and his words _. He read my poetry. He loved my poetry._ I write now, for him and for myself, and I want him to read the new words he's inspired.

When Saturday evening finally rolls around, I'm a ball of nerves. It's worse than the previous week. This time, I know something will happen.

Chace and I pick Kat up at her apartment and meet Andrew and the band at the bar, where they're playing.

Chace is testing me. When he came downstairs earlier in the night in a dark gray fitted T-shirt, dark denim, and white Converse, my stomach somersaulted. I look at him now and blush, looking away, when he catches me.

A table close to the stage is reserved for us at the bar. Once again, I find Kat on her phone constantly, leading up to the show. I want to ask her who she's talking to, but I can't in front of everyone.

_Does she have a new man in her life? No. No way._ I want there to be one, but I'll be hurt if she doesn't feel like she can share with me. I've poured out every feeling I've fought for Chace to her. Knowing me, I haven't given her even a moment to open up about her own romance.

The bar is filled with women. The band—all attractive young men—has a large group of females surrounding them before the show. Chace joins them as soon as we're seated with our drinks. I only plan on having one.

I immediately recognize the one female—Chace's ex. She's chatting up the drummer while he sets up. When she notices Chace, she cuts the conversation short and approaches him. I watch them, jealousy swirling, despite my best efforts.

I nudge Kat, and she leans toward me. "That's Chace's ex."

"Oh," she mouths, casually observing them.

The conversation seems to be light and doesn't last long. Chace excuses himself and makes his way to my brother where a deeper conversation forms—their heads low, excluding those around them.

I wonder if my brother knows anything about us. Not that there is an _us_. But guys talk too, right? Chace comes back to our table, the band heads to the stage, and the lights lower. Then, my brother reaches for the microphone.

"Hey, everyone! Thanks for coming out. We're BTPCM. Enjoy!"

A large roar erupts from the crowd, and I look at Chace with a question on my face.

"Band That Plays Country Music!" Chace yells to me over the crowd, smiling widely. "Andrew picked the name."

I laugh and roll my eyes as I fall back into my seat. It doesn't surprise me at all—it's so Andrew. I turn around, taking in the sea of people. They sure know how to pack them in.

I enjoy live music, and usually end up having a little crush on the singer. That will obviously _not_ be the case here, but I expect it will be for many others in the room.

My brother is easy on the eyes. He stands over six feet tall, has a slender build, shaggy light brown hair, and crystal blue eyes. When he begins singing, I add _beautiful voice_ to his list of traits.

Kat is enraptured, and I recall the fun she had with him last weekend. If she develops a crush on my little brother, I'll have mixed emotions, that's a given. Chace—beside me, so close—is tapping his foot to the beat. I focus on the lyrics, wondering when he wrote them, if they're about his ex. I find her in the crowd, and her eyes are on me, but they quickly fly to the stage when she's caught.

I look there again as well, my breath catching when I feel Chace's hand reach for mine, where it rests on the edge of my seat, below the table. I turn to him, and his gaze flickers to mine briefly then back to the stage. He begins slowly running his fingers along my own. Back and forth, lightly. My breath leaves me, and I clench my legs.

He's doing things to me with a barely-there touch that others have been unable to do tangled with me between the sheets.

I focus ahead, trying not to make any noise as his hand finds my knee, bare. I internally pat myself on the back for wearing a skirt. His fingers trace circles on my skin in time with the music while I try, in vain, to listen to the words. I can't hear anything but my own heart.

Andrew's band is amazing, but I want this concert to end. _Now._ I want to be alone with Chace. My lips part as his hand goes higher. In my peripheral I see him notice, his hand clenching at the sight. His eyes travel down to my chest, to the heavy up and down of my breathing.

Then, he pulls his phone out and begins texting. _Who could he be texting right now?_ His left hand never stops moving on my thigh. My phone lights up on the table.

**Chace:** You're killing me...

**Me:** What the fuck do you think you're doing to me?

**Chace:** This week has been torture. All I've been able to think about is touching you. Then you wear this skirt. You. Are. Killing. Me.

**Me:** You're doing the same to me.

I finish my drink—my _only_ drink—and head for the restroom, immediately mourning the feeling of his hand in my lap. I feel him watch me as I walk away. The heat.

I walk into the restroom, finding the sink immediately, where I splash cold water on my neck. Then I head for an open stall. I need a moment, so I put the seat down and sit there, catching my breath.

I hear the bathroom door open again, and an unknown number of giggling girls enter. The smell of alcohol follows. I tune them out, staring at my phone and the texts with Chace, until I hear my name outside the stall. My focus moves from my phone to the girls.

"Yeah. She writes porn, basically. I can't believe he'd be interested in her."

I have one guess as to who that is. _Chace's ex._

Another voice chimes in. "Did he say he is? Isn't she like, in her thirties or something? Gross."

"Yeah. I guess he likes them old now."

_Charming girl._

"Don't sweat it. Maybe she'll head back to New York soon and he'll have no distractions. I'm sure he knows he needs a good Christian girl like you. He'll figure it out."

I'm reminded once again that I'm in the Bible Belt, where so many frown upon my work. I've received some stares in my time home but ignored them. Tonight, I decide to meet the little gossipers head-on.

Still buzzing from Chace's touch and my lone drink, I push the stall door open and walk over to the sink next to the ex. Her friend stares over her shoulder, eyes wide.

I wash my hands and turn to her back, then tap my finger on her shoulder. "Hi," I beam as she turns to me. "Just so you know, I don't plan on going back to New York. I like it here. I like the company. I like Chace. Chace likes me. Time to move on, little girl." I walk away, the sound of my boots against the floor echoing in the silent bathroom, and I wave as I leave the restroom.

I head straight for the bar, where I wait for the two girls to emerge then flag down the bartender, to point them out. I hand over a wad of cash, asking that he make sure they don't drive home drunk. When I turn, I see Chace staring at me. He glances at his ex, then back to me. A question is there in his eyes. I turn my head to the side and smile.

# PEOPLE CHANGE

## April 16th

The rest of the concert is amazing, and I'm so fucking proud of my brother and Chace. I pay more attention to the lyrics the rest of the night, even though Chace's hand immediately finds mine once I return to my seat, flustering me once more. He lets go for minutes at a time, only to reach for me again. My body, a rollercoaster of emotions, is on the brink.

Kat drinks quite a bit, swaying in her seat with the music, enjoying herself. I notice Andrew wink at her once during the show and I turn to her, questioning her with my eyes. She just rolls her own at me, playing off the flirtation. I'm beginning to suspect them more and more. After the show, we hang around as the band signs autographs and talks with fans.

After we drop Kat off, Chace's Jeep is silent. He reaches over for my hand and holds it firmly. Once we pull away, I stare out the window—my hair whipping in the breeze—and smile.

When we return home, he pulls down the driveway, slowly. The April air is warm. Leaves are growing quickly on the trees; flowers are blooming all around the house. My heart beats faster as the house comes into view.

Chace parks and I get out, heading for the porch. He cuts me off, grabbing my hand and leading me toward the large pond on the property. A small dock **** stretches out into the water. We walk on the wood to the end, where we sit. He lies back, so I do too.

The stars are bright, and a full moon shines in the sky, illuminating us. Chace turns onto his side, facing me, and reaches over, running his fingers along the skin exposed between my shirt and skirt. I part my lips, sigh, and close my eyes.

His hand leaves me and my eyes fly open. Then he reaches over, brushing the hair from my ear, exposing my neck. I close my lids again and turn my head to the side, once again inviting his lips to my neck, knowing this time he'll accept the offer.

He speaks then, his soft voice hushed. I turn to hear him better, and he's staring at the hand lightly tracing my skin. "I saw you on TV last year. I went to drop some music off with your brother, and he was so excited to tell me his big sister was going to the Oscars. So, I watched it that night. I wanted to see more than just family photos and the ones in magazines. You were wearing that white dress. Your hair was pulled up. I'd never seen anyone so beautiful." He stops and points down to his shoes.

I look, finding white Converse, with the date I walked down the red carpet with Tristan, written in black ink. I close my eyes, and he continues.

"I wrote songs about you. That dress. Your hair. Your skin. But here, the way you look to me right now...that doesn't compare to this. To the way you feel. I broke up with my ex when I found out you were coming here—not that I thought I had a chance with you. It just wasn't fair, being with someone when I had these...these thoughts. I wanted to be free to know everything about you. Not just the pretty things, but the dark, the dirt. And I want you to see my ugly things, too."

I can't speak, can't move. I open my eyes and stare at his own; they're trained on his hands. I will him to look at me.

Finally, he does, and he holds my gaze.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

I can barely think with his words and his hands on me. "I'm just trying to figure out if you're real," I manage. "Or if I just wrote you in my head, then placed you in my life to deal."

His lips find mine, then. It starts light, then quickens, turning needful and hungry. His body presses against mine as his hand finds the apex of my leg, pulling it around him. I press my heel into him as I push myself against him. He groans into my mouth and I pull mine away. He quickly moves to my neck.

I start repeating the same four words between inaudible sounds and curse words. "Tell me you're real."

He answers with, "I am," as he trails his lips and tongue down my neck, to the neckline of my shirt. I lay my head back, gasping, while his hand travels from the hold on my knee up my thigh, beneath my skirt. He rolls onto me, settling between my thighs, my skirt flowing around me, the slight chill of the air leaving goosebumps everywhere.

When his hands find the lace underneath I grab his neck, pulling his mouth to mine once again, begging him to continue.

I'm filled with conflicting forces, mainly arousal and anxiety. I'm mostly a fan of the big three—first kiss, foreplay, fucking. Intimacy isn't in the cards with me, so I figure it's best to get it all over with, then move on to the writing. It's my M.O., and I am dangerously close to repeating it. I don't want to move too fast with Chace, and what he wants hits me all at once.

I gasp as his fingers enter me and grip his shirt, my nails digging into his back. They quickly leave me, and his mouth does as well.

He presses his forehead to mine and whispers, "I'm sorry. Too much. Too much."

I shake my head to disagree. "Don't stop touching me," I beg, reaching for his mouth again, needing him. I stick my hand under the back of his shirt, tugging upward, and he pulls away from me long enough to reach behind him and yank it over his shoulders.

He takes my hands from his body, raising them over my head and securing them with one of his. His lips find the tattoos starting at my wrist, and he traces his tongue along the script—finding each visible bit of poetry, claiming them with his warm lips. I chant each poem as he tastes me.

Finally, he lifts my shirt, finding the script upon my ribcage, below my bra, and I become dizzy. I focus on the stars above, poetry screaming inside me. His hand is still securing my wrists; I'm helpless as I arch my back off the dock. Chace travels lower, to the prose on my thigh, tracing each word.

I clench at the nearness of his mouth, the desperate need for him to taste me.

_Why have I been fighting this?_ _Can't we just give in?_ My mind and body go round and round; they're both beat up, and which one will win will surely be determined by the beautiful man kissing every word on my body, swirling new ones inside me. I push him back, and confusion worries his face before I find my way to my knees, pressing against his bare chest. He's all hard lines and soft voice, and I'm undone.

I push him onto his back and take him in—the beauty of Chace Holloway. There's a bright moon above us, and his ivory skin is illuminated. He has no words there for me to read, no verse to place my lips on, but I don't need it.

I press my lips to his neck and relish the sigh it brings forth. I take my time, tasting him, touching him, coaxing music from his mouth.

# MAKE OUT WITH ME

## April 17th

I wake in a tangle of limbs as the sun rises. I pull my right hand up to my chest and press. My heartbeat is slow, no panic living there over having someone in my bed with me.

We came close to going all the way the night before—both of us rushed breath, sweat, and raw desire—but we somehow managed to stop ourselves. I'm glad we did, because I'm not ready.

I want something of substance with this young man, something real. Something new. Using him isn't in the cards, and I don't know where to go from here. I'm in foreign territory.

One-night stands litter my past. With Tristan, it was easy. We never had to deal with the day-to-day mess that comes with a commitment. There was no fear of our romance becoming monotonous. We never saw each other enough for it to get to that point.

I know why I found it easy to commit to Tristan. It wasn't because of the way the world saw him; it wasn't his beauty, his talent, or his spark. It was the knowledge that a commitment to him still held the promise of my freedom. It was easy.

_Will I be able to commit to Chace?_ I want to. I want to grow up, to be in an adult relationship. I look over at him—still sleeping. He's on his stomach, the sheet down around his waist. His broad shoulders are soft under my fingers, his artificial leg peeking out from under the comforter.

He hesitated when we undressed to sleep next to each other. I saw it in his eyes and felt it in his hands. There's not an inch of him I don't wish to touch, even the places he fears will diminish my desire.

I had kissed him then, hard, before easing his jeans down, reassuring him. We explored each other again in the warmth of my bed, stripping down to our undergarments. His mouth found every bit of my skin that was exposed, not just the words, and I returned in kind. We continued until our hands and limbs slowed, sleep claiming us. He succumbed first, and I watched him sleep; the gentle movement of his chest hypnotized me.

I eventually fell too, tucked into his side. I recall his words, before the kiss. I don't think he loved me, but I know he can. I don't deserve his affection, but I'm going to fucking take it.

I slip from the sheets and pad over to my vanity, grabbing my notebook and pen. The art of him in my bed at sunrise...it needs to be put on paper.

There will be another get-together at the house today. My mother wants to barbecue.

After writing a bit, I slip into the shower, leaving the poetry on the bed next to Chace. When I enter the room again, he's gone—as is the paper. I see a text from him on my phone.

**Chace:** Last night. Yes. It was all of that. I don't know how I'll be normal today when your family comes over. But I'll try.

I smile at the screen and bite my lip, possibly blushing too. _I've turned into a sixteen-year-old girl again._ I toss my phone on the bed, grab my iPad, and begin tending to my social media and emails.

I find one from my assistant titled _Tristan_ , and my stomach flips. That's not a name I want to see now. I open it and find a link to an article on People Magazine's website that I don't want to click. _Why is she sending me this? Can she sense I'm finally starting something with someone new?_

I am such a fucking masochist. I click the link.

The article states that Tristan's romance with his co-star has fizzled, and sources close to him speculate that he wants _me_ back. That my whereabouts are unknown. _Surprising._ I may be in the Ozarks but those leeches can find blood anywhere.

My next email is from Gemma. A link to the same article. I fall onto my bed, snatching my phone and checking my texts again. I have one from her.

**Gemma:** Did you read the article? Tristan called me wanting your new number. Then he came by the tattoo shop, pretending he was just visiting Rooster, and asked again. I didn't give it to him. Call me ASAP.

_Why, why is this happening?_

I text Kat, begging her to join in on the barbecue fun. She declines, saying she's insanely hungover. _Damn._ Still, we go through a brief play-by-play of the night. She cheers for me in emojis. I eye-roll back.

I make my way downstairs, about an hour before anyone will be showing up. I find Chace in the kitchen, preparing hamburger patties. He smiles at my entrance.

"You look nice," he breathes.

I'm wearing an oversize long-sleeve T-shirt, skinny jeans, and ballet flats. My tangle of hair is in a messy knot on the top of my head, and I opted out of wearing my contacts, choosing my large frames instead. He's looking at me as if he only sees the girl in the white dress.

He goes to the sink to wash his hands, dries them on the towel hanging from the stove, and then makes his way over to me. He places a finger under my chin and raises my mouth to his. The taste of mint meets my tongue as I wrap my arms around his neck, running my hands through his short brown hair. His hands find my back, pressing into me, and I raise up on my toes. He's so far away. In my flats, he towers over me by more than a foot.

He reaches down, lifting me onto the counter, and again I use my heel to bring him as close to me as possible while his mouth claims mine. His kiss, it's _more_ , and I feel exposed. His hand finds the elastic of my hairband and untangles it, letting the waves fall as he cradles my head, leaning me back, working his way over my neck. _This is the best fucking breakfast I've ever had._

The clearing of a foreign but familiar throat stills our busy hands. I pull away and look into Chace's eyes, which are trained over my shoulder.

My brother's voice cuts through the kitchen. "Bruh. It's ten in the morning. Get a room. You both have one."

I rest my forehead on Chace's shoulder. It bounces with his laughter.

"I can't believe you're mauling my sister on a Sunday. You knew I was coming over. I think I lost my appetite." He pretends to gag.

I jump off the counter and punch my brother in the arm. I can't believe he's so casual about this. But fuck, I'm relieved. I don't want whatever this is to cause turmoil for Chace with my family. They have a great thing going here. I don't want to be the one to wreck it all. I think about my mother, worried she might be a different story.

I fear she won't approve, and I don't know how I'll handle it if she doesn't.

I need Chace in my life.

# SPEECHLESS

## April 17th

Soon, the house fills with voices, food, and laughter, and I find myself walking on eggshells. My mind is everywhere, I feel manic. Gemma's texting me, wanting to talk about Tristan. I ignore her after telling her I don't care, and I'm fed up with getting alerts about him. He can do whatever he wants because I'm over it, over _him_.

I want to reach out and touch Chace every time he comes near me, but I don't. We share glances though, and I catch Andrew rolling his eyes at us more than once. We haven't talked about what he interrupted, and I wonder if Chace will talk to him about it. I wonder _what_ he will tell Andrew this is.

I finally meet Aiden's mother when she stops by for a bit to bring her son. She's friendly but seems exhausted, expressing her appreciation for Chace and all he does to help her.

We don't play games this Sunday, simply sitting on the back lawn instead around the large pond, talking. Chace stands on the dock and throws a large branch into the water over and over again as Artax retrieves it. I try to keep my eyes away from him.

I can feel summer around the corner, in both my happiness and the sunshine. I wonder how much I'll see here, of this year, how much longer I'll stay in Missouri.

My mother—always one to sense my thoughts—sits next to me and asks, "How long do we have left with you, dear?" She reaches for my hand and gently squeezes it.

"I don't know," I answer. "I didn't think I'd be here long but I'm writing again, and I don't want to ruin that. I don't want to change a thing. I don't want to scare it away."

"I like to hear that. It's so nice having you here, just a short drive away. I miss Sundays at this house. Remember them?"

"Yes." _Everything was fine in the daylight hours._ My mother has the warmest smile, and I never want to be the one to diminish it. "Board games, reading, late breakfasts and early dinners. I loved it," I say, always telling her half-truths.

"Me too. How are things with you and Chace?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, too sharply.

"Are you getting along? I'm sure you've been seeing him more. I'm glad he quit that second job of his. School is the most important thing and lord knows he has us to help him with anything he needs."

"Yeah, he did work a lot," I reply, relieved. I look at Chace in the distance. He's sitting on the edge of the dock, his arm around Artax, who's perched next to him.

"I just wish he had more family. Family he could be close with."

"He has us," I say, looking around at everyone. "You know he considers you guys like family."

"And you now, too," she adds.

"Yeah, I guess. Let's just call me his roommate." _Dear god, don't say I'm his family._

My mother stands. "Help me bring the dishes inside."

I rise with her, gathering plates and other items, and we retreat into the house. Inside, she runs water and begins washing. I take my place on the other side to dry, just like I used to when I was a child.

She hands me a plate and clears her throat, making me glance at her. She's gazing out the kitchen window. "I saw the way you two were looking at each other," she says evenly.

"What do you mean?" I dry the plate, keeping my voice as even as hers, studying her features.

"It was both of you. You were both glancing at each other and had that look on your faces, like you think the other hung the moon."

I can't tell how she's feeling about this because my mother has always been good at talking about any situation without letting her emotions enter. It's one reason I was able to go to her for advice so often when I was younger. I can't help my denial.

"You're getting delusional in your old age," I joke, nudging her, then turning my eyes back to my task.

"Deny it if you want. I know what I saw. Just be careful."

"With what?" I turn back quickly, sure my face is giving me away.

"With him," she replies.

"What do you mean? You think the world of him."

"I do. But he doesn't need anyone leaving him heartbroken."

_Ouch. My own mother._ I set down the cup I've been toweling off. "Mom," I start carefully, "are you implying that I'm...a bad influence __ or something?"

She isn't wrong, but how does she know that? Phone calls home are always light, about work and travel. Never about men in my life.

"No, hun. I just know you've never given any indication that you want to settle down any time soon. I'm okay with that. You take care of yourself and you have this life you've created that I couldn't be more proud of. But Chace is different."

I begin drying the cup again, furiously. "Well, none of this conversation is necessary, because he's young and I'm not interested." The lie stings on my lips. _Why the hell did I say that?_ I'm too used to keeping my love life from her.

My mother sighs. "He's young, but not in his soul. Not in his heart. Not like Andrew. He'd match you. He'd challenge you. Honestly, he's the kind of man I always hoped you'd find one day."

"Mother, you're running in circles. I feel like you're encouraging me to marry the guy while also scaring me away from the idea."

"Okay, okay, I'm done." She pauses. "He's just had a hard life, Sera. And he's doing well. Others, they would've let it destroy them. I see it often—children from harsh backgrounds, letting circumstance turn them down the wrong path. Drugs, stealing, and other horrible things. But Chace, he's made a strong life for himself."

"I agree. He has it together." My stomach is home to an anvil. I've had a hard life, too. But I've kept it from her.

"We all carry scars. He's just good at hiding his," she says, unknowingly wounding me.

Before she leaves, my mother convinces me to do a small book signing at the local library. I've managed to stay under the radar since my return. It's incredibly easy to do so in the country, but she feels it'll be a nice thing to do for the fans I have here. I worry a little that those who feel my work is unacceptable will show up just to stare me down, but I order a few hundred books from my publishing house to be sent to my mother's, where I'll sign them for the event.

When she's gone, I head to my bathroom for a shower. I let the warm water flow over me and think of Chace. He's downstairs waiting for me. _What will this night bring?_ My heart flutters at the thought.

Once I'm clean, I check my social media again, anxious after the morning's findings. I have a new email from my assistant—another link that I regretfully click. It's an Entertainment Weekly article about Tristan, once again discussing his breakup and his apparent pining for me.

A source states that things didn't pan out with the co-star because Tristan isn't over me, claiming my ex used the actress to make me jealous and push me into commitment. I wonder who the laughable source is, because it's a complete crock of shit. I know better than to read much into the words. The end of the article suggests I've left New York— _well, they got that right_ —and that Tristan is determined to find me. I don't believe it, doubtful he's given much thought to my changed number and sudden move. I slam my laptop, jump off the bed, and get dressed.

I head downstairs, into the kitchen.

Chace is cutting some sort of cake. He smiles when he sees me. "Where are you going?"

I return his smile and say, "Nowhere. Came down to find you." I sit at the bar.

"Would you like a piece?" he asks.

The treat appears to be cheesecake. "Where did that come from?" My eyes widen. "Oh, is that my mother's?" She makes the most divine New York style cheesecake. Ironically, I've never found anything in New York that compares.

"Yep." He grins, putting a piece on another plate. "She forgot to mention she brought it."

I snatch my plate and dive in, moaning as soon as the first bite hits my mouth. It's like my birthday, fresh snow on my tongue, and fuzzy slippers. I've missed this sweet goodness. When I open my eyes, I find Chace watching me.

"My mother suspects there's something going on between us," I tell him.

"What'd she say?"

"She seemed to be warning me away from you," I mumble, stabbing into the remainder of my slice. I twist the fork and look up at him.

Confusion covers his face. "Oh."

"Not because of you. Because of me, I think. Because of my past. Since I haven't had many...relationships."

"I see," he says simply.

"Does that bother you?"

Chace makes his way around the kitchen island, grabbing my knee and spinning me on my stool.

I look up at him, into his honest eyes, and he places his hand on my neck, his thumb tracing my jaw. "You know, for me this isn't casual. This isn't just some _fling_."

"I know." He's not a man whose intentions are doubted. I don't want another fling. With him, I want more.

"Good." He smiles.

I feel relief coming off me in waves. "It's the same for me. Casual is my specialty." _My life. My past. My dirty secret_. "But that's not what you are to me."

He lets out a breath. "How did this happen? I can't believe I'm touching you. I feel that way every time I put my hands on you." Chace runs his thumb along my jaw, tilting my mouth toward him.

I keep my eyes on his, on the crystal color of them, taking him in. Taking everything in that's being said. "I'm real when you touch me," I confess.

Then his mouth is on mine, and I'm pushing off the stool, nearly falling off. My hand grips his neck as he wraps one arm around me, lifting me to the counter.

Chace fit himself between my thighs, and I press him closer.

Everything goes blurry and crimson.

# I DON'T REMEMBER ME (BEFORE YOU)

## April 18th

A new week rolls around, with one distinct change—I'm happy; it's almost sickening. Chace gets out of bed early for class, kissing my forehead as he exits my room. I want him in my bed each morning. I want him to be the one to erase the memory of me sneaking out of foreign bedrooms at dusk.

I decide to avoid all social media today. I want to remain in my happy bubble, without my ex's shadow blocking my sunlight.

I text Kat to confirm our lunch later that day, determined to get to the bottom of things with her. She's having a busy beginning to her week. New shipments of purses and blouses are due, so I promise to pick something up for us. That way, we can sneak in a meal in her stock room.

Once there, I place her favorite salad on the table surrounded by boxes and sit down with her. She has a mouth full of greens when I attack.

"What's been going on with you lately?"

"What do you mean?" She cocks an eyebrow at me.

"You seem distracted. And you've been on your phone," I point to the device—face down, an inch from her left hand, "a lot."

Her cheeks redden at my question, so I know I'm onto something. "Ah, I don't know." She grabs her phone and slips it into the outer pocket of her purse.

"Spill it," I demand, pointing my fork at her. She's not getting off that easy.

"There's nothing to spill," she says with a shrug.

"Yes, there is. Come on. Are you seeing someone?"

"No..."

"Then what is it? Your ex?"

"No. No way," she replies, and the disgust covering her face makes me believe her. "Never, that's done. I can't wait for the divorce to be finalized."

"See, you seem different about that. You were desolate before. _Desolate_. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you're not, but what changed?"

"Okay," she says, sitting back and staring at the ceiling. "Just don't get all weird about this." My friend leans forward again, putting her fork down and then reaching for a napkin.

"Kat, I'm currently kind of seeing the dude I live with who's like family to my family, and seven years younger than me. Spill."

She takes a breath. "Well, I've been talking to this guy—texting. That's it." She blushes and stares at her food.

"Who is it?" _Did she meet him on social media?_ Surely people don't use Tinder around here. All they'd find are people they've known since preschool.

"I don't know," she edges.

"What do you mean? Is he from a dating website or something?" She isn't giving me much to work with here.

"No. Um...okay." She leans back in her chair again and crosses her arms. "This is going to sound weird when I say it. So, I got a text from a wrong number a while back. I told them they had the wrong person. No big deal, right? Well, they texted me again. And we...we started talking."

_Excuse me?_ "What? How does that even happen?" This is how you end up on Dateline or stuffed into a freezer. This is how you end up a fucking skin suit.

"I don't even know. He wanted to talk to someone and he said he thought it would be easy to talk to me, since we don't know each other. Since we're strangers. We've been sharing everything. I told him all about my divorce. He told me about his problems. We don't even know each other's names. Who knows if we'll ever meet, and even if we do, we might just find out we have absolutely no attraction to each other. But regardless, he's helped me."

She seems relieved to have the truth out there, the way I did when I showed her my poetry.

"Wow," I say, still processing. "I don't know what to say. I've never heard of anything like that." I kind of wish I'd thought of it. What a great story setup.

"I know." She sits back up and reaches for her phone. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I just didn't want to share it with anyone yet." Her face is still a bit pink, and it's adorable.

"Stop apologizing. You're my best friend, and I've been gone. I know it isn't like when we were kids, but I want us to be close again."

"But you're going to leave again, aren't you?"

"I don't know." I don't want to think about the future—a future with leaving, anyway. Initially, I had no desire to stay in Missouri for the rest of my life, but for the moment, staying seems like the right decision. I don't know what's going on with my love life—it's too new—but I don't want to put an expiration date on it before Chace and I even begin.

"Because of Chace?" Kat asks, smiling at me.

"Yeah." I shake my head. "I feel like I can be _me_ with him. Or no, not me, a _better_ version of me. Someone worthy of him. Because who I was before, she couldn't keep a man like that."

"Stop that." She throws a carrot at me, and I duck.

"I don't want to be that person anymore." I want to crawl out of this skin, shed it, and begin again. _It's never too late to begin again, right?_ I have to believe it's true.

"Well, I don't want to be who I was before, either." She finishes her salad and throws it into the trash across the room, then comes back and sits down.

"What the hell are you talking about? You're perfect." I wave my hand at her, still working on my lunch.

"Well, maybe _I_ want to be a bit like _you_."

"Why would you want that?" I choke on the bite in my mouth.

"I want to be a little more selfish. I want to do the things _I_ want to do. I don't want to take care of someone. I want to be a little reckless. I never was before. It's my turn."

"Proceed with caution." I laugh. "My mother suspects something is going on with me and Chace, and I didn't exactly get the impression that she was thrilled about it."

"Sera, your mom supports whatever you do." My friend's motherly, advice-giving voice has emerged. "You know that. But, as you said, he's like family to them. So, it may take some to adjust."

"I know." I hope the adjustment will be easy, painless.

"Is it worth it? You and Chace?"

I don't hesitate. "Yes. Yes, he's worth it."

# GATEWAY LOVE

## April 18th

The next day, Chace and I go on a cycling date. An early morning cycling date. I groan into my pillow, regretting my agreement.

I've been meeting him in town when he has breaks between classes to ride. Today he won't have much time, so we decide to ride just after six in the morning. He knows I'm not a morning person, and that I agreed just to appease him. But he smiled when I did so, and that's all I need these days.

I hope Chace isn't the kind of person that cycles regardless of the elements—rain, shine, snow, hail—but he doesn't seem like the type to let anything stop him. I just hope he knows his cycling partner will use anything to give her an excuse to sleep in.

I fumble in the early morning light for my phone and tap out a text to him, inquiring if our trip is still on. If he says no, I'll gladly head back off to dreamland. My phone dings quickly, alerting me to his response.

We're still on. Wishful thinking always bites me in the ass.

I stumble out of bed, shower, and make my way downstairs in proper attire. Chace is loading our bikes onto the rack on the back of his Jeep. He has a thermos in his hand when he reaches me.

We ride silently into town, comfortable in the other's presence, and it reminds me that I need to talk to my mother. This is feeling familiar, promising, and I'm happy. Strangely, the fact that we haven't slept together has me feeling like I'm on the precipice of falling. _It's all in the fall._

After a ten-mile ride, Chace and I head home so he can get ready for class. I won't see him until he gets home later tonight, since he has a study group after class. I take a quick morning nap when we return, texting my mother before I hit the sheets asking if I can meet her for lunch later in the day. I text Kat as well, telling her today will be the day I come clean, and she wishes me luck.

I meet my mother at the only sushi joint nearby, and as soon as the waitress is gone with our drink order, my mom corners me. "Is there something you need to tell me, Seraphina?"

_She just full-named me._ _She knows. She always knows._ I try to keep my face blank, to hide the freight train of fear inside. "Well," I begin slowly, "I wanted to talk to you about something. And...I'm a little scared, if I'm being honest."

"You know you can tell me anything," she assures me, reaching across the table to pat my hand.

"I know, I just—I don't like letting you down."

"What is it?" she presses.

"There's something going on with me and Chace." _Bandage off._

"I see," she says, pulling her hand away and focusing on the menu. She knows what she's going to order, but still, her eyes are trained on it.

_I want to crawl into a hole and die._ "What are you thinking?"

"I'm not surprised." My mother sets her menu down. "I told you I noticed something on Sunday, and I knew you were brushing off the truth. You're both adults, Sera. Whether this pans out or not I'll love you both. You know there's an age difference, but you're a smart girl, you're not blind to that. Just remember it, and don't get too caught up in looks or _lust_ or whatever."

"Mom, don't say lust." I groan.

"You've said far worse in your books."

"True." She's right, but she's still my mom—my _school-teacher_ mom. I don't want her saying _lust._

"Just...be careful." She smiles lightly at my confused face. "Be careful with him."

My face heats. "I don't intend to hurt him."

"How many people do? It doesn't stop people from getting hurt," she says.

I wonder if she's thinking about my dad, who didn't give two shits about hurting us all those years ago. Her father didn't give two shits about hurting me, but she still loves him. Because I couldn't break her heart with the ugly truth.

"I'm not going to," I say, my voice firm.

"Does this mean you'll be staying around?"

"Yes. As long as there's something here between me and him, I don't see myself leaving. I know that sounds crazy. I don't even know what it is between us, but I don't want to leave yet." With those words, I cement my decision, and I can't decide if it's reckless or growing up.

"So, you care about him, then?" She smiles, and my shoulders relax; I've been tense since the moment we sat down.

"I do. He's not what I deserve, but I want him."

"You deserve the best. Don't let yourself think otherwise." She reaches across the table and takes my hand again.

"I love you."

"And I love you."

I **** wait on the porch for Chace to make it home that night.

I light candles, pour a glass of wine, and pull out my typewriter, writing for two hours before I see his headlights shining down the long driveway.

Artax barks until Chace parks, as usual. He knows who it is, but he barks all the same.

I gulp down the last of my drink and set my typer to the side, propping my bare legs on the wicker table in front of me. I study the ink there while I wait, and Chace smiles at me as he comes up the front steps, then points inside. He needs to clean up.

My phone dings next to me, and I grab it, pulling up a text from my Gemma.

**Gemma:** You need to call me! Tristan came by, AGAIN. He begged for your number. I wouldn't give it to him, but I let it slip that you went home. CALL ME!

_Great._ He's annoying, but this isn't dire. I'll call her in the morning. I don't believe he'll track me down here in the Ozarks. That's ridiculous, and Gemma can be as dramatic as I am, so I know she just wants to gossip about the situation. I turn my phone on silent and set it aside once Chace returns.

"I talked to my mom about us today," I blurt, the wine making me brave.

"How'd that go?" Chace sips a beer and stares into the yard.

"Weird at first," I admit. "Then good. She's still worried I'm going to break your heart."

He turns back to me and looks me in the eye. "I'll take my chances."

I blush. "I guess I can't be upset that people worry about my commitment issues."

"She's probably just thinking of my mother when she says that."

"Your mother?" I don't know much about her, besides the fact that she tore his family apart. I don't know anything about who she was before that night.

"Yeah," he says evenly, taking a seat on the chair next to me, staring into the distance again. "I hated my mom, for quite some time. I hated what she did to us, that she took my sister from us, nearly taking me out as well. But...she was my mother, and I still have memories of her—good memories. I remember her taking me and my sister for gelato. Her sitting in a chair on the porch watching us ride bikes back and forth, never losing sight of us. I remember her reading to me at night, kissing me on the forehead before she pulled the covers tight. She'd whisper ' _night, tiger'_ and I loved that—I loved _her_. It's hard for me to reconcile those memories with what she did. Even after all these years. I could have died, and there were times I wish I had, so I could have gone wherever my sister went. I hated what my mom did to my father, hated what he turned into. He was never the same, and the sight of me reminded him of everything he lost. The sight of where my leg had been. He shut me out, shut down when I needed him the most." His voice is so low, I can barely make out the last part.

"I'm sorry." I reach for his hand, over the armrest, gently touching my fingertips to his.

I know how he feels. Some small part of me loved my grandfather for years, and I hated myself for it. The guilt ripped at me. He destroyed the innocent girl I was, yet I could still remember little things he did to make me happy, and I'd smile at those thoughts, then spend days punishing myself for letting any love inside remain, free. I clench my eyes at the memory of it all and shake my head, focusing on Chace again.

"One day I went to my dad's study to let him know I wanted to go ride my bike," he starts. "I didn't enter right away because I heard him talking. He was on the phone and the door was cracked. I didn't listen in on my dad's conversations, but that time, I couldn't stop myself. The first thing I heard him say was, ' _Jesus, Sandy. She was having an affair. With a man who didn't want kids.'_ And I stopped. He was talking to his sister about my mother. I guess he found emails of hers and learned that she hated her life with him, with us. That she didn't love him and was planning to leave him when we got back from our vacation. That she never wanted a family or her kids."

_Fuck._ His mother and my father would've made a perfect pair. I grip his hand harder when no words come to me.

He turns to me. "I'm not saying you're like that, or that your mom thinks you are. But, maybe she still sees that little boy she helped. She was the kind of mother I wish I could've had. But I'm an adult now, and I can make my own choices. If I get my heart broken, that's okay. That's life sometimes—ugly and petty and harsh. I've already survived the worst, and so have you."

"You're so..." I stop, hoping Chace sees himself the way I see him. The way everyone does. "I don't know. You're ridiculous, wonderful, just fucking perfect."

He kisses me—long and hard—then says into my hair, "I think those same things about you. Especially when you cuss like a sailor."

# LOVE DON'T LIVE HERE

## April 20th

So, this is it. This is what I write about; this is what I read about—sharing the sunrise with a man you don't want to leave.

The art of Chace Holloway, in my bed, at sunrise. _Fuck._ He's lying there, dead to the world, his lips slightly parted as he breathes. _It's all in the fall._ I'm falling. Too fast, but it doesn't make it any less true. Yet, in this moment, I feel no fear.

I leave him sleeping after I write a note and slip out. I'm meeting my mother at her house before the book signing she's organized for the day.

The library is a complete madhouse when we arrive—people must have come from every county in the area—and it resembles something my team would organize in a larger city. My mother must have put the word out.

To my own surprise, when I address everyone beforehand, I announce that I'll be publishing a collection of poems later that year. I haven't discussed it with my agent or publishing company, and I imagine they'll be less than thrilled with my rogue approach. Nevertheless, Chace has made me crazy—crazy in this belief that people will embrace my new style of writing and follow me wherever the words lead.

The only bad seed of the day is Chace's ex. She shows up at the signing with a friend who's clutching one of my books. The ex never comes to my table, choosing to give me the stink eye the entire time instead. I can't help but laugh inside because I feel for her, I do. Losing a guy like Chace Holloway has to sting.

After nearly five hours of signing, well past the allotted time, things start to wrap up.

I run to the bathroom while the library staff and my mother begin tidying up, because I've been holding it for nearly an hour.

When I return, I find a small crowd around my table again—possible latecomers. They're whispering and giggling. I straighten my tired shoulder then smile and head toward them.

I don't get far, stilling at the sight of my mother talking to a man facing away from me. Her face is white as she glances around his six-three frame in my direction. He turns when he sees her notice my approach.

The man is beautiful, devastating—and a goddamn cheater. It's Tristan.

_Tristan Cheats-With-His-Co-Stars Kane._

_Fuck. My. Life._

My stomach lurches as he turns back, saying something to my mother before walking over to me. He has the balls to smile.

"How did you find me?" I squeak. _I don't want him smiling at me. I don't want to fucking smile at him._

The crowd turns their attention on us. "Wait. Save it. Come with me." I grab his arm, pulling him toward the women's restroom— _where it all began with us_.

Once we're inside, I lock the door. "How did you find me?"

"Your assistant is dating my publicist," he says, and his green eyes make me angry. There's a strange look in them.

_Affection. Want. Regret._

"She didn't tell me that, and I can assure you it'll be an _ex-assistant_ now." I make a mental note to fire her once this conversation is over.

"Come on, Ser. Don't be that way" he says, walking toward me.

I back up, hitting the door behind me. Then I point my finger at him, causing him to stop. "Okay, I'll take it out on you. _First_ , don't call me that. _Second_ , what the hell are you doing here?" I screech, hating that he has me all worked up already. Finally, he's able to get a passionate reaction out of me, though it's not the kind he's begged for.

"I miss you," he says, and he has the gall to sound sincere. But, he won an Oscar a few years ago.

I pull a deep breath through my nose. "No. No you don't, Tristan."

"I fucked up," he admits. "I never should have ended it the way I did."

He stares at me with his deep forest eyes. Women got lost in those eyes, but I just want to tear them out of his big extremely attractive head. Those green eyes are lying eyes.

I aim a glare at him. "No shit. A text? Mature."

"I'm sorry, Sera. I am." Once again with the sincere voice.

"For which part? For the shitty way you did it? For moving on so fast with _her_? It doesn't matter." I wave my hand in the air dismissively, saying, "I'm over it. This. _Us_." I turn around and reach for the lock, but Tristan's large hand covers mine. I pull away as if I've been burned by him. And in truth, I have.

"Please, talk to me." He pulls my hand into his. "I flew all this way."

I rip it away once more. "Not my fault you're an idiot, and there's nothing to talk about. You live in a world where there will always be rumors and speculation. You know how the tabloids are, and you used them to end it. You couldn't even do it yourself, like a man. A relationship without trust is nothing."

My voice gets steadily louder as I go on, adding, "And not just in your world, but in the _real_ world. Do you know what people think of me now? A lot of them hate me or feel sorry for me. At least that's how I felt when my Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram feeds were jammed with pissed off fans calling me every name in the book when _you_ were the one who cheated. But just because you're the biggest movie star in the world, they somehow made it out like I wasn't _woman enough_ to keep you. And hell, maybe I wasn't in your eyes."

His rabid fans were ruthless, and I feel sick just from the memory of their harassment.

"Who cares what they think?" he says. The gentleness in his eyes is sickening, and I think he actually believes the shit coming out of his mouth.

"I did. They thought I ran away heartbroken over you, that I couldn't stay in New York, and you know what? Maybe it was true then, but the world didn't need to know."

"Is that why you came back here?" He steps toward me, and I step back.

"Don't flatter yourself," I say, tossing the words at him. "I came back here to write. That's what I am—a writer. I want people to remember I'm not just the _ex-girlfriend of some movie star._ "

Tristan stares down at his feet, clenching his fists. "You have no idea how much I regret what happened. How much I miss you." His deep voice, even at a whisper, echoes across the small bathroom.

I lower my voice a little, realizing I've been yelling too much, when I say, "You waited months to come to find me."

At the softening of my voice, he looks up. "I had to _find you_ first. You changed your number."

"But when you had it, a text was suitable enough to end a year-long relationship? The only one I've ever been in." I sigh. "Are you done with filming?"

"Yes," he replies.

I chuckle to myself. "So now that you're done with your little fling you want to come back to me? Now that it's getting closer to promotion time for the last film, you want to patch things up? Well, I may not be an actress— _like her_ —but I can pretend to like you for the cameras. We're done here," I huff.

I make my way around him, setting my sights on the door, and again, Tristan reaches for me. I back up, avoiding his touch, over it all. "There's someone else!" I blurt.

"What?" He stops his reach, his tone deflated.

"I met someone else."

"Who?" His voice is loud again.

"It doesn't matter. But you need to move out of my way." I point to the door he's blocking.

"Who is he?"

"He isn't anyone you know. Just let me out, please." I feel hysterical. I'm in this drama again—in his world—and I want out.

"Who is he?" he repeats.

"Just some guy. Now get out of the way." I wave wildly with my hands, feeling my anxiety kick up a notch with every word, every breath.

I'm trapped in a bathroom by a man. A man I don't want to touch me. If he keeps me in here much longer, I'm going to throw up on his expensive shoes. My skin is itching, my eyes watering.

"Is it serious? I can't leave if it's serious, Sera. I won't leave until we talk about this." His voice is determined, and I know how Tristan is when he wants the truth out of someone. There's no stopping him.

I once admired it. Now, I hate the trait. "It isn't serious. It's just a fling. It doesn't mean anything." I'm comfortable lying to my ex, and I don't owe him the truth. I don't owe him my heart, or anything at all, and I need to be out of this situation—this bathroom—as quickly as possible. Before I break down.

"You're just using him for a story, right? Just like the ones before me? I know it was real with us, Sera, because you didn't write about us." The pleading tone has returned.

"Yes. I'm writing again because of him. I'm writing about him."

"Can we talk when you come back to New York?"

"Yes, fine," I say with a groan.

I don't intend to go back, but if that's what he needs to hear to get out of my damn way, _fine_. Lying to Tristan Kane is of no consequence to me.

# I KNOW WHERE I'M GOING

## April 20th

I'm more than rattled when I finally make it home that evening, after stopping by Kat's to fill her in. Twitter blew up. Someone at the library took a photo of me and Tristan walking into the bathroom, so now we're a trending topic. I also call my assistant, to fire her.

I'm ready for Chace to get home so I can talk to him about everything. I wonder if he's been informed.

It's a small town. Hell, _the world_ is my small town. _I feel sick._

My anxiety is not unfounded. I texted Chace after I left the library, and still, there's been no response, when he _always_ answers. Also, Artax is gone, along with his leash and bowl.

I polish off a bottle of wine before I get the nerve to text again. It's nine o'clock already, and he's been off work for two hours.

**Me:** Where are you? I'm a little worried...

**Chace:** I'm staying with Andrew tonight.

**Me:** Oh. I wanted to tell you, in case you haven't heard, Tristan flew here. He ambushed me at my book signing.

**Chace:** I heard.

**Me:** Oh. Okay.

**Chace:** Maybe we should cool this.

**Me:** Cool what?

**Chace:** Us. I don't think it's going to work.

**Me:** Slow down. Why are you saying that?

**Chace:** It's okay. I know what happened between us isn't serious.

**Me:** Yes, it was. Or, it could be. What's going on?

**Chace:** I know you told your ex this is just a fling, and I don't want the games. I've said that from the beginning. So I'm going to stay here for a while.

**Me:** Chace. Please come home or call me. I just said that to get him out of here.

**Chace:** I can't. I'm sorry, Sera.

**Me:** No. Please, let's talk.

I call him, but it goes straight to voicemail. When I pull my phone away, another text comes in.

**Chace:** I can't do this. You say you didn't mean it, and that's fine. But with me, you mean what you say and you say what you mean. I'm turning my phone off. Goodnight.

I scream into the silence of the field in front of me, wiping at my eyes, and then I throw my wine glass into the yard.

There's only one person who would've told Chace about the bathroom. His ex. I need to find her, but I'm too tipsy to drive, so I call Kat asking her to take me to the bar. It's a small town. Maybe I'll get lucky and find her.

As soon as Kat parks, I fly out of my seat and into the bar. Everyone turns when I walk in, and there she is—perched on a barstool, laughing. She turned her face to the door as I stepped in, just like the rest of them. I point toward the restroom, and the girl has the audacity to roll her eyes before sliding off the stool.

She rounds the corner, entering the single-stall room. Once again, I'm having a confrontation in a bathroom. _Fucking great._

"What did you do?" I slam the door behind us, and turn back to her. It's in her eyes— _victory._

"I sent your little conversation with your movie star ex-boyfriend to Chace." She shrugs, turning to the mirror to check her lip gloss.

"Please tell me you're lying." _It's worse than I thought._

"No, I'm not a liar. Chace hates people who lie, and now he knows he's _just a fling_ and you're using him to write. You can go home now." She flicks her fingers at me. "You're not needed here anymore. Chace and I are getting dinner tomorrow night." Her reflection raises an eyebrow at me over her bare shoulder.

"That's a lie." I remember his words about her. He may be done with me, but he isn't interested in her. _Is he?_

"No? Here. Look." She turns and shoves the glowing screen in my face.

I read the tiny blue bubbles. "He wants you to delete the audio. Did you?"

"Yes." She pulls the phone away, glaring.

"Simply because he asked." I laugh, condescendingly. _I can be a petty bitch, too._

"Yes. Unlike you, I love him."

I believe her, and I don't need to question why. I almost feel sorry for her, because he doesn't love her. "You messed up." I shake my head.

"How so?" She turns her chin up.

"You could've sold that audio to the tabloids for a lot of money, or you could've blackmailed me into giving you money. But no, you used it to try to get back with a man that doesn't even love you." I hope the words sting. I need her to hurt.

She straightens, crossing her arms. "Well, he'll never love you now, either. So I guess it was worth it."

Her words hurt more.

"Are you okay?" Kat asks when we finally make it back to the parking lot.

I'd rushed past her from the bathroom, and she quickly followed from her place at the bar.

I can feel the tears beginning to form. I hate crying, and rarely let it happen. I'm not a pretty crier, but then, who is? I will the salt to go back into my body, but my body doesn't listen. The tears begin to fall onto my shirt collar.

"No," I choke out.

"What happened?"

"It's over." I know it. I know it in my gut. He heard my voice saying words I didn't mean, but I know they must've sounded real. I needed them to sound real to convince Tristan.

_It's over._

I feel numb, sick. I brace myself on the side of the car, feeling Kat's arm on my back. I turn into her embrace and let go.

I never cry when a relationship ends, romantic love has never warranted my despair. And the romances I got into barely counted as relationships.

I didn't cry when Tristan and I split. Well, I teared up a few times when the tabloids ripped into me—out of frustration—but never over the end of our relationship. I was sad, sure, but never sad enough to cry.

Now, I feel as if something inside of me is gone. A hole is there, and maybe a piece of me has flown away—the romantic and hopeful side of me; the side that died in me as a child.

I feel Kat pulling away from me. She holds me at arm's length and stares into my eyes. My face has to be a mess.

"I've never seen you like this. How serious was it between you two? Barely anything happened, right?"

And she is right. We didn't even had sex. Back in New York, I wouldn't have counted this as anything. But here, with him, it was different. I was myself with him. A self I didn't know existed until now—the poet, the _woman_ who wrote for herself, without fear or worry. I'm _better_ because of him. Now, he's leaving me because he thinks I'm still the user I once was, and the evidence is damning. I can't argue that.

I stare into the sky above, into the same stars we'd been under on the dock. They taunt me. Magic didn't happen beneath them, apparently. My heart is breaking now under their gaze.

The truth is a bitter pill to swallow. "I love him," I say, broken, meeting Kat's eyes. She knows this sadness. I walk around her car to the passenger side, get in, and pull my phone out.

I love him, and because I love him, I know I must do the right thing.

**Me:** I know your phone is off, and you won't get this until morning, but I need to say how sorry I am. I didn't mean for this to happen, but it's evident I break everything I touch. And you, you're the only one I'll mourn. I know you don't believe me now. You don't trust me now, and that's my fault alone. I'll be gone in a few days. You shouldn't have to leave your own home because of me. It's just as much yours as it ever was mine. I couldn't stay if I wanted to. You're in every room...in every space. I'll let you know when I'm gone. Be happy. You gave me that gift. If only for a moment.

# May 14th

It seems I fell

in the spring.

That's me,

always tossing rules

over my shoulder,

dancing with

a siren's laugh in my throat,

warring with virginal ways

that do not

_do not_

_do not_

suit my inky flesh.

* * *

Summer is here

& she is lifting her skirt,

begging for a ride,

playing an unflinching game

with my grief-ridden eyes.

* * *

My haunting grounds

cascade

from her whitewashed pockets

& she cackles

with her sherbet lips.

Mulberry Project wine-stained napkins

& promises to wipe

your phantom amour away,

litter the hardwood.

Next to my resting place,

this bed you will never see.

* * *

My eyes narrow at

my white Converse

by the door,

haphazard grave markers

smiling

at me.

* * *

Soles begging to

beat down to Albertine,

to become lost in words

that are strangers to you

& the way you

wounded me.

# June 20th

I've been here too long,

with shades drawn

just as my eyes.

With the glow of a phone

you never send notes to,

dimmed.

* * *

My knees keep my beating chest warm

& the mail is piled

at the door.

* * *

I'm a runner.

It's what I do. You knew that.

You knew me.

* * *

The stars were afire the night

you pressed your ear to my breast

on that four-post bed.

* * *

You listened for the chorus,

& the cadence,

& the cry.

* * *

There's a rhythm to goodbyes,

& I'm afraid

you were just waiting for one.

* * *

Soulmates aren't supposed to wound this way.

That's fairytale bullshit.

It's Disney dreams,

& I had others.

* * *

Before you,

& the beat,

& the breath,

& the beauty you pulled out.

* * *

Now I believe

& it's not supposed to sound this way.

Like shattered glass

& balloon drums.

* * *

I'm filled with a nameless taste,

some part of you

that won't go away.

* * *

I've been here too long,

with your goodbye

clutched tightly in my palms

that I hope the others

never have to know.

# July 11th

I named you Ben today.

Last month you were Kyle.

The week before, Avery.

New names, every time.

* * *

I think I was writing about

you before we met.

I think I will write about

you long after

that lingering ache

from your lips

leaves me.

* * *

You fell for me

before you touched my skin,

& I felt my essence in every note

you dropped onto the page.

* * *

I felt it in the songs you refused

to sing & the ones I caught

on that rainy balcony

the nights I held my breath

& inhaled the sound of your guitar.

* * *

I felt it in the way you lost

yourself in me,

hidden away on that mahogany bed

with the canopy & the rain.

* * *

I felt it when you

stopped taking my calls.

I felt it when I boarded my plane.

I felt it even when you

didn't stop me from running away.

# August 30th

New York City is angry with me.

Her wails reverberate off

the volcano walls that

surround me.

* * *

We built a structure

out of wickedness

& broken heels.

My sex, my sweat,

my sins were sweet.

She's a fiend, waiting

for old habits to itch my skin.

* * *

She smirks & ticks off temptations

on her tramp fingers.

* * *

"Terminal 5 & the man with the black hat?"

_Yes, that was nice._

* * *

"Pianos & the cherry smoke he kissed into you?"

_I think I can taste it. Be quiet._

* * *

"Warsaw & the blue guitar?"

_Oh, he was a fine lover._

* * *

She'll run out of digits,

listing nights

I no longer lean on.

* * *

Nights that fell

from my ribs

next to an Ozark tree line.

Where he grabbed my hand.

Where we raced the spring rain.

* * *

I dig his laughter

from my collarbone

on days like this.

I place it on my tongue

& savor the taste

of lovers I ruin away.

# September 29th

I'm thinking about running again.

Maybe to Alexandria.

I'll christen myself Kebechet,

I'll embrace my nature.

* * *

I'll tiptoe down the

city sidewalks—

graceful.

I'll balance my halo,

I'll embrace my name.

* * *

I'll pretend

among the commuters

& work-day warriors.

I'll forget I'm a vampire.

* * *

I'll fail to recall the flask

tucked neatly

into my coat pocket.

* * *

Let me pretend.

I tire of

being the villain.

# October 23rd

The drapes don't move.

I've pulled them perfectly—

thirty percent light let in.

* * *

I'm not drowning.

I'm not.

* * *

The clouds dance.

Puppet shows upon my thighs.

I will spend all day here.

Seated just so,

at an ebony dining table

overlooking the

stumbling

ants

below

my window.

* * *

Sunday,

every day is Sunday.

I had a dream

your voice

would grace my ears again

as the week yawned

& set itself to slumber.

* * *

Sunday,

every day is Sunday.

I wait.

I cannot quit my wait.

# YOU WERE MINE

## November 13th

New York City in November is a magical thing. Twinkling Christmas lights begin to litter every storefront window. A crisp chill enters the air. I used to love it, back when I was carefree. When the demons I battled were bottled up and battled by men, liquor, and any other vice I could conjure up to keep them at bay. Now, I feel everything so clearly, and I need the pain.

Writing about heartbreak hasn't been my forte since I was a child. I succeeded in avoiding the pain for many years.

Now, I ache. I ache in places I didn't know existed. My body doesn't want to function, and yet, the world is still turning, even though I just want to stay in bed.

Soulmates. I believe in that word now. This year I became a believer after writing it as fiction for years. _What a bitch that is._

Seven months have passed since I left Missouri in a haze after things ended with Chace. I went back to the old house we shared and tried to pack. Kat attempted to help, but my hands didn't want to move. Eventually, we ended up on the couch, watching movies until dawn. I didn't sleep, and my friend eventually passed out next to me, exhausted from the shared pain. She always absorbs.

I'd searched the phone book for a moving company as the sun crawled over the surface of my hollow world. Hired movers put my heartache in boxes since I couldn't.

I visited my mother that day, letting her know I was leaving. It broke her heart as well as mine. She'd seen a glimmer of hope that I'd be staying for good, and I ripped it from her.

Chace wasn't at her house, and she'd been asleep when he made it there the night before. Andrew was also gone. So I couldn't say goodbye to him, either.

I booked a hasty flight and said my goodbyes to Kat when she woke that morning.

I wanted out, to give Chace his normal life back, to give him his home back. I was the thorn, and I needed to be removed. Even though I didn't want to leave my friends and family and wondered when I'd see them again. I promised them it'd be more often, hoping my words weren't as empty as my chest.

After making it back to New York, I went into hiding—hardly leaving my apartment, rarely seeing the sun for the first few months.

I slept and wrote, and it was the only way I knew how to exorcise my pain. It barely worked. I hired a new assistant since my last one sold me out, and the new hire was given one golden rule to follow—to leave me out of everything. I needed someone to keep the wolves at bay as I tried to write out the ache inside of me.

My reclusiveness had a deadline. By late November, I needed to be alive again. The final film would be releasing, and I had until then to wallow in this misery.

My words are only for Chace, he's in every stanza. I sing for him, bleed for him, and the vein is heavy.

I announce my new project with a heavy heart and a queasy stomach. I don't know how my fans will react, or if they'll follow me on my new journey. I'd dipped my toe in slowly, posting a few teasers from my poems on my Instagram, Tumblr, and Facebook, trying not to read too many of the comments. They're always so hard to keep track of anyway, since I have millions of followers collectively on my accounts.

Since I bled too many words for a single poetry book, I plan to release my work in three volumes. The first will release the Tuesday before the final film. Everyone on my team insists it's the best move, and I don't argue with it.

I still feel sick. My heartbreak will be on display for the world, but so will my love—and that's the only truth keeping me alive. For every poem I wrote about our end, my pain, and my loss, I wrote another about the time Chace and I shared together. Though it was a small window of time, it's the most honest thing I've ever known.

I know I was a coward, leaving the way I did, just over twenty-four hours after breaking his heart, and my own. But that's the way I work. I'm a runner.

Humans shed their skin every day, but some things are so deep inside, they can never be divorced from our skin.

Chace never texted me when he woke, and I stared at my phone, checking it incessantly the day I packed my suitcase. _Nothing._ Just before I boarded my plane I texted him again. Letting him know he could go back home.

Now, here I am, in November, with a phone buzzing in my purse, bringing me back to the present. I pause in front of a glittering storefront and begin fumbling in my bag. My gloved hands are clumsy. I wish I could say I'm surprised by the name I see on the screen, but I'm not.

One person I do hear from often is Tristan. I rarely respond, and when I do, I'm short with him. He's relentless, and I still don't understand his fascination with me. Okay, I do have some ideas.

There's the fact that our movie premiere is quickly approaching, and he's never been turned down by a woman.

I shove my phone back into my purse, pull up my collar, and head to my apartment that's just around the corner. I have an armful of presents, and they're making my limbs numb.

I won't be making it home for Thanksgiving, and the guilt is eating at me. I don't want to pull away from my family again, but I'm a coward. I can't face Chace just yet.

I'm determined to conquer that fear by Christmas, and perhaps it's a foolish dream. As foolish as my hope that Chace will forgive me when my book comes out.

Once inside my apartment, I unload my arms and then hang my purse. I don't have much time before meeting Gemma for drinks. She wants to celebrate my release week before all the insanity begins.

She's the only close friend I have in the city and has taken care of me since my return, checking on me often, clearing my place of discarded food cartons. I fired my housekeeper upon landing, wanted solitude for my searing pain.

Tonight we'll be joined for drinks by Gemma's oldest friend. Her male friend. Her _gay_ male friend. There's something there, and I'm certain she's in love with him. However, every time I inquire about her feelings for him, she shoots my suspicions down.

He's successful, smart, and beautiful, so I can see how it would happen. The old me would've immediately gone searching for a beautiful gay male in an attempt to seduce him, hoping for a story. Now, I just hope my friend will be able to hold onto her heart.

I creep into my room, falling onto my bed and grabbing my iPad from under my pillow. I have a few minutes before I need to get dressed up.

On my iPad is an alert of a message from Tristan. Annoyed, I open it.

**Tristan:** Can we please talk? I know I've been annoying as hell with these messages, but the premiere is next week. We need to be on the same page. How are we going to handle this?

_Handle this? Handle what?_ _The fact that the media dissects our every move, still?_ You'd think we were Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. I wonder if they'll ever get over our breakup. Okay, maybe it's nowhere near that level. But at times, it feels that way.

**Me:** Tristan, we'll smile for the cameras. We'll pose in group pictures together. Hell, we'll have pictures taken of the two of us together if they want. You're an actor, and I can fake it, too. We'll get through it.

**Tristan:** Will you be bringing a date?

**Me:** Why?

**Tristan:** If one of us brings a date and the other doesn't then that person is the asshole, and the other is the one everyone feels sorry for. You know that as well as I do. I've dated co-stars where this kind of stuff has come up. I'm sorry. But it's the truth. Maybe neither of us should bring anyone.

**Me:** I didn't plan to.

**Tristan:** I didn't either...

**Tristan:** Let's go together.

**Me:** No.

**Tristan:** I figured that'd be your answer. I'll keep asking...

**Me:** Whatever you feel you need to do. Goodnight.

**Tristan:** Goodnight.

The man is unyielding, and I almost feel bad for him. Months will go by with no reply from me and still, he texts at least once a week. Millions of women all over the world dream of being in my shoes, but he's not _Tristan Kane_ to me. He's simply an ex who cheated.

_He's not Chace._

It's because of _him_ that I feel a certain softness toward Tristan. I'm now in his shoes, hurting. But I don't text Chace. I do, however, text my brother asking occasional questions, and Andrew humors me. Chace isn't seeing anyone, and Andrew tells me he's back to working nonstop. Chace wanted to take the summer off, but my brother told me that didn't happen. He enrolled in summer classes and worked all the time. I wonder if he needed the distraction. If I haunted him, too.

I still ache at the thought of him.

I shake my head and push myself off the bed, stepping into my large closet. I pull out a small black dress—a dress from the past, though I can't remember the woman who used to wear it. I threw away every white dress I owned because I'm not her anymore. Not the girl on the TV screen Chace had fallen for.

Tonight will be the first time since coming home that I'll be having alcohol with friends. Since moving home, I've given up vices, only consuming the occasional glass of wine at home. Sometimes I have two while writing.

I've given up sex as well, clearing out any numbers from my phone that might tempt me. Nothing can erase Chace Holloway. What would be the use in trying?

I meet Gemma and her friend around the corner at one of my favorite bars, finding them in the back, sitting in a small booth. They're seated close together, looking at something on his phone, the glow of his screen illuminating their faces.

I drop my purse onto the table and scoot next to Gemma. They both look up, startled.

"You're here!" Gemma shouts, turning in her seat to hug me.

I note the empty glasses on the table and hug her back. "Am I late?"

"No, we got here early." She laughs. "I've had a few."

"Yes, I can see that." I catch the eye of a waitress and nod. "I better catch up."

"I'm so glad you're here. I've missed getting drinks together. I love you, Jaxt," she says, turning to her guy friend as she reaches out and squeezes his arm, "but I need a friend with a vagina."

He chuckles in return.

"I know. I'm sorry," I say. "I've been a crappy friend this year. But the book is almost here. The writing is done. It's time for fun." I almost believe it, about fifty/fifty anyway.

After a few drinks, I find myself at eighty/twenty. Some of my release week nerves are slipping away, and I'm laughing. I haven't laughed in a while, the last time maybe a month ago during an episode of Friends when Ross went on and on about his sandwich. I missed Gemma, and though she and I don't have the kind of history Kat and I share, she means a lot to me.

Soon, we're giggling like fools. Jaxt doesn't drink much, keeping a watchful eye on Gem. I'm glad for it, despite my worry over her feelings for him. I'm grateful she has someone to look out for her since I've been lost in a hole.

One in the morning rolls around quickly, and Jaxt and Gemma walk me to my place, all the way up to my door. I hug them both more than once, feeling warm and fuzzy. Before closing my door, I glance back at them, seeing that they're holding hands. I ache, deep in my chest.

I want that closeness again, that affection. I shouldn't have hidden at home away from Gemma all these months.

I stumble to my bed and land face first, feeling regret form slowly, knowing what I'm about to do. It's a reminder of why I've stayed away from alcohol.

I grab my phone from the floor, the contents of my purse dumped next to the bed. It won't be too late where he is. I pull up an empty message and type.

**Me:** All my words. They're for you.

I silence my phone, toss it across the room, crawl under my covers, and welcome the black.

# LOVE CAN BUILD A BRIDGE

## November 15th

I wake Tuesday with a multitude of emotions choking the air out of my bitter lungs—fear, excitement, anxiety, numbness.

In a few short hours, my first of three book signings scheduled for the week will kick off, and, for the first time ever, I'll be reciting a few poems.

It's easy to hide behind the fiction of my writing. I've been doing it for years, hiding from the healing I desperately need. This collection of poems is different. It's raw, real, and a side of me the public has never seen. I don't want to let my past grip me anymore. I want to remove the anvil from my chest.

I'd spent Monday nursing a hangover, and nursing the regret I felt over texting Chace, who never responded. The wound is open again.

I wiped the tears that fell from my eyes the morning after, refusing to let any more fall. I can't think of it today, and ironically, it's all I'll be thinking about today—since I'm set to read words inspired by him in front of hundreds of people.

My mom texts me, saying she wants to be there for me this week—and I miss her, truly need her—so I book a flight for her right away. She'll be by my side for all three signings, taking a cab straight over from the airport to the first bookstore when she lands.

I sent her an advanced copy of my book, and it made me nervous in a way I'm unused to. I've written explicitly sexual books, but it never bothered me to know she might pick one up.

This is different. I'm not hiding behind a character. This is _me_.

Nothing I hid from her about my childhood is in this volume of work, but it will be in the second volume. Today is going to be terrifying, but the day the second book comes out will be...

My stomach falls at the thought. I don't want to think about it. _It's next year. Another lifetime from now._

I shake my head and pull myself away from the past, away from the future, and into the present. I get off my bed and walk to my closet, pulling out my favorite dress—the one that makes me feel sheltered when I'm scared. It's a leftover from the days of dating Tristan, when I had a personal stylist. I didn't want to look ridiculous in front of the cameras that followed me around during our relationship, but I didn't keep her long. In truth, it made me feel pretentious and silly.

As much as I hate to admit it, I do have a dress that'll look better than the one in my hand. Tristan had one sent over with a note that read, _Good luck this week, Ser_. I groaned when it arrived, but still tried it on. It was perfect—fit every curve, hid the spots I'm insecure about, and highlighted the places I love. Even still, I won't be wearing it. He doesn't need a morsel to grab onto.

I want to text him and scold him about crossing lines, but with the premiere being this weekend, I feel the need to keep the peace.

Book signings are insane, and the energy I feel from my fans is tangible. I can feel it all around me, pulsing in the building, the murmur of their voices seeping through the walls that separate me from them.

I sip once more from my bottle of water and concentrate on the music in my headphones. It's my ritual, nothing but the sound of music for a half hour before the Q&A.

Q&A portions always take place before signings, and at this one I'll be interacting with my fans in a loft located at the top of a bookstore that's been converted into a spoken word venue.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, Gemma letting me know it's time to go on, so I pull my headphones off and down the last of my water. I clench my eyes, pressing my thumb into the spot between my eyebrows, trying to ease the ache there.

"Are you ready?" Gemma asks.

I look up into her warm eyes, and she squeezes my hand just a bit, smiling. I'm glad I asked her to help today. I need the support.

"Yes," I lie, smoothing down the fabric against my thighs.

She walks out ahead of me, and I concentrate on the floor as I hear her talking to the crowd. The low rumble of their laughter in response to her voice meets my ears. I don't know what she's saying because I'm lost, staring at my designer shoes. They look foreign on my feet. I'd been walking around my apartment for months, barefoot. When I left, the rare times I did, I wore the white Converse I'd often thrown on in Missouri, staring at the toecap, wondering what date to write on them.

But that's Chace's thing, and I couldn't do it.

I pull my attention away from my red high heels at the sound of applause, seeing Gemma returning to me.

She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks at me. "You can do this," she urges.

I set my jaw and reach for her wrists, nodding. She steps aside, and I walk out to the crowd.

The sound of their cheers is overwhelming. I've heard it before, felt it before, but this is different. Today, I'm proud of the work I'll be sharing—proud of myself. Inexplicably, a smile spreads onto my face. It isn't forced, it isn't strained. It feels strange and beautiful, a little foreign.

I take a seat on the stool with a microphone next to it.

Gemma reaches in front of me and grabs the microphone, starting the madness. "To start things off we'll have the Q&A," she directs. "Raise your hand when the time comes and I'll pick who gets to ask a question." She hands the microphone to me and steps back.

I reluctantly grab it and clear my throat. "First, I want to thank you all for coming," I start. "The support I've received over the years has been...unbelievable. I don't know what I've done to deserve you all. This has been a scary journey, and I'm not the woman I was before. I'm always growing, changing, moving. We all are, right?"

The crowd chirps in agreement.

"You make me proud to have taken this step." _Chace helped me get here._ I pause, and then push my chair back. "I know this is different. Poetry isn't what's expected from me, but I couldn't be more proud than I am right now." Saying the words makes me believe them. "As a poet, you leave it all out there. If anyone's ever wondered who I am, who the author behind the page is, the answer is in your hands right now."

I wonder how many have read it cover to cover already. The bookstore's been open for eight hours. _I want to know what they think_. I look back at Gemma, letting her know I'm ready.

She nods and turns to the crowd at the hands in the air. "Okay, yes. You." Her voice booms from behind me.

I begin walking around, pacing.

A young girl in what looks to be her early twenties begins speaking. "When did you write your first poem?" Her eyes smile at me, and I feel a warmth work through me as I think back. "I was...honestly, I don't remember. Maybe nine?" _Writing about pain no child should know but too many do_. They need to know they're not alone.

More hands shoot up. Another fan is chosen, a woman about ten years older than me. "Will you be writing another trilogy series?"

I'm prepared for this question, and I want to be honest—no bullshit. "At this point, I don't know. I'm just going to let my writing guide me. I'm going to go where my heart leads me. If I feel a new story, then yes. Right now, I'm going to focus on my poetry and this collection."

More hands.

"What made you decide to focus on poetry?"

It's a simple answer. _Chace Holloway._ "Well," I pause, "someone. I met someone this year who gave new meaning to my life. Someone who gave me a newfound confidence in myself."

I see movement to the right and look over. My mother is there, with my book clutched to her chest, and her suitcase parked next to her. She gives me a reassuring smile and I'm able to take a deep breath before I turn back to the crowd. Gemma picks another person.

"Is it the person you dedicated the book to? Chace?"

It's out there for the world. His name. "Yes."

More hands.

"Are all the poems about him?"

I look over at my mother briefly. "No. Not all of them. I touched on many kinds of love in this collection. The love I have for my family is in there. For my friends. And the love I have for you all. It's in there as well. I learned a lot about that four-letter word recently. I've always known the love of family, friends, and my fans, but I'd never been _in love_. That changed this year."

I know I shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have dismissed my relationship with Tristan so close to the movie premiere, but I'm tired of faking it for the camera, faking it for the world. It's the truth, and I need to stop hiding. Chace is the first man I've ever loved. I want him to be the last.

# MOTHER

## November 15th

The questions last just under a half hour, and they're much of the same. Tristan's name doesn't come up, much to my relief. I suppose no one wants to be the one to bring him up. Instead, I'm asked what I'll be wearing to the movie premiere this Friday, and I'm happy to talk fashion after spending months stuck in my apartment. I'll take that over the drama that comes with Tristan any day.

We take a short bathroom break between the questions and the reading, and I'm able to talk with my mother, to hug her. It's been too long since she's been to a signing of mine.

When I make my way back to my seat, my nerves set in again. I clutch my book in my hands and Gemma informs the crowd that I'll be reading only ten poems—reader-chosen—so we can get to the signing portion of the event.

I hope they'll take it easy on me, that they won't pick only the words that remind me of his name, over and over.

"Page 68," the girl in the crowd says.

I know what poem it is, and I don't need to turn to it, but I do anyway, for show. I feel a little frozen, falling back to the day I wrote it, not long after I flew home.

I'd been home a little less than a week, and my phone stayed off for days. The people who love me were pissed at me—my mother, Kat, Gemma, my brother. They wanted to kill me, but I needed the silence. I needed to be alone with my hatred, by myself. I hated myself for running away. For not fighting for Chace. For falling in love with him.

I don't need the pages, so I look up from my book—into the crowd—and my eyes catch on blue. On someone who wasn't there before. _How the fuck is this happening?_ Chace is standing at the back of the crowd, and his eyes are all I know.

I need to start speaking, to recite this poem, but he's in this room—with me—and all the air has left with his entrance.

The side of his mouth turns up, and it's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. I return his smile and my eyes well as I survey the crowd. Some of them are looking back at Chace.

I look up into the light above me for a moment, willing the tears away, then look back down into his eyes, clear my throat, and begin speaking.

The room remains silent as each poem falls from my lips, as I try not to fumble over the words in his presence. After I've read the last one, I hear the murmur of voices in the crowd. They break my concentration on the piece I just recited. I look over at Gemma and my mother, finding their eyes wide, trained on something behind me.

I turn around and feel my heart sink.

Tristan makes his way up the steps to me—smiling and waving to the guests—and the whole crowd erupts, the noise deafening and deflating. He reaches for the microphone in front of me, pulling it from its cradle.

"Hello, everyone," he greets. "I'm sorry to show up like this, and I won't take long. I know you're all eager to get your books signed by this beautiful woman right here, but I wanted to stop by to tell her how proud I am of her. If you haven't read this wonderful collection of words yet, just know you're going to be blown away. I've never in my life met a talent like her, and I'm so happy to have her in my life."

I can't move except to look back at Chace. He's gone. _No. Please, no_.

I jump from my seat and make my way to the side of the space, where Gemma and my mother catch me.

"You can't go. You still have to sign," Gemma pleads.

I can hear Tristan talking to the crowd. "He did it again. He keeps fucking everything up. I have to find Chace," I say through clenched teeth, pushing past her.

My mother catches me. "Sera, you can't leave. You have a commitment here. We'll figure it out. I'll call him," she says, squeezing my arms.

"Please tell him I did _not_ ask that idiot to come here. Mom, did you know Chace was going to be here?" My voice has reached an inhuman pitch.

"Yes, I'm sorry. He flew with me. He wanted it to be a surprise. We're going to fix this." She has her reassuring mom-voice on.

I reach for her hand. "Please call him. I can't do this again. I can't lose him before I even get him back."

"I'll call him. You just stay here. Sign those books. This is _your_ moment, and I am so proud of you." She presses a kiss to my forehead, grabs her suitcase, and walks away.

I stay frozen in place and watch her go—terrified.

# MAKE IT TO ME

## November 15th

The signing is a blur, and I'm ashamed of myself by the end of it all. My sorrow is painted on my face, and my rage toward Tristan is also there. I try my best to smile at the cameras and chat, but my mind is gone—off chasing Chace.

Afterward, I find a message from my mother on my phone telling me she's been unable to reach him.

All my hope falls away with that one text. He's probably changed his flight, flown away from the mess of us, just like I did months ago. I can't even blame him. Tristan's stunt was a scene straight out of a typical romantic comedy, except I don't want my cookie-cutter bullshit happy ending with him.

I call my doorman to let my mother in and inform her I'll meet her back there in a couple of hours. I walk the streets, knowing I have a limited amount of time with her, but I need to be alone.

I don't want to put myself through the readings scheduled for the next two days, unsure if I can separate myself from the heartache in those pages, now that it's wide open once again.

The wound is fresh, a crimson ribbon floating in the November breeze behind me.

I'm so fucking done with Tristan. I'll no longer spare him, no longer try to be civil. We'll never be friends. I find him lingering around the bookstore after the signing and I let him know, and I think I finally see acceptance in his eyes.

I wander the streets, wondering if the madness will be back again. The melancholy.

_My music is gone again._

Eventually, I find myself back on my street, though I wasn't aiming that way intentionally. I need to get home anyway, so my mother doesn't worry.

I open my door to near darkness, the soft light of my nightlight in the kitchen glowing. _Why is my mom hanging out in the dark?_

"Mom? Where are you?" I round the corner, into my kitchen, and it's not my mother standing there. I choke on my breath, pressing my palm to my chest.

"I'm sorry. Your mom let me in," Chace says in one breath, his palms in the air, greeting me.

"It's okay." I don't know if I actually say the words out loud, but I must, because Chace nods.

"No, it isn't." His voice cracks. "Sera, I know we broke up a long time ago. Honestly, I don't even know if we were a couple, and if you're with Tristan now, I understand."

He shakes his head, biting his lip, and continues. "I let you go. I didn't try to stop you, and I've regretted it every single day. I went home the day after you flew here and I hated that house—hated not having you in it. I called you. I called so many times, but your phone went straight to voicemail. I tried for days and I couldn't get through. I should've believed you, then. I think I did believe you, but I was scared, and I probably pushed you right back into his arms."

He takes a step closer. "But, when you texted me the other day, I couldn't breathe. I figured your mom had an advanced copy of your book, so I asked her for it. And when I read the dedication...I knew."

I read the words in my head. The ones I hoped he would find. The key to finding the ones I'd hidden, back beneath the floorboard.

**_You're the only one who knew where to find me._**

"I went back to that spot. I found the poems you wrote while you were in Missouri. Then I read what you published. Is it true? Is everything you wrote true?" His soft voice soothes me.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes." I take a step toward him.

"You were in love with me?"

"I am." I don't know a _before_.

"You are now?"

"Yes. I'm not with Tristan. That was just another one of his stunts. I'm so fucking in love with you." It's out of my mouth before I can stop it, and Chace stares back into my eyes.

I see his hand clench the countertop, and I want him to cross the space in between—to reach for me—but we just stand there. Like two people who've never touched, both scared to make the first move.

It needs to be me. I've spoken the words, but words are nothing if not followed with actions. I've fantasized about having him here in front of me every day since I left Missouri. I wrote about him coming back to me, over and over, but none of my fictional scenarios were like this. Reality has a way of being so much more beautiful than the pictures words paint.

I walk slowly around the island, to where he stands, leaning against my counter. He's still, his jaw locked, his hands tense on the granite behind him.

He doesn't move, he just watches me.

Maybe he's scared. Maybe he isn't ready. No, he flew thousands of miles. I reach my hand out and lightly set it on his own. Chace turns it over and, grabbing onto it, pulls my hand behind my back. His six-two frame towers over me, and he uses his other hand to tip my chin back, so that I'm looking into his eyes.

"I don't know what it feels like to not be in love with you," he whispers.

His lips find mine and my hand fists his shirt as he backs me up into the island. His hands make their way to my hair, and it's as if we never parted. The hole inside of me is instantly filled.

I start grinning wildly, halting our kiss.

Chace pulls away, smiling back. "I know," he says.

He doesn't need to say anything else. We kiss again, frantically, because there isn't anything more to say. _Not now._

Our hands and lips are magnets. I don't know where he ends and I begin as he walks me backward around the island.

I feel my ass bump into a barstool, and Chace reaches for my hips, lifting me up onto it. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him in as he pulls his mouth away from mine, moving forward instinctively. I open my eyes to his, to the blue I've missed.

I've been living my life in blue hues without him, but I feel music inside my heart again. _He's my music._ I can't live without it again. I am merely madness and melancholy without him.

"Tell me again," he whispers, leaning his forehead against mine.

"I'm in love with you, Chace Holloway."

He kisses me again, long and slow, his hands deftly finding their way to the zipper of my dress. I feel the cool metal move down my spine as it makes its descent.

One of the most beautiful things about Chace has always been his calm, the calm that balances out my manic mind. He is steady, and I simply flow around him—in waves, in drops, in floods. I feel him coming undone. He's spent his entire life gluing himself back into a whole man and I feel him come apart under my hands. He doesn't feel scared.

I always want control, but he has it now, even as he comes undone. _He has me._ I feel his power, his strength. _He's the strongest person I've ever met._

His mouth makes its way to my neck, and I lean back, inviting him in, digging my heels into his ass. I thank myself for choosing such a billowy dress, one that doesn't bind my legs.

Chace's hands make their way to the straps of my dress, pulling them over my shoulders, and my breath picks up. The rise and fall of my breasts catches his eye. My nude cotton push-up bra cups me.

Chace exhales, and my fingers clench on the skin beneath his shirt as he reaches his arms over his shoulders and quickly pulls it off, over his head. His eyes fall onto my chest again, and then his mouth lands there. He reaches up, pulling the right cup down.

My heartbeat quickens, because then he's reaching down, pulling the barstool closer, away from the island. With his other hand, he grabs my wrist, pulling it behind my back. He does the same with my other hand, securing them with one of his own, behind me.

He takes his finger and brushes the hair from my neck. The long strands slip over me, hardening my peak.

When his mouth finds its way down I nearly buck off the stool, and Chace groans, then lightly nibbles, sending me further into ecstasy. He traces the tip—teasing, testing.

This is different from any first time I've experienced. The night we almost went all the way, he'd been so shy, so timid. I pull his hips closer because I need a release.

He has a way of doing this to me. Intimacy is foreign, but I feel it, here. There's a charge in his touch, in his breath, and my pulse is trying to keep up.

He releases the grip on my wrists, and both hands land on my thighs, pushing my dress up higher, his mouth never leaving my breast.

I grab the bar behind me, tilting my head back, trusting him to hold me up. His mouth laves me and I straighten, looking for him.

Chace leans down, his fingers finding the warm and wet fabric between my legs. He pushes it to the side and slides his finger over the center of me. He's parting me, and I'm ready. I've been ready since the moment he touched me. His mouth is close. I can feel his breath, and I'm nervous. I've had men down there, but he has me on edge. He's the only one who has mattered.

When his tongue finds my wet center, I clench my eyes and feel a tear roll down my cheek. I feel clean, new, as Chace works me to the brink. Minutes later, when he comes up to press his lips to my neck before pulling my panties down, I open my eyes. They meet his, and he takes in the salt staining my cheeks.

"Are you okay?" he asks, moving his hands to my face, his eyes searching.

"Yes," I whisper. I lie; it's what I do. I cross my arms over my chest, covering my heart and my traitorous lungs.

"You're safe with me," he assures me.

I nod in response, murdering my bottom lip, trying to avoid his gaze. I desire the ability to be open, but fear is still living inside of me. Maybe I'll never be free of it. I want to be, because I can't live in this skin prison forever.

"Look at me, please," he begs.

I clench my eyes and shake my head.

He tries again. "Seraphina."

My eyes fly open and I turn to him.

"You're not a dirty thing," he tells me. "You're not the things you wrote in your poetry as a child. You're not damaged. You're not a scar. Your grandfather was a bad man, and _you_ are nothing but good. He did _not_ ruin you. I know what he did to you, and I know why you had their room taken out during the remodeling. I know you beat yourself up over the fact that you didn't go to his funeral, that your mother thinks you had pneumonia and you punish yourself for lying to her. I know you can't look at tulips—his favorite flower. Your mother wanted them planted around the house, and I told her I couldn't find any. When she did, and planted them, I yanked them out of the flowerbed before you moved back."

I choke out a sob over his words, resting my forehead on his shoulder.

He reaches up and rests his palm on my cheek, then leans down and speaks into my hair. "You hold this darkness deep inside your ribcage. I know how that feels because I have it, too. It isn't the same as yours, I know that, but your darkness is blinding, Sera. It's beautiful, and it's a part of you. Use it."

"How?" I whimper.

"Let it out. Write about it again. Show it to everyone. Or show it to no one. But please, don't let it sit in there anymore." He takes his hand from my face and places it over my heart.

I lean back and look into his endless blue eyes.

"It's a cancer, a curse, and I need you with me," he says.

I uncover myself and wrap my arms around his neck. I pull him in, to my skin and my broken bits. I weep, and he stays steady.

I recall a poem I wrote when I returned home from Missouri, once I escaped that house again and the slow choke of my memories.

_some people are_

_born fractured._

_demons deposited_

_here among us._

_I like to think I was born pure._

_that for a while I was like an angel._

_(my mother named me after one, after all)_

_I guess it wasn't in the master plan_

_for me to stay that way._

_this sickness was put inside of me_

_by familiar hands._

_I walk with the pretty people now._

_the good._

_but I am not._

_I am not good._

Chace makes love to me that night. It's tender and rushed and then a slow resurrection. He's vulnerable and I'm a soft cry in the low light of my bedside lamp. He bites my jaw and follows the map of my pulse. He tastes my tears and the pure passion I wrote about but never allowed myself to give into. I let him take control, something I never do. He lets me unravel.

He reminds me that I am good.

# Epilogue

## BURNING BRIDGES

## CHACE

Sera tells her mother about the childhood abuse she experienced at the hands of her grandfather while we're all still in New York. They sit on her bed all day and cry together. I bring them food and water and stay away, letting them have their moment, the one Sera's been hiding from for years.

The guilt she's been choking on was unnecessary, and now, she's free.

They're the two strongest women I've ever met, and I know they'll heal together. They won't let that man ruin, again, not even from the grave.

I stay in the city for the rest of Sera's signings, and then we fly back to Missouri together. We stay at Sera's mother's house, while Sera figures out what she wants to do with her grandparents' old home. Her old home, my old home. I know what she'll decide, but I stay quiet and wait for her to work through it in her own way.

I hold her on the nights she needs to cry silently into her pillow. I brush the hair away from the back of her neck and kiss her there, whisper there. I list all the ways she's changed me. All the reasons I'll never leave her side. She's been holding everything deep of her chest for too long, letting it eat away at her light, letting it cloud the mirrors she looks into. Each day I see a bit of her self-loathing fall away.

We spend two months moving everything out of the old farmhouse—the books, the beds, the vanity, and the china her mother loved. She has some items moved into storage, sells some, and burns some in the front yard. I sit on the front porch and watch as she douses pieces in gasoline. I watch as she lets it go, as she watches the flames go higher. She always comes back to me, taking a seat and gripping my hand. We watch the black smoke fill the sky, and I watch her breathe deep and exhale.

When it's all done, she has the house demolished but keeps the land, not wanting to sell the woods that were her refuge all those years.

We sit in the treehouse—out in the green, away from prying eyes—as the bulldozers rip it all apart. She sits at the old school desk, her knees pressed together, her head in her hands, dark hair tumbling toward the floor. I sit on that old futon for a while, watching her.

After a moment, I walk over to her and kneel down at her feet. She's wearing her white Converse, so I pull a sharpie from my pocket and reach for her ankle.

She jumps, pulled from her thoughts, and looks at me. "What are you doing?"

"You can let it go today," I say, pulling the cap off with my teeth, looking down at her feet then back up at her. "Today is the start of something new. A blank canvas."

She nods as a tear starts to roll down her cheek. I write the date on her shoe quickly, then throw the marker over my shoulder, reaching for her.

I was born to touch Sera. Whether she's falling apart or putting me back together, it doesn't matter. I fell in love with her when I was a young boy, before I had a chance to go out and see the world, but I have no regrets. Falling for someone so young isn't a burden, as my mother thought.

I can barely remember a time before Sera, her words, and the comfort she plants in me. A day doesn't pass by without me reminding her of how she saved me, how we saved each other.

After I finish school, Sera and I move to Nashville. I find a teaching job there and write music in the moments I have to spare. Together, we design a writing workshop and school for the troubled youth in the area. Lyrics, poetry, short stories. We recruit singers and songwriters in the music city to help, with plans to create a writing retreat for adults in the Smoky Mountains one day.

We make our home downtown, in a one-bedroom loft apartment above our school. We plan on building a house outside of Nashville eventually, but the hours we spend downstairs are long, and rewarding. We can't imagine cutting them short—even only for a commute—just yet.

Sera becomes a voice for the abused, and her second book of poetry sets her secrets free for the world to see. As emails and messages come in from strangers all over the world, telling her the courage she had to speak her truth allowed them to speak their own, I watch her change in front of me. She helps people around the world know they can break free one day, too.

Working with children every day helps me let go of the resentment I've held onto toward my father, reminding me I can't let it eat at me anymore. I reach out to him, through the casual conversation we've been drowning in for years, and he reaches back. I don't wear my darkness like a shroud—the way Sera has—but it's still there, deep down. Each time I speak to my father, I feel some of it fall away.

After three years together, I ask Sera to marry me, as we relax on our old four-post bed, listening to the rain pelting our downtown Nashville home. Our floor-to-ceiling windows let the yellow glow of street lamps in, painting her skin gold. She closes her amber eyes and reaches for the only thing she's wearing—a hand-stamped necklace circling her neck; the one she never takes off.

I laughed when she had it made, and she smiled.

She infuses beauty into my skin.

She calls me her music. She writes poetry about it. _He is music, and I am merely madness and melancholy._ She wears those words around her neck, her love for me, but she is not merely madness and melancholy. She's so much more. I'm convincing her, every day.

Sera rubs her thumb back and forth over the words and then opens her eyes. "Yes," she breathes.

I reach for her, pulling her close, and she wraps her legs around my center and finds my lips. I pour my dreams into her collarbone and she keeps them there, safe. I rock into her and feel everything fall away. She lets me love her without restraint. She lets me unravel.

She reminds me I am good.

Continue reading for a sample of Background Music.

# Acknowledgments

Writing this book is one of the hardest things I have ever done. Without these people, it never would have happened.

Krystal and Courtney, my book club besties. Never change. I love when you are hangry and when you over do it and when you think you may die. I love meeting once a month to be assholes and all the texting in between.

Kat, it was fate we met. I wrote you into this book before we ever met! How spooky is that? You're my go-to. My confidant. Your words heal and I can't wait to see all that you do this year.

Alicia, my editor and friend. Thank you for never trying to change my voice. You polish my mess and make it lovely, while still keeping my jagged edges. I'm sorry I hate capitalization and punctuation. I'm sorry I may never change.

Beta readers, bloggers, critique partners, and research gatherers. Talon, Katoff, Christina, Stephanie, Devon, and the rest of you brave souls. Thank you for reading this through all of the phases.

TJ, thank you for the valuable NYC information.

Mom, thank you for showing me what true strength is and for showing me unconditional love. You showed me that we can live full lives, despite our past.

Aaron, thank you for believing my truth, and for never doubting me.

Brandon, thank you for showing me what true goodness looks like in this world.

Catye, thank you for showing me friendship—unflinching. For telling me your secrets. For guarding my own. For having my back, through every up and down. We will have so many stories to tell when we are sitting side by side in our rockers with white hair and too many wrinkles around our eyes. I'll have more, of course, because gingers never age.

Cody, where do I begin? We have had a long crazy ride, full of messes and forgiveness. You balance me. I would be tumbling around this world, lost, without you. You saved me. It was as simple as that, but it was never simple.

J.R. Rogue first put pen to paper at the age of fifteen after developing an unrequited high school crush & has never stopped writing about heartache. She has published multiple volumes of poetry and novels.

* * *

Three of her poetry collections, La Douleur Exquise, Exits, Desires, & Slow Fires, & I'm Not Your Paper Princess have been Goodreads Choice Awards Nominees.

* * *

To keep up with everything she's working on join her facebook group, Rogue's Rebels.

www.jrrogue.com

contact@jrrogue.com

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# I Met A Girl

## PRESENT

**REESE**

I've been working next door to Kat Roberts' shop for four months. Four torturous months of watching her walk by my window as I sit at my desk, counting down the minutes until five o'clock.

The post office is directly across the street, and she runs in, returning with a handful of mail from her PO box; then she runs it back inside her shop, only to return back outside a few minutes later. She loves to grab lunch at the little deli across the street, too. She'll go out the front door of her store again and I'll hear the little bell they have installed to alert the arrival of customers. I hear that bell and glance over—every time. I'm like Pavlov's fucking dog. I know I'll get a treat, so I look.

It's summer now. Kat loves skirts, and I love watching her ivory legs scurry across the pavement. I love watching her red hair whip in the wind. _It's longer now._

I hold onto these moments because I'm sure they'll end. She's on a deli sandwich kick. Once it's over, she'll probably start grabbing lunch somewhere away from our small-town square, and that's no good. That means she'll leave through the back entrance of her shop to where her car is parked. That means I won't see her.

As for me, I bring my lunch to work every day, and I carpool with my boss, which means I stay put. I have a little mini fridge next to my desk, so it isn't a big deal. I sit in the small room in the back and catch up on Netflix shows while browsing social media. And besides, staying put means Kat won't see me.

I arrive to the office before her shops open and leave before she locks up. It works out well. Kat doesn't want to see my face, and I'm scared of the cool indifference I'll meet if she does lay eyes on me. _I left things a fucking mess between us._

I'm sure things haven't changed, and never will. I've become fairly good at fucking up great opportunities in my life; and no matter how far I dig myself out of holes I've inhabited, Kat's the one thing that'll always be out of reach. _I'm content here, in my little fishbowl—watching her dance across my vision, around my world._

I huff out a breath, glancing at the time on my computer then flipping over my boss's appointment book. Nothing for over an hour, so I have time to eat. I reach down and pull open the mini fridge door, locating my cliché brown paper bag. My stepmother loves making lunch for me—another reason staying put isn't an issue. I don't even have to prepare it. I reach my other arm in and pull out a Pepsi before taking a sip straight out of the bottle.

On my way back down our small hallway, I text my boss to let him know I'm stepping away from my desk. I'd normally pop my head in, but he's currently with a client and I have no clue who it is. He doesn't have anyone on the schedule, but I found his door closed and heard the murmur of voices behind the glass after I'd stepped away to use the restroom earlier.

The small, plain, windowless room in the back has no door, so I can listen for the front one in case it opens if someone walks in. I also position myself so I can see the stream of light that pours in when someone enters.

I grab a napkin from the center of the table and rip open my bag, excited for the surprise my stepmother packed for me. She never disappoints. Today I'm greeted by a chicken salad sandwich, which some might find dull, but I know better. She always puts fresh feta and relish in with the chicken and mayo. My mouth waters just looking at it, and when I take a bite, I make an embarrassing audible sound. _Good god, I need a co-worker._

I pull out my phone and shoot a text to one of my friends.

**Me:** How do you feel about playing tonight?

**Alec:** Who is this?

**Me:** Funny. You're a funny fucker.

**Alec:** Is this the former lead singer of this band I was in that I loved and had to mourn the loss of due to some dill hole's daddy issues?

**Me:** Jesus...you don't mess around with the insults do you?

**Alec:** Sorry. That was harsh. I'm hungover.

**Me:** It's a Tuesday.

**Alec:** The Reese I know would never text me in that tone of voice.

**Me:** Okay, do you want to play or not?

**Alec:** No...

**Alec:**...thing would make me happier.

**Me:** I hate you.

**Alec:** You adore me. Where at?

**Me:** You still working at Revenge of the Spaceballs?

**Alec:** Yes. Perfect. I'll ask my boss if I can open up after hours for us.

**Me:** Text me the time and I'm there. It's been too long.

I throw my phone on the table and raise my thumb to my face, pressing deep at the spot between my eyes. _What the fuck am I doing?_ We haven't played together in months. I let the band fall apart because I was trying to be responsible, trying to leave the dream of playing music for a living in the past. But recently, one of my best friends left our small town to move to Nashville, and all those dreams came flooding back. He asked me to go too, but I declined. I've worked myself into a steady rhythm—a mind-numbing rhythm of small-town suffocation, but a rhythm that moves in time with my father's. It's been so long since he and I found anything resembling peace with each other, and I don't want to upset the balance. _Maybe my dreams will wait for me._

I know I'm being a coward. I know it. My stepsister knows it as well. Every time she gets me on the phone, she scolds me.

_"You're not being true to the person you are. Your dad is just going to have to come to terms with the fact that you're an artist."_

Easier said than done. Plus, she doesn't have a father with rigid expectations to live up to. She has a mother who supports her every move.

The sound of voices getting louder raises me from my thoughts, so I stand up, gathering my lunch and then throwing it in the waste bin by the open door before walking into the hall. I saunter past my boss's office, sit down in my chair, and then spin around a few times before facing my computer. Just as my boss and his guest leave his office, I turn to face them, trying not to let my face betray my emotions when I see who the mystery guest is.

"Thank you again for taking the time to speak with me," Chuck Thompson says, extending his hand to my boss.

"Of course. I'll be in touch soon to continue this. Have a great rest of the week," my boss replies. "You know Reese, don't you? Reese, this is Charles Thompson."

I stand and smirk, hoping the few inches I have on him is annoying as hell. "Chuck," I say tersely, extending my hand to the asshole in front of me.

His face quickly becomes somber. He isn't a _Charles_ to me, he's a _Chuck_. A c _hump,_ a _cocksucker_. I can go on and on. He takes my hand to shake it. I grip tightly—a little too tightly—and then drop it. I want him to remember the last time I had my hands on him.

He turns back to my boss and lights up again with his hundred-watt, fake ass grin. "We'll talk soon," he says, then walks out the door.

I wait until the door closes to turn to my boss, my arms folding as I do so. "What was he doing here?" I demand.

"It's too soon to share. Maybe when I know more I can let you in on everything," he says, walking to the coffee machine in the corner, dismissing me.

"He's a piece of shit," I state.

My boss's gaze quickly darts to the small waiting area behind him, and once he notices there's no one in the room, he relaxes a little, turning back to me. "Language," he orders.

"There's no one here but us," I respond with a laugh, throwing my arms up.

"I don't care," he says, evenly. "I don't want talk like that to be a habit." He's never one to let his voice betray his emotions.

I roll my eyes and turn away, flopping back down onto my chair. I begin working through the paperwork piled to the right of my computer, because there's no use with him. If he says he isn't going to tell me what's going on, then he means it. I try to let my rage cannibalize itself.

Chuck Thompson is Kat's ex-husband, and I know _all_ about him. I know his dirty little secrets, and I can't be a part of a single thing connected to him, though I can't let my boss know why. _It isn't my story to tell. It isn't my secret._ It shouldn't be a secret. Everyone should know what kind of man he is, but it's out of my hands. I wonder how Kat would feel if she knew he was just one building over, mere moments ago.

This is a small town, but you can still hide in a small town when you want to. You can duck down an aisle quickly in Wal-Mart if you see someone you don't want to talk to. You can hide your face in your phone when the neighbor you're trying to avoid walks in to Dairy Queen. You can hide in plain sight. __ Kat doesn't frequent any of the bars here in town, where I know Chuck _loves_ to hang out. Surely, she's been able to avoid him for the past two years.

My boss finishes pouring his coffee, ignoring the anger coming off me—palpable in the small space—and retreats to his office, obviously not caring to know more about my opinion. _Typical._ My phone buzzes on my desk, making me jump. I reach for it and pull up my new text.

**Alec:** Tonight. 7 p.m. Let's get back at it. Also, you look handsome today.

I laugh and look out the windows in the front of my office. To the right of the post office is Revenge of the Spaceballs—the comic shop my friend works at. He's standing on the concrete slab in front of it, waving at me with his phone in his hand and a huge Sonic drink in the other. I laugh and tap out a text.

**Me:** Perfect. Now get inside and go back to work you fucking creeper.

# Delicate

## Present

**KAT**

On Tuesdays, I allow myself a luxury. A small reward for dragging myself through Monday and surviving its second coming. Some Tuesdays it's an Amazon one-click spree, sometimes it's a trip to the antique mall four doors down, and sometimes it's a double-chocolate scoop cone from the ice cream shop next door. This Tuesday is the kind to satisfy that sweet tooth.

Today has been hell. The Monday deliveries to my small shop arrived late, so yesterday's work trickled into today's, throwing everything off. The summer months at Fiddlesticks are always busy. I usually hire extra help, but this year I put it off. I've been trying to convince myself it's just to keep busy, not because I can't afford it. I don't really have much of a social life these days anyway, so I pick up the extra slack. It's beginning to wear on me, though. I've been spending most Saturdays recovering from the five days prior. _Something has to give._

With chocolate on my mind, I start to make my way to the ice cream shop next door, until I trip on something lying in front of the large glass opening of my shop. I brace myself from falling by grabbing the large baker's rack filled with flowers next to me, before turning and scowling at what I tripped over. My eyes land eyes on a bouquet of roses. _Strange._ I look around and see no cars nearby. It's six p.m.; the post office has been closed for an hour and a half, and the office next door for an hour. The comic shop diagonal from me closed at six as well and it looks like there aren't any customers inside.

I reach down and pick up the roses, fumbling for a tag, but I find none. _Odd._ I place them on our rack and make a mental note to grab them on my way back.

My home is above my shop; I've been living there for two and half years. I love it. It's my own—safe and convenient. Late nights don't feel so bad when you sleep above your work, but I have to admit, it sometimes gets old. I often find myself staring on a Friday night, realizing I haven't left my block all week. This is my new normal. Although it's really sitting poorly with me, I'm not doing anything to actively _change_ my new reality.

I search my mind for the last time I experienced anything resembling _fun_ as I enter the ice cream shop and head to the counter. They're not closing up for a half hour yet, but there's no one in line. The man behind the counter smiles at me.

"I'll take mint chocolate chip in a cone," I say, offering a smile back.

"Not your usual chocolate today?" he asks as he reaches for an ice cream scoop.

"No, shaking things up," I answer. Sera—my best friend—always got mint chocolate chip, and I want to feel a little less sad. She moved away again, and the days since have been long. She's my lifeline, and I'm looking at a long summer without her. Just like two years ago.

I pay for my cone and walk the few steps back home, grabbing the roses I left on the way. Once I'm home in my own space, I throw them on the counter, planning to look more closely for a tag. I sit at my bar and lick the ice cream from the cone that's now dribbling down it. There's a small length of countertop at the front of my apartment below one of the windows, and from there I can look down on Commercial Street.

I pull out my phone and begin writing a text with one hand as I eat my ice cream.

**Me:** I miss you. Today is sucky.

**Sera:** I miss you too. What happened?

**Me:** Nothing. Just random sadness. It happens. How was your weekend?

**Sera:** Great. Dancing, writing, rain.

**Me:** Lucky. There were flowers on the front step of my shop after I closed up. That's weird, right?

**Sera:** From?

**Me:** No clue. No tag.

**Sera:** #secretadmirer #stalker

**Me:** I hate when you talk in hashtags....

**Sera:** #notsorry

**Sera:** Could they be for one of your employees?

**Me:** True. Jeez...talk about narcissism. Oops.

**Sera:** You're the least narcissistic person I know. Stop.

**Me:** Well, thank you. And I'll bring them back downstairs in the morning. Maybe one of the girls will know.

**Sera:** Good idea. Hey, Chace is calling me from the shower. I gotta go ;)

**Me:** You two make me sick. Bye.

**Sera:** #hatersgonnahate ;) Bye

I laugh and toss my phone into my purse on the floor, staring absentmindedly out of my window as I finish my ice cream cone. The street looks nearly deserted already, so my eyes easily catch movement to my right—in front of the comic book shop across the street. A guy walks out of the front door just as the door to a truck parked in front opens. The truck looks slightly familiar, but there are lots of black Chevys in town. The guy emerging is wearing a backward ball cap and a white T-shirt. My stomach flips a little as he walks around to his truck bed and pulls the back hatch down. _No way._ I recognize his walk, his strut. The sway of his arms.

The guy who came from the shop walks around the driver's side and the truck owner turns to him, smiling. Yes. I know that smile. _I hate that smile._ It's him. It's Reese. I glare at his grinning face from where I sit, though he can't possibly see me.

I push off the counter and leave the window, needing to get as far away as I can from his smile. _He's beautiful. Still._ I walk back to my bathroom, shedding clothing and cursing as I go. I close my eyes when the rush of water from my shower-head hits me. _Liars lie and I do not sleep with liars._ _Not anymore._ I say it out loud. Twice.

I've had worse done to me in this life than what Reese put me through. But still, I never want to lock eyes with him again. It'll bring everything back from two years ago—the worst year of my life. I grimly replay it all as I wash my body, trying to ignore the butterflies colliding in my belly.

_Are the flowers from him?_ Surely not. I wring the water from my hair and step out of the shower, reaching for a towel. Reese has to know how I feel about him. He knows to stay away. And it's been so long since our little _fling,_ or whatever it was. I don't even know what to call it. He's a lot of things, but he isn't the kind of man to harass a woman. My stomach sinks when another option flashes into my mind. My ex-husband—Charles. _No._ The divorce was final. I went back to my maiden name. _It's over._

I had changed my phone number as soon as I moved out, keeping to email-only correspondence for the past two and a half years. I haven't seen Charles since the night he showed up outside my shop, bloody and bruised. The night Reese left. _Is this connected?_ _No, that's reaching,_ I decide, as I shake my head, banishing thoughts of both men from my mind.

I dry myself off and walk into my small bedroom, pulling panties and my robe on after applying lotion on my warm skin. I walk to my bedroom window and push it open. This time of night is sometimes cool, and I love the feel of the breeze on my arms after a scalding shower. So, I reach for the record player next to my bed, but I stop when the sound of music flows into my apartment. I pull the curtain to the side and look out. My bedroom is on the far right and has a window opening to the top of the one-story office next door, as well as a window looking out onto the street below.

The sound of music echoes down the abandoned street. _Band practice, okay. He still plays._ I leave my record player untouched and retreat to my living room where I power on the TV, trying to drown out the voice slipping in through my bedroom window.

After a couple of hours of mindless cable, I power everything off and follow the sound of background music entering my bedroom. I pull the covers back on my bed and crawl in, pretending I'm not listening intently to Reese's voice. I'm exhausted and want to sleep, but I don't want to stop listening. I clench my eyes and count, because it always helps me drift off. After starting back at number one numerous times, I give up.

I hear the band stop playing and about twenty minutes later, the sound of the guys talking in the street. Then eventually, the sound of their vehicles driving off. I peek out my window one last time and notice Reese's truck still parked in front of the comic book store. _Weird._

I lie back in bed and try again to fall asleep, but just as I'm drifting off, I hear a tap on my window. The one leading to the roof of the office next door. I freeze, my heart racing in my chest, and I stay completely still. _Why didn't I close that one?_ The different ways I'll pay for the mistake flood my brain, and my eyes well up.

A voice cuts into my room. "Kat, are you awake?"

I bolt upright in recognition.

"Fuck, okay, you are. Jesus, you scared me," Reese says, clutching his chest.

" _I_ scared _you_?" I screech, pulling the covers off my body and walking toward him, causing him to pull his upper body from the window. "What are you doing on the roof near my window?"

He recovers quickly. "The question is, why do you have your window open so some murderer or rapist can just climb up here and crawl through?"

I flinch at his words, and his face immediately softens. "I'm sorry," his voice rushes out. "It's just...it's dangerous, Kat."

I nod in response. _He's right._ "Seriously, what are you doing up here?" I ask again, leaning out to where he's kneeling.

He falls back and sits down, pointing across the street. "I was having band practice. I saw your window open and all the lights off."

"You could have called."

"I didn't think...after everything...you'd take a call from me," he says.

"You could have texted."

"Same song, different verse." He laughs.

_His laugh. God, his laugh._

I don't smile. I won't let him make me. "Well, thanks," I say dismissively.

He pushes off the roof and begins walking away. I watch him take a few steps and then stop, suddenly turning and coming back in my direction.

I shrink back into the window as he fills it.

"Your ex-husband was next door today. I work there now. Shut your windows from now on. Please."

Then he's gone, taking all my air with him.

* * *

**END OF SAMPLE.**

**READ BACKGROUND MUSICHERE.**
