Dear Life - Meghan Quinn

Table of Contents Dear Life Copyright Dedication Prologue Step One: Grieve Step Two: Let Go Step Three: Grow Your Support Step Four: Dream Big Step Five: Learn Something New Step Six: Face Your Fears Step Seven: Acceptance Step Eight: Live The Mother Road Chapter One



Dear Life MEGHAN QUINN

Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing Copyright 2017 Cover design by Meghan Quinn Photo credit: Lauren Perry Formatting: CP Smith This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected] All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.authormeghanquinn.com Copyright © 2017 Meghan Quinn All rights reserved.

To my Grandpa, for teaching me the value of proving my existence every day.

Prologue HOLLYN

Two and a half years ago . . . “Don’t you dare open that door,” Eric calls out, running up behind me. His arms circle my waist and his beautiful lips press against my cheek. His five o’clock shadow grazes my skin in the most delicious way possible, sending my body into a heated frenzy. This man. Leaning forward, he speaks into my ear. “Do you really think I’m going to let my new wife walk into our apartment without carrying her over the threshold?” Giggling from the kisses he’s peppering up and down my neck, I answer, “You’re so old school. Why don’t we change things up and I’ll carry you across the threshold?” He stops and pulls away. Lifting an eyebrow in a get real way, he says, “Twigs, do you really think you’re going to carry a big, burly soon-to-be firefighter into the apartment on those twiggy legs of yours? With one lift of my pinky I can have you twirling over my head.” I cross my arms over my chest in challenge, my wedding dress clinging to my body and my veil clenched in one of my hands. “You don’t think I can carry you into the apartment?” Eric, the handsome man with the blond hair and dark brown eyes looks me up and down. That classic smirk of his that captured me six months ago gracing his Californian boy face. “Twigs, I know you can’t carry me.” Twigs. It’s the nickname he’s called me ever since we met at a Denver Broncos game one fateful chilly December afternoon while tailgating with friends. He saw me tossing a football—kid size—with my girls, and I saw him smirking at me from the perch of his tailgate. I will never forget the look of determination and his cocky swagger when he approached me, a Broncos winter hat with a pom-pom on his head, and a painted chest showing off his very impressive and drool-worthy muscles. The Denver wind whipped over the mountains, freezing me in my sweatshirt. I thought he was crazy . . . crazy and sexy as hell. He sweet-talked his way into scoring a date with me, and I immediately became infatuated with his lively spirit and outgoing personality. We fell hard for each other, so hard that we were engaged months after. Seeing that same determination and cocky swagger now, I know I made the best decision of my life. Eric is everything. He brings me out of my shell, makes me strive for more, and encompasses me in a cocoon of safety every single day. I’m a new, invigorated person around him. He brings out the best in me. Tipping my chin with his finger, he asks, “What’s that look you have on your face?” Not giving in, because I’m stubborn as hell, I say, “Get on my back.” He barks a laugh as he throws his head back. “No fucking way, Twigs. I’ll demolish you and since it’s

our wedding night, I would rather not spend it in the hospital but rather making love to you.” “Get on my back,” I say again, ignoring everything he said. “Hollyn,” his tone becomes serious, “I weigh at least one hundred pounds more than you. I’m not getting on your back.” I stand my ground. When I make up my mind, there is no changing it, and I won’t even be intimidated by that smirk. “If you plan on getting laid on your wedding night, you will get on my back and let me carry you into our apartment.” “Hollyn . . .” “Eric . . .” It’s a standoff of epic proportions. Firefighter versus student nurse. Brawny and beautiful man versus twiggy girl with vibrant red hair. Realizing my stubbornness is taking a firm hold on this argument, he runs his hand through his hair, his rolled-up sleeves pulling tight on his forearms and his suspenders swaying at his sides from when he removed them from his shoulders. He’s the picture-perfect man at this moment. This is his first test as a husband. Happy wife equals a happy life. Will he pass the test? Or will he falter? “You’re not going to drop this, are you?” “Nope,” I answer, my arms still crossed. Letting out a long breath, he motions his finger with a twirl and says, “Turn around so I can hop on.” Such a good man. Such a smart man. No training necessary here. Needing to rid my hands of everything so I can focus on carrying this gigantic soon-to-be firefighter across the threshold, I take my veil, stand on my tiptoes, and place it in Eric’s hair. I position it properly, making sure it flows over his shoulders perfectly. “Beautiful,” I joke. “This is not funny.” “I’m not laughing.” He catches my smile right before I get into position. “You’re giving me one serious handy when we get inside.” I shake my head and look over my shoulder. “No, you’re going to be one hell of a clam digger with that tongue of yours when I successfully carry you into the apartment.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Is that so?” “Yes, it is. I expect the most supreme amount of licking you have in you. The munch of all munches.” “And when you fail to carry me into the apartment? What do I get?” I roll my eyes. “Your precious handy.” “Uh-uh.” He waggles his finger at me. “I want something more if I’ll be pulling out my best tongue maneuvers. I get head and balls, like mouth on balls.” “Eck.” I cringe. “Why do men like having their balls in mouths?” He shrugs. “Feels fucking good, that’s why. Do we have a deal?” Eyeing him carefully, I pause and then hold my hand out ready to make a bet. This will be no problem at all. I have to walk probably no more than five feet with Eric on my back. Easy! “Deal,” I say with full conviction and confidence in my carrying abilities. Shaking my hand, he moves his head back and forth in disbelief. “All right, Twigs, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Stop stalling and start stretching your tongue, it’s time to warm up.” I brace myself, creating a solid foundation with my feet firmly planted on the floor, open the door so I can see the end goal, and hold my arms out so I can catch his legs. In. The. Bag. “All right, here we go.” His large hands grip my slight shoulders and I brace myself. Solid foundation, that’s all I need, so I bend my knees, feeling sturdy, and prepare for his weight. His two-hundred-plus pound weight. His two-hundred-plus pound weight and giant man body . . . Oh shit. The minute he climbs up on my back, there is no hope. I have no foundation, I have no balance, and what I thought were going to be sturdy trunks beneath me are rightfully so-called twigs that quiver with the extra weight. Instead of inching forward like I planned, I stand there in my mermaid wedding dress, my husband on my back—wearing my veil—and the pressure of his weight pushing me closer and closer to the ground until my knees buckle beneath me sending me forward, through the entrance of the door, and straight on my face, burning our new carpet against my cheek. Eric’s weight is crushing me as he laughs hysterically, his deep voice echoing through our barely moved-in apartment. “I told you, Twigs,” he says in between laughter. “Damn, I’ve been wanting a good blow job lately, glad I made that bet.” The need to hide within the tulle of my dress is strong, but the practical side of me is still at work. Reasoning eclipses me as I turn my head to look up at him, the carpet rubbing against my face. “What do you mean?” I ask, taking in my surroundings. “You lost.” Rolling off me, he observes my pathetic attempt at carrying him. I’m sprawled out like a homicide victim on concrete while he attempts to refute my statement. “Um, pretty sure I won, sweetheart. You couldn’t even hold me up for a second.” “The bet was to carry you into the apartment. Are we or are we not in the apartment right now?” Realization hits him and he says, “Oh, hell no. You’re not winning this on a technicality, Twigs. You didn’t carry me. You fell.” “Fell with you on my back which technically is carrying you . . . sooo, get that tongue ready.” “No fucking way.” He laughs, kicking the door shut and straddling my body. His intense brown eyes stare down at me, all laughter escaping both of us. “How about this? Since it’s our wedding night, we fuck in every which way until we can no longer move and call it even?” My heart rate picks up a notch. “Does that include you going down?” “Giving you my best tongue is in no way a hardship, beautiful wife of mine. Either way, I win here. As do you. Now, let’s get you out of this dress. I’ve been dying to see what you have hidden underneath for me.” I’ve been waiting for this moment, right here. Where my husband—my husband—is looking into my eyes, the only woman he would ever want and need in his life, completely content and so far in love that I know what we have will last forever. As a couple, we are unbreakable. Our love is protected by everlasting armor. I’m aware we married absurdly young, but there is

something to say about falling in love with your soulmate. Nothing will penetrate what we’ve created which makes me one hell of a lucky girl. JACE Two months ago . . . “Dude, don’t move or I will blow up your face.” “Listen, I didn’t do anything. Put down the gun, turn around, and walk away.” “Give me a reason as to why I shouldn’t pop one between your eyes right now.” Sighing, I rest my forearms on my legs, my controller in my hands, and turn to my teammate. “Dude, we’re on the same fucking team. What’s the point of blowing me up if we’re on the same team?” “Because I can,” he answers right before he blasts my player in the head, turning my screen red. “You’re such a dick.” Sitting back on the cool leather of my couch, I take a sip from my beer and scowl at my best friend, Ethan, who apparently thinks it’s the funniest damn thing to shoot me. Being drafted right out of high school for the same team and growing up together in the minor leagues, we’ve become very close. Two years ago, he was called up to fill in for Kyle Sanders, the Denver Miners catcher who was put on the DL for a torn meniscus. Kyle didn’t end up coming back, setting Ethan up as a starter. I followed him up last year, starting as shortstop. My rookie season was something I never expected. It was a fucking whirlwind of attention, press, and success. Smashing the longest hitting streak by a rookie with fifty-five games, I immediately rose to the top of the lineup and to the top of the list of consideration for Rookie of the Year. Thinking about it now, I still have no clue how I did it. I played ball the way I know how to and the way I love to. It almost seemed too simple. Now it’s the off-season, I’m sitting in my nicer apartment in downtown Denver, Rookie of the Year title stamped on my career, and enough endorsements rolling in to make any twenty-one-year-old dickhead a pompous ass. But that’s not me. I will always be humble, I will always be grateful, and I will always be safe with my money. Humble beginnings bring you great appreciation, a saying I’m quite familiar with. “Do you know why I shot your sorry ass?” Ethan asks, sipping his beer. “Because you’re a little bitch and saw that I was carrying the team?” “No.” He takes another swig from his beer. The off-season lends to heavier drinking. We’ll work it off in the spring. Pointing his bottle at me, he continues, “Because you made me drive down 470 West, during rush hour, on a Friday, to bring you gas because you drive a piece of shit that doesn’t have a working gas gauge.” This happens to be true. I drive a rusted Jeep Cherokee. Traffic sucked the life out of my car, and I wound up not being able to make it to a gas station on time. I know when my truck needs gas. I always have to pump when the gauge gets to a quarter of a tank, anything past that and I’m playing a gas gauge game of Russian roulette. Thanks to Denver traffic, the gauge fell below the quarter mark, leaving me no choice but to call Ethan when my car stopped. “I bought you dinner that night, dude. We’re even.”

Ethan shakes his head, bottle halfway to his mouth as he peers over at me. “Nothing will make up for making me drive on 470 West during rush hour. Nothing.” “Who’s being the little bitch now?” “Fuck you.” Ethan laughs. “Speaking of dinner, are you ordering that pizza anytime soon?” “Already did on my phone.” “Did you get black olives? You know I hate those turdlettes.” I shrug, knowing fully well I didn’t get black olives. “Dude,” he whines. Laughter erupts deep down within me just as he punches me in the shoulder. Ding dong. When I go to answer the door, Ethan asks, “Did you really get black olives? You know those things are impossible to pick off.” “I didn’t get black olives. Christ, you really are being a little bitch today.” Shaking my head, I grab my wallet off the kitchen counter and head for the entryway. I’m rifling through my cash when I open the door. “Twenty-two fifty, right?” I look up and don’t see a pizza, or a warming box, or a delivery person at all. Instead I see a woman. Not just any woman, but Rebecca. Rebecca the bartender from Phoenix. The bartender I had many long orgasm-filled nights with. The bartender who I was exclusive with until I moved up to the majors and she called everything off. The bartender who came to visit me once last year, seven months ago. The bartender who now stands in front of me with a protruding belly, a very pregnant protruding belly. Fuck me. Avoiding eye contact with me, she somberly says, “Hey, Jace.” I swallow hard, sweat starting to form at my brow, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. There can only be one reason why she is here. “Rebecca, uh what are you doing here?” It’s a stupid question. It’s obvious what she’s about to tell me, but I’m at a loss for words. Looking up at me, not delaying the conversation, she says, “It’s yours.” Yup, just what I fucking thought. My hand goes to my forehead in disbelief and my mouth feels like a desert all of a sudden, my throat closing up on me. Not a word passes between us for several seconds. Coming up from behind me, Ethan says, “Dude, just pay her and . . . wow.” He pauses and takes in Rebecca. “Uh, that’s not pizza.” Scowling at Ethan from over my shoulder, she says, “No, it’s a baby.” “Yikes.” Ethan pats my shoulder. “Uh, I’m just going to grab another beer. Bottle of whiskey for you, bro?” He takes off without an answer. Before I can react, Rebecca speaks up. “The baby is yours.” Once again, something I already know. Rebecca wasn’t one to sleep around, so there is no doubt in my mind that the baby is mine. Still in shock, she continues, “I’m not keeping her. I thought I could do this on my own, but I can’t. I’m sorry, but when I give birth, she’s yours.” She?

Not giving me a second to process what she’s saying, Rebecca continues, sending me into a tailspin of what the fuck. “I’m due in two and a half months. Figure out what you want to do. Here is my new number.” She hands me a piece of paper. I can’t even look at it. The parchment feels like an anvil of responsibility in my hand. “Call me when you don’t have that oh shit look on your face and you’re ready to talk. I’m staying at a friend’s place here in Denver.” Stepping away, she holds her round belly and says sincerely, “I want nothing from you, Jace. I don’t want your love, your warmth, your money, or your fame. I just want you to take this baby and give her a good home. One I know I can’t give her right now.” She . . . I have a daughter? I have a fucking daughter? And Rebecca wants me to give her a good home. How the hell am I supposed to do that when I’m on the road half the year? What the hell . . . DAISY One month ago . . . “Daisy Beauregard.” I stand to attention when I hear my name, my crossword clutched against my chest and my pink pen in the other hand at my side. “That’s me.” “Please come with me.” I quickly gather my purse and water bottle and follow the woman through two large double doors controlled by an electronic entry. A sterile hallway brightly lit by fluorescent lights greets me on the other side. The faint sound of beeping monitors fills the air as I’m guided to a closed wooden door with 213 on the front. “Dr. Mendez will be right with you.” I nod and twitch nervously in place as I wait. Leaning close to the door, I hear a steady beep come from the other side, putting me at ease, temporarily erasing the three images that have been running through my mind the last few hours . . . The look of terror in her eyes. Her face drooping to one side. The fall from her seat onto the floor, completely lifeless. A dull burn begins to form in my eyes once again, my breath starting to catch in my throat. She’s everything to me. I don’t know what I would do without her, without her guidance, without her warm embrace, without her unyielding love. “Daisy?” I look up to see a man in a white coat, a nametag over his heart that reads Dr. Jake Mendez. “Yeah, that’s me,” I say meekly and on a shaky breath. “Daisy, I’m Dr. Mendez.” He holds out his hand that I take briefly. Instead of saying anything, I just nod, so he continues. “As you know, your grandmother had a stroke. We were able to conduct a CT scan and find a block in one of her arteries that pumps blood to her brain.” “Oh God,” I say, my hand involuntarily covering my mouth.

Dr. Mendez gives me a reassuring squeeze to my shoulder. “To be honest, we were happy to see she had a blocked artery. There are two types of strokes: hemorrhagic and ischemic. Hemorrhagic is when there is bleeding in the brain, which is quite difficult to stop without long-term effects. Your grandmother had an ischemic stroke, a blocked artery cutting off blood flow to the brain, which means we can avoid surgery, which is preferable due to her older age. We administered anticoagulant medication intravenously that should help clear the blockage.” “So she’s going to be okay?” I swallow hard. “We are monitoring her right now. She broke her hip in the fall, which will require intensive rehabilitation therapy. There may be some loss of movement in the left side of her body due to her stroke.” “She’s paralyzed?” I ask, fear eating up my spine. “Temporary paralysis with likely long-term effects, meaning she might have trouble lifting her left arm or using her left hand. You might also notice a lack of movement on the left side of her face. It’s hard to tell at this point what the long-term effects will be.” “But she will be okay?” “She’s stable for now but has a long road of recovery in front of her.” He takes a breath and says, “I understand you live in a two-bedroom apartment with her now.” “Yes, sir. We’ve been taking care of each other ever since I can remember.” “That’s very admirable.” The way he places his hands in his coat pocket makes me think I’m not going to like what he says next. “Given your grandmother’s condition, age, and the intense therapy requirements, it will be better if she goes to a rehabilitation center and then a nursing home.” “A nursing home?” I shake my head. “That’s not necessary, I can take care of her.” Dr. Mendez takes a deep breath. “I have no doubt in my mind that you can take care of her, Daisy. Just from our conversation I can tell you’re a loving and caring granddaughter, but she needs twentyfour/seven care.” “I can give her that,” I say quickly. “But what about your job, friends, other family? Caring for your grandmother will take over your life. You’re young, you should be just starting, just exploring what this world has to offer.” “I don’t have a job or friends,” I answer, desperate to hang on to the one thing that’s been a constant in my life. My grandma. Since second grade, she’s homeschooled me. She’s provided for me. She’s treated me as her own daughter. I’ve spent a great percentage of my life on this earth living in a small apartment with my grandma, watching Days of Our Lives, musicals, quilting, weaving baskets, and baking. She’s my best friend, my hero, my everything. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She can’t leave me. I don’t know how to live alone. I don’t know how to live outside the bubble my grandma provided for me. I don’t want to break free. I’m not ready. I’m not prepared. “Daisy, I’m not saying you have to make a decision now, but most likely you won’t have a choice in the matter. If you want her to thrive when she leaves this hospital, I suggest you start looking into nursing homes or assisted senior community housing your grandmother would enjoy. Maybe something on the west side so she can have a view of the mountains.” Patting my shoulder, he says, “I’ll be back to check on her.

She’s sleeping right now, but you’re welcome to go into her room and stay with her.” Feeling defeated, I nod my head and thank him. Most likely you won’t have a choice in the matter . . . Those unwanted words bury deep within my brain, haunting me with their meaning, with the realization that the comfort I’ve felt for so long is about to change. Dramatically. How is this possible? Two days ago she was a lively, funny woman. How do I reconcile what Dr. Mendez says about her with the strong and resilient woman I know and love? My grandma. Tears fill my eyes, blurring my vision of the bleak hospital door in front of me. She had a stroke. She broke her hip. She might be temporarily paralyzed on her left side. We might not have a choice in the matter of where she lives. Meaning . . . My life is about to be flipped upside down. The tiny cocoon I’ve been wrapped in since I was seven is quickly unraveling before I’m ready, before I have my wings. I knew this time was looming over me. But I’m not ready to go solo. I know nothing of the outside world, apart from the fact that it is absolutely terrifying. CARTER One week ago . . . I flip the visor of my helmet down, look over my shoulder, and rev my motorcycle out into the street, feeling the rumble of the engine beneath me. Free for the day. I need to get as far away from this place as possible. My overbearing uncle is pushing me to my limits, the miserable fuck. Just a few thousand dollars more until I can pay him back for putting me through culinary school and finally start my own restaurant. Until then, I’m indebted to helping him out at his Italian restaurant making cheap and shitty food for the Denverites with unrefined taste buds. I’m not a fancy fuck when it comes to food, but I sure as hell don’t stick my creations in a vat of grease and call it a day. I worked hard to get to where I am, making a deal with the devil, aka my uncle, in order to get here, so having to follow his recipes verbatim is like living in hell on a daily basis. But, I needed the money and he had it, so I agreed to work under his watchful eye while in school and years after to pay off my debt. I’ve been working multiple shifts, saving and scrimping as much as possible. It helps that I’m fucking good at doubling and tripling my money on friendly sporting events, escalating my savings. I only place a bet when I know I can make some money on it. I haven’t lost once. Taking a right and merging onto the on-ramp, I make my way down the highway under the stars of the dark chilly night. Thanks to Denver being named the best city to live in, in the United States, apartment prices have skyrocketed, leaving me one option of places to live: in a converted warehouse on Delaware Street that neighbors the highway. Rent is ridiculously cheap and splitting the bill with my girlfriend, Sasha, has made it that much easier to save. Red lights beam up ahead as I slow my bike to a stop. Christ. Sitting back, my steel-toed boots on the road, I curse this damn city and its godforsaken traffic. Pulling out my phone, I connect it to the Bluetooth in my helmet and dial Fitzy, my best friend. Inching

my way forward on the highway, I wait for him to pick up. “Dude, are you finally on your way over?” Fitzy answers with impatience. I’ve known Gerald Fitzsimmons, aka Fitzy, ever since elementary school, so his restlessness isn’t new to me. Fitzy is all about instant gratification. “I have to stop by the apartment, shower, and then I’ll be over.” “Fuck changing, the game is on in ten minutes. Just come here.” “I smell like a pig’s asshole,” I counter. “I’m showering and changing. That’s if I ever get through this traffic.” “Be a dick and ride the shoulder. You can’t be that far from your exit.” He’s right. “It’s the next one.” “Then ride the fucking shoulder and get here.” Not being one to follow the rules, I take his advice and ride the shoulder, not caring if there’s a cop waiting to bust my balls. Just add it to the pile of irresponsible I have stacked and accumulated on my kitchen counter. “You just want me there to make wings.” Glancing at my side mirrors, I prepare for flashing lights that never appear. Fitzy pauses for a second and then says, “Of course I want you here to make wings, and don’t forget to bring some beer.” “You’re an asshole.” I laugh, taking the exit right next to my apartment building. “I’m the asshole with the fifty-inch flat-screen TV with picture-in-picture. That’s more than you can say for your TV/VCR combo on your fold-out table.” It’s embarrassing how accurate that statement is. “Yeah, well I don’t have Daddy funding my life either.” “Am I going to stop a man from buying me stuff because he feels guilty for abandoning me twenty years ago? Fuck, no. He can buy me all the electronics and expensive shit he wants.” Fitzy’s dad was a real dick when he was younger and took off one night, never returning. We were able to commiserate together over our abandonment issues. At least Fitzy had his mom. I was stuck with Uncle Chuck. And you would think after so many years, holidays, and family gatherings, he would treat me like a real son and give me a break. No, every day he reminds me of how much of a burden I was and how I owe him for “stepping up” and gracing me with a roof over my head and putting me through college at the early age of sixteen. He’s making a man out of me. That’s what he thinks. When in reality, he’s turning me into a bitter bastard like himself. I park in my regular spot outside my apartment building, noting Sasha’s car’s not in the parking lot. I unload my bag and take the steps of my apartment two at a time, ready to take the quickest shower of my life. “Hey, I’m in my place. I’ll be over in ten.” “Fine,” he huffs. “Hurry the hell up.” When I enter my sparsely decorated apartment, I flip on the lights and notice a letter on the fold-out table in the makeshift dining area. Taking a quick glance around the space, I note the lack of stupid knickknacks Sasha put around the bleak room and start to realize something is off. Setting my helmet down, I stutter-walk toward the note with trepidation.

It’s in Sasha’s handwriting. She never leaves notes . . . Not taking my time, I rip it open and read it. Carter, I’m sorry. Maybe one day I will be able to repay you. -S Repay me? What the hell is she talking about? Is this her way of breaking up with me? Through a fucking note? This can’t be real. Confused, I read the note again, not that it’s really long, I just need to make some sort of sense of all this. She’ll repay me. Repay me for what? Repay me for . . . My mind races, my stomach starts to churn, a cold sweat drapes over my skin, and a sinking feeling takes root within my soul. No fucking way . . . She’s the only one who knows, the only one who has access. In disbelief, I walk-sprint to my bedroom, tear open the bottom drawer of my dresser, and open the box stuffed in the back. Completely empty. It’s where I’ve kept all my extra cash from the last few years I’ve won from all my bets. Over ten thousand dollars fucking gone. Every last bill. I don’t trust banks, so hadn’t deposited my savings, believing my apartment would be a safer place. Fucking wrong on that one. Shit. “Fuck!” I shout, throwing the box across the room and gripping my hair. “Fuck. Fuck!” It’s all gone. My freedom, my way out, the only opportunity I had of releasing myself from my uncle’s iron-clad shackles. The room darkens around me, and all I see is a faint space of red. This is not fucking happening. There is no way Sasha just took everything I’ve ever worked for and left. Left me with nothing but a run-down apartment decorated in nothing but fractured furniture. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I dial her number but it goes straight to voicemail, no surprise there, so I send her a text to call me immediately, knowing deep down in my gut I will never receive that phone call from her. She did not just wipe me clean of everything. There is no way she just stripped me of my freedom. Of the fucking freedom I’ve been working for years to achieve. This can’t be happening. Please . . . don’t let this be true. Sitting on my bed, my head in my hands, a dull pulse flickers in my throat. Utterly defeated. There is no other way to describe it. “Fuck . . .” The word slips off my tongue, hanging in the heavy air. The urge to punch the living shit out of my brick wall is coursing through me, burning up and down my arms. The deep-rooted anger I’ve harbored for years upon years, roaring up inside me with a sullen vengeance. No. Fucking. Way.

Why? Why the hell would she do that? I thought what we had was good. And now she’s just . . . gone? As is my freedom—just like that—vanished within a blink of an eye.

Step One: Grieve HOLLYN

“Three . . . two . . . one . . . HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Blue and silver confetti bursts into the sky as Niveasponsored hats and noisemakers bounce around on the screen. Couples kiss, people celebrate, and everyone is having a jolly freaking time as Ryan Seacrest says some emotional bullshit about starting a new year. “Talk all you want, Ryan, you’re not going to get any taller,” I mumble, a Cheez Doodle hanging out of my mouth, permanently marking the corner of my lips in an orange hue. Sighing, I nibble on the doodle and say, “Happy New Year, Prince William.” Glancing over, I take in Prince William, my goldfish. Or should I say, my dead goldfish. He went belly up two days ago but I’ve been too lazy to flush him. “I would kiss you if you weren’t stinking up this entire apartment. Your smell is rather offensive so I’m passing.” Flopping over the arm of my sofa, my Cheez Doodle falling onto my chest, I reach for my can of air freshener, stick the doodle back in my mouth, point the freshener toward the ceiling, and press down on the button. A mountainy mist sprays into the air filling my apartment with a rugged aerosol smell. Fake, yet refreshing, as if I’m snorting up an aspen tree. This is the life. It’s now the start of a new year, and I have a coated ring of processed cheese tarnishing my lips, my hair tied into a rather unattractive knot by the chip clip that once held my doodles shut, and my rainbow-striped toe socks from middle school dangling off my feet, giving no definition to my little piggies at all. Yup, living it large. Spraying my air freshener again, just for the hell of it, I watch the mountain-scented aerosol fill the air as it slowly falls to the floor, coating the once-new carpet with its foresty splendor. “You know, Prince William, this year’s ball drop was slightly anti-climatic. Is it just me or do you feel the same way?” I ask the deathly floating common carp. Peering over at him, I oddly wait for a response, conjuring one up in my head. “Blub, blub, blub, I agree, Hollyn,” I say in a creepy bubbly fish voice. I take in my surroundings: bags of chips scattered across my coffee table, pictures of celebrities torn out of magazines on the floor, a wet spot on the carpet from my air freshener binge, and Cheez-Doodle fingerprints scattered over my couch, almost like a leopard print. This is what rock bottom must feel like. Shaking my air freshener, realizing it’s finished, I let it roll out of my hand and across the carpet. Tears start to fill my eyes over the depleted aerosol can. Yup, this is one-hundred-percent rock bottom. I wipe under my eye as the front door to my apartment flies open and my best friend, Amanda, pops through the entrance, her boyfriend, Matt, tagging closely behind. “Happy New . . .” she pauses and then starts whipping her hand feverously in front of her nose. Beside

her, Matt starts to cough and quickly pulls his vest over his face as a mask. “Oh my God,” Amanda complains. “Did a forest die in here?” With a blasé attitude, I respond, “I got carried away with the air freshener.” Sitting up, I take in their party garb. Amanda is in a tight-fitting sparkly dress that’s peeking through her long, black pea coat, and Matt is in his classic dark-wash jeans, button-up shirt, and vest. He’s shaking and blowing into his hands trying to calm the cold that is capturing the Colorado skies outside. “I thought you two were going to a party,” I say, lying back down and sticking my hand in a chip bag, rifling around for crumbs. “We were but it got lame.” Amanda walks into the living area and takes in the scene, her nose cringing from the disarray of my apartment. “You’re a pig, Hollyn.” “Gee, thanks. Care to comment on the condition of my bush as well?” “And I will be in the kitchen.” Matt quickly disappears where I can hear him rummaging around in my fridge. “Your goldfish is dead,” Amanda points out. I tear open the chip bag and start to lick the cheddar and ranch seasoning off the foil. “Tell me something I don’t know.” “Do you have anything other than tabasco sauce and a lonely grapefruit in here?” Matt calls from the kitchen. “No, but bring the tabasco sauce in here, I’m thirsty.” “Yes, bring the tabasco sauce in here,” Amanda deadpans, her eyes judging me. “You can join Hollyn in licking her trash.” Never wanting to be a terrible hostess, I hold out the pretzel bag to her and ask, “Want to down the salt at the bottom?” “Do you really want tabasco sauce?” Matt asks, holding it out to me. I reach for it but Amanda quickly swats it away, the bottle rolling across the ground, joining the air freshener. “She is not drinking tabasco sauce. For God’s sake. Hollyn, look at you.” No need for a cursory glance, I know the appalling reflection I will see in the mirror. I’ve already established rock bottom once I started speaking for my fish. To take in my appearance all over again will be detrimental to my already shattered and bruised self-esteem. “I’m good.” I wave Amanda off. I don’t want to be reminded. Compassion and sympathy quickly take over Amanda’s once sarcastic attitude, warning me that what she’s going to say next is something I’m not going to like. Leaning forward, she clasps my knee and shakes her head. “No, Hollyn, you’re not good.” “Let’s not do this,” I say, sitting up and dusting off my shirt that’s accumulated enough crumbs for a small colony of mice to have a Thanksgiving feast. “I’m not in the mood.” “You’re never in the mood,” Amanda tosses back, her sympathy quickly evaporating into annoyance. “You don’t catch me on good days.” “Can you stop being sarcastic and actually talk about this?” I’ve seen Amanda frustrated with me before, but not like this. “Uh, this is getting a little awkward for me,” Matt says, rocking on his heels. “I think I might grab the tabasco sauce and test my limits in the kitchen.” He goes to reach for it when Amanda snaps at him.

“Do not touch the sauce. This conversation involves you, too.” “How does this conversation you relentlessly try to have with me involve Matt? It’s the same old thing, Amanda. You’re going to tell me that it’s been over a year and a half since my husband died, that I need to stop sulking, and move on with my life, that I need to go back to nursing school and finish my degree so I can stop waiting tables down at Chuck’s Italian Eatery. I’ve heard it before and I’m not interested.” Every few weeks, Amanda tries to have a heart to heart with me about my life and how I can’t keep putting it on hold, how I need to learn to live again. Well, the three bags of chips, Cheez Doodles, and pretzels beg to differ. I’m living quite well, thank you. Standing, Amanda adjusts her coat, looking more fidgety and angry than ever. And . . . are those tears forming in her eyes? I lean a little closer to get a better look just as she yanks a petite box out of her pocket. Shielding my body for a second, thinking some freaky, demented clown is going to pop out, I look up to see her tapping her foot and motioning me to open it. “What is that?” I ask, very unsure what is happening right now. “Open it.” “Is this where you poison me with some airborne virus to finally end my misery?” Rolling her eyes, she motions the box toward me again. “Open it.” With trepidation, I snag the little box from her grip and marvel in the quality. Fine craftsmanship right there, and the hinges, they don’t squeak as I open— What the hell? I look up at Amanda who is smiling brightly and then back down at the box that holds a very large, very expensive-looking, and very crystal-clear diamond ring. “Err, are you proposing to me?” An odd moment in my life but, the size of the ring has me itching just to say yes. “No, that’s my ring.” “What—” I look up at Matt who is beaming with pride and then back to Amanda who is the pictureperfect example for giddiness. “You’re engaged?” This is freaking news to me. She nods and claps her hands together. “We are.” Scanning the ring once again, thinking about stealing it and fleeing to Mexico, I say, “Why aren’t you wearing it? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Wear the ring when you’re engaged?” Sighing, her giddiness level drops, and she replies, “Because, I don’t wear it around you.” “Wait.” I stand up now, one of my pant legs hiked up to my knee, one of Eric’s firefighter shirts pooling around my waist, and the tube of my socks hanging on the ends of my feet. “You’re telling me you’ve been engaged longer than just tonight?” Cringing slightly but then masking her face with another smile, she slowly nods. “For four months.” “Four months?” I shout. “You’ve been engaged for four months and you haven’t told me? Why the hell wouldn’t you tell me?” “Because look at you, Hollyn.” Amanda motions to my appearance. “You barely make it to work and when you’re not working, you’re buried in Eric’s shirts watching videos of your wedding, or listening to the messages you used to send each other on your Voxer app. I didn’t think it was right to spring this news on you.”

Nodding psychotically, anger starting to boil deep within, I hold the ring out as I speak. “So you chose to wait four months to tell your best friend that you’re engaged and are now springing it on me on New Year’s Eve, the couples’ holiday?” “Couples’ holiday would be Valentine’s Day actually,” Matt points out with his finger held in the sky. “Shut it, Matt,” I snap. Getting the picture, he picks up the tabasco sauce and goes into the kitchen. I hope he burns the hell out of his tongue. “Hollyn, I don’t want to fight.” Coming up to me, she takes the ring box out of my hand and places the ring on her finger. The damn thing sparkles up at me, winking in the dull light of my living area. “I came over here to give you this.” Reaching into her pocket again, I wonder if she’s going to pop out a positive pregnancy test as well, but instead she hands me a pamphlet. “What’s this?” The first sentence I see on the front of the softly toned tri-fold paper says, “Need a change in your life?” I inwardly roll my eyes. Self-help, not the first time she’s gone this route. The church group she tried to get me to go to a few months ago was a real treat with their horrible selection of tea and median age of sixty. “It’s a program run here in Denver called Dear Life.” Tossing the pamphlet on the coffee table, I fold my arms over my chest defensively. “Let me guess, it’s a group where we go to talk about our feelings.” “No,” she shakes her head, “it’s a program that helps you learn to live again.” She pauses and gathers her thoughts. “Hollyn, I love you so much, and it kills me to see you wasting your life like this. Eric would be—” “Do not tell me what Eric would have thought about the way I’m living right now. Do not bring him up in this conversation,” I say, venom spitting with every word falling from my mouth. There is only so much I can take. “So we can never mention him? I can never say Eric’s name? I can never talk about the good times we had? He was a part of my life too, Hollyn. He was my friend and I lost him as well. I can’t keep re-living his death every time I come to visit you. And you can’t either. It’s not healthy.” “I suggest you leave,” I offer, sitting back down on the couch, letting it swallow me into its worn-out cushions. “Don’t do this, Hollyn. Don’t put distance between us because I’m trying to help you.” “Have you ever thought that I don’t want to be helped?” I shoot back. “Have you ever thought that I don’t want to lose my best friend either?” Amanda says, tears falling from her eyes. “Eric died but you didn’t, Hollyn. You’re not the same person, and I get it. I can’t imagine the heartache you’ve had to endure, but I’ve already lost Eric, don’t cause me to lose you as well.” From Amanda’s tear-filled plea, Matt appears at her side, holding on to her tightly. Gaining her composure, she says, “I love you, Hollyn, like a sister. We’ve been through everything together and when I get married, I want you there at my side, as my maid of honor, but I know you can’t be there until you’re ready to let go and live your life again.” Linking her hand through Matt’s arm, she leans into him and continues, “I’m moving forward with the plans on this wedding. I really want you to be a part of it.” I don’t answer her, I just nod, not sure what to say or how to act. “Please think about it at least. If you need anything, you know you can call me anytime.” And it’s true.

During the first three months after Eric passed, I would call Amanda in the middle of the night, my heart swollen in grief, Eric’s picture clutched to my chest, tears staining my cheeks . . . and she would come over and hold me until I fell asleep. “Bye, Hollyn,” Matt says somberly before he shuts the door, leaving me once again alone. Alone. Just like I am night after lonely fucking night. Their footsteps fade in the hallway, the pamphlet Amanda left burns a metaphorical hole in my coffee table, begging and pleading to be opened. Live again. Is that even possible? I was married to Eric for a year and a week before he was killed during a firefighter training, a beam falling on him and crushing his body. A year and one week. That’s all I had. One year and a week to call a man my husband, to hear him call me his wife. To revel in the newlywed glow. One year and a week to soak in the man that so easily stole my heart. I don’t think it’s possible to know what life is again, to enjoy the small things like the beautifully brilliant blue sky of Colorado, to enjoy the smell of a fresh cup of coffee brewed to your specific request, or to revel in the sound of a baby’s joyful laughter. Everything is dull. It’s grey. It’s mundane. Lackluster. Lifeless. Even though we had so little time together, life without Eric isn’t worth living. Sorrow encompasses me, throwing me once again into a vicious cycle of depression. Eyeing Eric’s recliner, I walk to my sanctuary and seep into the well-worn cushions. This is safety—warmth and familiar—the closest thing I have to Eric wrapping his arms around me. Opening up the Voxer app on my phone, without even giving it a second thought, I press on Eric’s handle and start to play the most recent messages he sent me, getting lost in his memory. “Twigs, you will never believe who I saw at King Soopers while getting guacamole fixings. Chase Styles from the Colorado Miners. Guess what was in his cart? Tampons, apple juice, and a box of frozen White Castle cheeseburgers. Think he’ll be offended if I switch out his apple juice for Ecto Cooler?” “Don’t forget to put the laundry in the dryer for me, I need under-roos despite you thinking I can go commando. Got to keep the balls in a sling if we want all those babies.” Tears start to fall from my eyes from the rich timbre of his voice, the sweet joking tone he would use with me, and the way he so easily made me swoon from just listening to him. I play another, clutching my phone close to my heart, as if I’m holding him right there with me. “Coming home, Twigs. You better be naked, lying on the bed with an arrow pointing at your vagina with a sign that says, Eric owns this pussy. Five minutes.” His touch, commanding, yet loving. His love, unyielding, yet undeserving. His smile, intoxicating, yet charming. There’s no denying it, he was my everything. “Pretty sure I just saw our neighbor walking a chicken. No joke, Bob Jones was just walking a chicken. Let’s investigate later. I’ll let you wear war paint this time as long as you promise not to try to paint my dick again. It’s stuffed in pants, it doesn’t need camouflage.” His humor. His eyes. His scruff. His lips.

The way he knew how to put a smile on my face despite my mood. All I have left are the faint smell in his clothes, the overplayed messages on my phone, and the faded pictures in my album. Pulling the collar of my shirt up to my nose, I take in a deep breath, hoping for a small whiff of him, for a small acknowledgement that the man I once thought would be my forever is still living in vivid memory. But sadly, I know with each passing day, his memory continues to pale. His scent fading, his laugh silencing, and his warm embrace dissolving, leaving me feeling so cold. What was supposed to be a love of everlasting armor was easily cracked, broken, and lost. Sorrow, anguish, and heartache pour from my eyes, coating my cheeks and soaking my shirt in a collection of lost memories. This is it, this is my life full of . . . nothing. I’m lost in a blur of affliction when my phone beeps with an incoming text. Through tear-saturated eyes, I read the message. Amanda: I love you, Hollyn. No matter what you decide, I will always be there for you. I will call you tomorrow. Tossing my phone on the coffee table, I suck in a deep breath, willing my tears to stop. “Pull it together, Hollyn.” I really don’t want to be this person anymore. I don’t want to be sad anymore, and I don’t want to once again disappoint the one person who’s stuck by my side when I pushed everyone else away. Sitting up, with less gusto than I wish, I push my hair out of my face and stare down at the pamphlet Amanda left. Dear Life. Learn to live again. Am I ready to live again? No, but I also don’t want to let Amanda down either. I pick up the pamphlet and take it to bed with me, leaving my phone and Eric’s messages behind. Not tonight. I’m already broken enough. I will not fall asleep to his voice . . . Stopping in the hallway, I grip the wall, my head down, the thought of not hearing Eric’s voice in my head as my eyes drift shut. Can I do it? Can I shut my eyes to nothing but lonely silence? No, I can’t. Turning back to the coffee table, I set the pamphlet back down and pick up my phone, quickly pulling up the Voxer app again to play another random message. “I love you, Twigs, never forget it.” My throat closes up, my knees weaken, and I drop to the floor, my arm on the coffee table, my head in the crook of my elbow, more tears flowing viciously. Learn to live again. I’m not sure I can. JACE “Congratulations.” An older woman wearing pink scrubs with a medical mask dangling from her neck hands me a tiny bundle of baby wrapped in a neutral-colored blanket. So soft and warm.

With shaky hands, I take the six-pound, two-ounce love of my life and bring her into view. A deep breath leaves me before I glance down and take in the one and only thing that will be able to bring me to my knees. This little girl. Little button nose, red cheeks, tightly shut eyes, and beautiful puffy lips. She’s so small, so tiny, so innocent. She knows nothing of this world. She knows nothing of its complications, of its prejudice, of its shortcomings, and of its opportunities. But she will know one thing: the love pouring from my heart into hers. At least I hope she will. I didn’t know it was possible to have an immediate, unconditional love for someone. But here I am, holding my daughter, and it’s there. Love. My daughter. I don’t know if I will ever get used to the notion that this little bundle is a part of me, that she will always carry my heart, that no matter what happens, she will always hold a huge chunk of my soul. Holding back tears and fighting through the knot in my throat I speak softly. “Hey, baby girl.” I sniff, not doing a good job at all with my unexpected emotions. “You’re so beautiful, so tiny, so precious.” Pausing, I take a deep breath and pull the blanket down ever so slightly so I can see her hands. I run my finger across hers and marvel at their size compared to mine just as she wraps her little fist around my finger, gripping me tightly. I lose it, right there and then. Tears stream down my face as I watch over her and take in this moment, branding it into my brain. “You’re going to be the luckiest little girl to ever walk this planet,” I tell her, tears hitting her blanket. “You’re going to be loved, cared for, and sheltered from everything bad. I don’t want you to ever feel pain, or heartache, and I only want what’s best for you.” I wipe away some tears. “I’m going to love you, so fucking hard, with every bone and fiber in my body. I hope you know that, little girl. I really hope you know how much I love you.” “Mr. Barnes,” a nurse interrupts, looking down at me in the rocking chair that rests in a room full of flowers and balloons from my teammates and the front office of the ball club. The past two days have been a whirlwind of visitors and well wishes, but now it’s time to leave and it’s all coming to an end. I nod, “Please let June and Alex in.” I rock back and forth, speaking softly to my daughter as the door to the hospital room opens once again, June and Alex enter walking hand in hand, their faces full of hope, full of sympathy. “Hi, ladies,” I choke back. June has tears streaming down her face, her spare hand over her mouth in awe as Alex clings tightly to June for support. With a deep breath, I stand and say, “Are you ready to meet your baby girl?” I choke on the last words, trying to hold it together. They both nod, and with a broken but also full heart, I hand over my daughter to her new parents. “Yes,” June says with a watery smile. She holds out her hands and I transfer the baby, along with my cracking heart. Alex wraps her arms around June and looks over her shoulder at their little girl. It’s fucking perfect, seeing these two beautiful women finally fulfilling a lifelong dream of completing their family. Stepping back, I observe their pure, unfiltered joy. Seeing them, and their elation, I know I’ve done the

right thing. I know I’ve given them the most precious gift ever. I know I’ve given my baby girl the best. I know deep down in my bones that I made the right decision. This baby will be loved. She will be blessed every day with a warm home. She will have opportunity, she will have the chance to grow and learn and be anything she will ever want to be. She’ll have two parents who can give her the world, something I know I can’t do. Growing up in the foster care system, I’m aware of what it’s like to not have present parents, to not be able to come home to loving arms. I’m familiar with the broken feeling to not have someone cheering you on, to not have someone at every school function, and to not have anyone to watch you grow into the human you’re supposed to be. I didn’t want that hardship for my daughter. With my schedule, my profession, I wouldn’t be able to give her what she needs. Sure, I could throw money at a nanny to raise my daughter while I’m on the road, but what kind of life is that for her? It’s not a life at all. I would be a selfish prick to keep her, to only offer half the parent she deserves, never truly being there. So, I searched for two people who would be able to give my daughter the life she deserves. I met June and Alex through an adoption agency and immediately fell in love with their story, their family, their life. They’ve been trying to adopt for three years, with two failed adoptions under their belt, they weren’t sure if they really wanted to continue, but they decided to give it one last shot. That’s when I found their profile. What’s better than one mom? Two. It was the one quote I remember from their personalized letter to me. It stuck with me, that and the picture of Alex and June at a Colorado Miners game, wearing Jace Barnes shirts. I might have been a little partial. The first time we met, they had no idea I was the man fulfilling their unanswered prayers. Initially it was shock, but once that wore off, we sat down and chatted like old friends. I learned about how they first met, a beautifully funny story about working together at an ice cream parlor. I saw pictures of their three cats and two dogs that they jokingly referred to as their farm. And I learned about their struggle through the adoption process, hearing about the prejudice they had to face being a female same-sex couple trying to adopt. It broke me in half and I vowed to them that day, their search was over. That they could rest easy and start stocking up on diapers, because their little girl will be coming shortly. We parted with long, thankful hugs, an appreciation for both sides of this adoption, knowing that bringing a child into this world is a huge responsibility and that all three of us will do the best we can to give her everything she needs. Through watery eyes, June looks up at me, her gratefulness beaming from her. “She’s absolutely beautiful, Jace.” “She’s perfect,” Alex speaks up, being more of the silent one in the relationship, a small tear streaming down her cheek. “Thank you,” I answer awkwardly, not really sure how to respond. “Uh, did Tracy give you all the paperwork?” Alex nods, still looking down at the baby. “We are all set and we’ve been through the discharge process as well with the doctor.” “So she’s ready,” I say, my throat clogging up again.

Alex meets my eyes and nods somberly. “She’s ready.” “Well, you should get her changed. You brought an outfit, right?” “We did.” June hands the baby to Alex and then goes into the hallway where she brings in a car seat and a grey diaper bag that’s overflowing with newborn items. She looks a little awkward carrying everything, but then again, so would I. “Good.” I pull on the back of my neck, trying to not lose it, despite the anvil of pain weighing heavily on my chest. “Did you finally come up with a name?” When we initially met, I asked them if they had some names in mind and they weren’t really set on anything. Before we left, Alex pulled me to the side and said that they were holding off on a name, in case I changed my mind. She said it would be too devastating on June to once again, name a baby she wasn’t able to call her own. I swore to Alex that day, that June would finally get her baby, and nothing was going to stand in her way. And nothing has. The paperwork is complete, June is finally a mommy. Fuck, just thinking about giving this woman such a precious gift has me feeling unsteady and wobbly. “We did come up with a name,” Alex replies, a sincere smile to her eyes. Clearing my throat, I ask, “What did you decide to name her?” Pulling her attention away from the baby, June exudes motherhood in that one, shy smile directed at me. “We decided to name her Hope, because you gave us hope, Jace.” Alex wraps her arm around June, and I take in the most beautiful family standing before me. “You took a dreary and arduous journey and turned it into something of hope. You’ve given us something we could never repay you for.” I nod because my throat is too damn tight to respond. We stand there in silence for a moment before I clear my throat and say, “It’s perfect. And, you don’t need to repay me, just . . .” I take a deep breath, “just keep me updated, send me pictures, come to my games. Please just let her know who her birth father is, let her know that I . . . love her.” That’s all I want, for her to know me, and the decision I made for her. The hardest fucking decision of my life. “You will always be a part of her life, Jace, there is no changing that.” Feeling uncomfortable, I stick my hands in my pockets and stand there awkwardly. Do I leave? Do I watch them dress her? Do I get to say one last goodbye before she starts a new journey? Will they let me? “Jace,” June cuts in, “would you help us get her ready to leave?” “Sure.” I smile tightly, not wanting to show too much emotion. “Here,” June hands me the diaper bag, “there are a few outfits in there, pick one out. I’ll start to get her undressed so you can dress her.” I spend the next few minutes picking out a flowery dress with matching hair bow and ballet shoelooking socks. June and Alex lay her on the bed, on top of a pink knitted blanket Alex’s mother made. Hope squirms and quietly grunts as I weave her tiny arms through the dress, her eyes never opening, not once. I just want one peek. Just one chance to make a connection with her. I know she won’t remember, but I will. I want her to see me, not just hear me. Once I have her dress situated, I put on her socks that are entirely too big for her thin legs, and then I

gingerly brush her hair to the side and place the headband gently over her forehead like June directs. When she’s fully dressed, I’m unable to remove my eyes from the beauty below me. Enveloped by the knitted blanket, she looks like an angel, a dream, a true blessing. Together, June, Alex, and I hold each other, one lady on either side of me and we cry together, marveling at the baby below us. How could Rebecca give her away? Funny, how such a little human can bring three people together. I will forever share this bond with June and Alex, it can never be taken away from us. Until the day I die, I will remember this moment, where three adults formed an unyielding agreement that no matter what happens, we will always put Hope first. “I guess you should be going,” I suggest. “Can I just hold her one last time?” “Of course,” Alex says, stepping in and picking up Hope. Carefully, she hands her over to me, the weight of her so light in my arms. Turning my back for some privacy, I gaze down at Hope, her name so fitting. “Hey, baby girl.” My voice cracks with each word, my heart breaking with each second that brings our time to an end. “I want you to know you are one blessed little girl, having two moms who want you, who prayed for you, who did everything in their power to finally be matched with you. You weren’t a surprise to them, an inconvenience, or a calculated risk. You were sought after, dreamt for, begged for. You are everything they have ever wanted, which only means one thing. Your home, the one you’ll grow up in, will always be filled with joy, with warmth, and with love, everything you deserve.” Tears fall onto her dress and I try to wipe them away, not wanting to soak her. “I love you, Hope. Don’t ever forget that I didn’t give you up because I didn’t want you, but that I placed you with a family who will be able to give you more than I ever will.” Turning around, I see June holding up her camera, taking pictures, and I’m grateful for her capturing these last moments I have with Hope. Taking a deep breath, I glance down at her one last time just as her eyes start to open, her tiny peepers popping open for a brief second, cutting me in half. They are glazed over with sleep but I take this moment, I take it like a greedy fucking bastard and savor it. Eye contact. Inwardly, I speak to her, begging her to remember me, to know me, to believe me when I say I love her. Bringing her up to my lips, I place a kiss on her forehead, breathing in her baby scent one last time and then with a heavy heart, a broken and shattered resolve, I place Hope in Alex and June’s waiting hands. Tears cloud my vision, despair clogs my heart. I nod, unsure I can say anything else to these two compassionate women, and head for the door just when June stops me. Alex is putting Hope in the car seat when June envelops me in a hug. Standing on her toes, she speaks softly and emotionally into my ear. “She will always know of your selflessness, she will always know of your sacrifice, and she will always know of your love, of the day you made the hardest decision of your life. Trust me when I say she will emulate every selfless aspect of you, Jace.” Squeezing me, she places a kiss on my cheek and then looks me directly me in the eyes, her soft hands gripping my face. “You filled a hole in my heart that’s been empty for quite some time. You gave us a baby, Jace. I will never be able to show you how truly grateful I am, all I can do is love that little girl to the best of my ability. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.” And just like that, I’m fucking ruined. DAISY

“Can I help with anything?” I ask, watching my half-sister, Amanda tend to her famous spaghetti sauce over the stove. “Do you want to set the table? Matt should be home soon.” “Not a problem.” I jump off the stool at the kitchen bar and walk over to the little four-person dining room table in the open-concept living space. Knowing Amanda likes place mats, something I learned the first day I moved into their townhome only six days ago, I reach into the buffet table that rests against the wall and fish out the pretty purple and green paisley print placemats. “Uh, does Matt usually work this late?” It’s still awkward, trying to think of conversation with my half-sister since we haven’t spent much time with each other. “No, not really. During baseball season, he works a little longer than normal, but since it’s off-season he gets home pretty early. He called earlier and said he had to go down to the hospital to be with one of his players.” “Oh no, I hope everything is okay.” “Me too.” She gives the sauce a few more stirs before reaching into the cabinet above her and pulling out plates for me to set on the table. “Did you talk to your grandma today?” “I did.” I swallow hard, her words of wisdom on constant replay in my head. You need to start living. You need to enjoy this time with your sister. You need to get a job. You need to meet people. You need to put yourself out there. “How is she doing?” “Good.” I take the plates and set them on the table. Walking over to the silverware drawer I continue, “She’s been making some progress in moving her left hand but that’s pretty much all she can do for now. It’s going to be a very long road for recovery.” “But cognitively, she’s sounding good?” “Yeah,” I sigh, setting out the silverware. “Hey, I know I’ve said it a few times, but I really want to thank you and Matt for taking me in. With Gram’s hospital bills and now all her money going to her senior living . . . Well, I really appreciate it.” Amanda walks over to me, a warm smile on her face. She envelops me into a hug and says, “Anything for my sis. We’re blood. I’m just glad we have this time to get to know each other better.” “Me too. But I do feel bad at times. I feel like I’m intruding on your new engagement.” “You’re fine, don’t even worry about it. Matt and I have been together for far too long, you’re not interrupting anything.” She pulls away and looks me in the eyes. “I do want to talk to you about something.” “Okay,” I reply suspiciously, not sure what she wants to talk about. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation we had last night, how this is an opportunity for you to step out of your comfort zone and really experience life.” “Yeah.” It’s true. Even though I’m terrified, this might be a golden opportunity to reinvent myself, to really break out of my shell. “I agree.” Excitingly fidgeting she continues, “My friend, Hollyn, is starting this program next week.

It’s called Dear Life and it’s designed to help you face what’s holding you back in life, break free, and move forward. To let go of your past, perceived faults, failures, shortcomings, losses, and learn how to live again. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It might be something kind of great for you. Here, let me pull up the website.” Amanda flips open her iPad and starts typing away in the browser, meanwhile, two words hit me hard. Break free. By no means did my grams hold me back. She provided for me, educated me, and gave me a beautiful life, but there is so much more out there. I’ve already found that out in the few days I’ve been staying with Amanda. For one, there is love. Real love. Not movie love which I’ve consumed my entire life. But real-life love where two individuals come together and share each other’s passions, their faults, and their accomplishments. I want that. There is an entire world I never knew existed outside the little five-block radius I previously called home. There is food I want to try, places I want to see, people I want to meet, but getting out there, breaking free, I have no clue how to do it. “Here.” Amanda hands me her tablet and goes back to stirring the sauce. I look at the website with its vivid colors and lively pictures of people laughing and smiling. What would it feel like to be one of those people? To have friends? Comradery with others. “I don’t know,” I say nervously. “It looks like it’s for people who might be going through a tough time.” “It’s for everyone,” Amanda states soothingly. “Anyone can join who wants to make a change.” “But what about a job? I don’t have any money. I can’t mooch off you forever.” “I don’t want that either.” Amanda turns around and hands me an envelope that was on the counter. “You were supposed to get this three weeks ago when you turned twenty-one.” Flipping the envelope, I questioningly glance at Amanda. “What is this?” “Open it up.” She nods at the envelope, not giving me any clue. I take no time finding out and tear the envelope open to find a check resting inside with my name on it for fifty thousand dollars. Eyes wide, mouth open, I ask, “What is this?” “I got one too when I turned twenty-one. Apparently the father we share thought it would be fitting to invest in us when we were young.” “This is mine? All of it?” “All yours, sweetie.” “But, I’ve never had money before,” I say in disbelief. Amanda chuckles as the door to their townhome opens. “Looks like we need to open a bank account then.” “I guess so.” I sit on the kitchen bar stool staring at my check when Matt walks into the kitchen, his tie loosened from around his neck, and the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. “That was a fun day,” Matt says with a sarcastic sigh, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a small drink container full of milk. From above the fridge, he grabs a giant tub of protein mix and starts scooping powder into his milk. “Hey, we are going to eat soon,” Amanda chastises.

“Don’t worry, honey, I plan on eating too. I have about fifteen hundred calories I still have to consume.” Matt has been trying to bulk up before the wedding. His plan is to pack on muscle and weight and then to shred two months before the wedding. Amanda thinks it’s ridiculous since he’s built like Zac Efron, and therefore meant to have a smaller frame. Now that I think about it, he looks like Zac Efron too, a man I’ve recently become familiar with thanks to the wonderful world of Google. Still reeling about the check in my hand and the opportunity to maybe join a program to help me explore, I ask Matt, “Not a good day?” “No,” he shakes his head. “Too much heavy shit for me.” Clearing her throat, Amanda asks, “Everything okay with, um, your player?” “No,” Matt shakes his head. “But I talked with the Hal, the General Manager, and the um, player,” Matt glances over at me, trying to be discreet, “he’s going to start that Dear Life program. He’s spent some time thinking about it ever since he made his decision, and we all agree it might be good for him. The front office is willing to accommodate any schedule the program brings. We just want him mentally healthy.” “The Dear Life program?” I ask, barging in on the conversation. “I think I’m going to join it as well.” “Really?” Matt asks, looking slightly confused. “Yeah.” I shrug. “I mean, I want a fresh start.” “I suggested it to her,” Amanda cuts in. “Hollyn is going to do it as well.” “Are you some kind of secret marketing guru for them?” Matt laughs. Turning the stove off, Amanda shakes her head. “No, I’ve just heard great things about it, okay?” Her tone makes me believe that maybe she might have taken the course herself. I hate that I don’t know my half-sister well enough to read her. That will be rectified. Glancing down at the tablet, I read more about the program. It’s all about writing letters, expressing your feelings, really putting yourself out there, exposing your inner demons and getting raw with the idea of facing your fears. This might be exactly what I need. At least I hope it is because right now, I know nothing of this world other than what my grams has told me. Already, after only a few days with Amanda and Matt, I’ve realized how extremely sheltered I’ve been. I’ve always been happy, never once did I feel neglected or like I was missing out on anything, but then again, that’s probably because I didn’t know what I was missing. And boy, have I been missing out on a lot. TV shows alone are blowing my mind, not to mention the gossip magazines, the access to anything by the touch of your phone—yeah, I just got a cell phone for the first time. No clue how it works. The world sits in the palm of your hand. I don’t blame my grams for sheltering me. I know she taught me what she knew, but now that I’m living with Amanda and seeing the abundance of opportunity right in front of me, I want to take advantage of it. I want to learn, I want to feel free. I want to live. Break free. And Dear Life sounds like it might just help me do that, along with the brilliant check from my estranged father. It’s funny, when one door closes, there really is another door open, ready and waiting for you. CARTER

This is my fucking nightmare. Literally, God popped out of his cushiony throne of clouds, decided to fuck with my sanity, and put me in this love-thyself group. Absolute nightmare. According to my uncle, I only have myself to blame for the reason I’m drinking stale coffee and sitting in a circle of sad and unfortunate souls. But I beg to differ. I have a few people to blame. First, I blame my asshat uncle for making it practically impossible to claw my way out from under his watchful and suffocating eye. Second, I blame Sasha, the evil bitch who stole all my money—and I’m not going to lie, a little piece of my heart—but I’m not going to get into those bullshit feelings right now. Third, I have Ryan to blame for getting in my way behind the grill, which led to an all-out brawl in the kitchen. I’ve told him time and time again to get the fuck out of my way but he didn’t listen. I made sure I got him out of my way myself, by punching the shit out of him. Not going to lie, the dude has a killer right hook because he blasted me a few times. And fourth, the final nail in the shittastic coffin I’m lying in right now belongs to Hollyn, my co-worker, the demanding waitress with the bright red hair. She suggested this godforsaken program to my uncle who jumped on the bandwagon immediately. Yesterday, I was brought into his office and offered up two opportunities: I could either attend this Dear Life program to completion so I can, as my uncle put it, get my life in shape, or I can continue to work at the restaurant but add three more years to my “sentence” to pay off the damages made during the fight. Three more years. No way. Three more years in the hell I’ve already been living in seems like a life sentence. That’s why I’m here, partaking in the infamous Dear Life program that’s been sweeping all the granola-headed, kumbuya freaks in the Denver area, stewing in my own hatred and anger. When I first arrived I spotted Hollyn, who annoyingly waved at me. Clearly not interested in talking to her since she is one of the reasons I’m here, I ignored her and grabbed some coffee. Now I wish I didn’t because my mouth tastes like a stale coffee-coated asshole. And to top it all off, I had to sign my life away when I walked into this dank church hall. Yeah, I had to not only sign a non-disclosure, but I also had to sign a contract stating I’ll attend every single meeting, follow through with the program, and write letters as described in the program leaflet. And if I don’t? This free program that’s offered is immediately switched over to something of cost. Yeah, if I decide to quit, I have to ante up one thousand, two hundred thirty-two dollars to the church we’re meeting at. Where they came up with that number I have no clue, but since I’m now broke, I have no way of paying my way out, not that I could because that would mean three more years at my uncle’s. How the fuck did my life spiral down so quickly? As I was told by the chipper debutante with her grossly high-styled hair at the front, the money portion is to ensure everyone entering the program is serious about it and committed. Little do they know, I will be skirting my way through the entire thing, ticking down the days until I’m done. Throwing the trash coffee out, I take a seat in the round circle—shoot me now—and stare down at my hands that are clasped in front of me. Right about now, I would be found being anti-social with my face buried in my phone, but of course, would you guess that they confiscated our phones when we first got here? Yeah, like I said, fucking nightmare.

“Is this seat taken?” a small voice asks from behind me. Glancing back, I see a blonde, porcelainskinned girl wearing a long-sleeve turtleneck with snowflakes decorating the fabric. Added to her appearance are frumpy, acid-washed overalls, creating a mom pouch in the front that I know she doesn’t have by the look of her petite frame. Yikes. The circle of chairs around the room are not quite full, she could have chosen a different seat, but I guess it’s better to sit next to snowflake than it is to sit next to the heavy breather marking his territory around the sugar packets. “Nah, go ahead,” I answer her, nodding my head at the chair. “Thanks.” Taking a seat, she turns toward me and holds out her hand. By her approach, I would say she’s outgoing and very social, but by the way her hand is shaking, my guess is this is all new to her. “I’m Daisy.” Daisy. Yup, the name fits her perfectly. Innocence brands her with her sweet smile, rosy cheeks, and wide blue eyes. Her milky complexion gives away her embarrassment. By the way she’s dressed like a seventy-year-old woman and twitches nervously, I’m guessing she’s more than just shy. She’s pretty though. Looking past the frumpy clothes and thirty-year-old clogs on her feet, she has a very beautiful face, a stark contrast to Sasha’s dark and strong features. And whereas Sasha would be hanging off my arm—all the confidence in the world when it comes to her sexual appeal—Daisy shows no signs of confidence, and what little she attempts to show comes off as complete and utter nerves. I wonder what she’s here for. No, scratch that. I’m not here to make friends or carry other people’s burdens on my shoulder. I’m here to listen, do the minimum, and get out. I don’t care what she’s here for. “Hey,” I nod, not wanting to make small talk. “Hey,” she answers back awkwardly. Pressing my lips together, I nod and turn away. Okay, that was uncomfortable. “Carter, I’m surprised to see you here,” Hollyn says as she struts toward me, her bright red hair smoothly hanging by her shoulders. I thought about asking her out before I started seeing Sasha but when I found out she was engaged, I kept my distance. And then when she lost her husband, I took an even bigger step back, not just because she was grieving, but because she turned into a raving bitch. I can’t stand the woman and can you guess it? She can’t stand me either. Maybe it’s the combination of two volatile people coming together that makes us rather explosive. My uncle knows better than to have us working the same shifts, and if we have to, we are separated as much as possible. Why he keeps her around, I have no clue. My guess: he feels sorry for her. “You know why I’m here,” I say back as she takes a seat next to Snowflake, who is fidgeting with the straps of her overalls. “Never thought your uncle would follow through with his threat.” She talks over Daisy who is awkwardly between us. “Bullshit,” I seethe. “You suggested this hoax of a program just to fuck with me. I’m just wondering why you’re doing it?” “If we can all take our seats, I would like to get started,” the lady from registration cuts in, putting an end to the short conversation between Hollyn and me. Leaning forward for a brief second to catch my eye, Hollyn says, “Just stay away from me.”

“Easy enough, I’d rather not catch the venom seeping from your pores anyway.” Hollyn rolls her eyes, huffs some retort under her breath I can’t quite hear, and leans back in her chair, arms crossed. Snowflake taps her feet on the ground, her hands on her thighs now, rubbing them nervously. “So, it seems like you two know each other,” she announces awkwardly. “Perceptive,” I mumble sarcastically as a man in a baseball cap and glasses sits next to me. His body is quite broad, taking up a lot of the space between our chairs. I find myself leaning closer to Snowflake so I don’t have to be kissing shoulders with the guy. “Welcome. My name is Marleen, and I’ll be your mediator for this course. Under your chairs you’ll find guidance packets for each and every one of you. These materials will help you through this program for the next few months. In there you’ll find pens, letters, envelopes, and a task booklet. Please do not lose these materials or share them, they are for you and you alone.” Everyone is bending over to reach for their packets so I do the same because, hell, I want to know what kind of free pen I get. Enter sarcasm here. “Oh, what lovely stationery,” Snowflake coos next to me, running her hand over the notepad found in the packet. A pocket full of sunshine, this one. “Since we have such a large group, we’re going to break off into smaller circles.” Well, isn’t that great. “I’ll section you off.” To my horror, Marleen starts grouping everyone together by where they are sitting. Mapping off the room in my head and the pattern Marleen is making, I realize I’ll be grouped with not only Snowflake, but Hollyn as well. “And you four,” Marleen says, pointing at the guy next to me, me, Snowflake, and Hollyn. Yup, just when I thought I’d hit rock bottom. “Now, within your groups, form little circles and introduce yourselves. Please remember the NDAs you signed earlier and be friendly, your group will also be your support circle.” Fantastic. Chairs scraping echo in the church hall as everyone forms their own intimate circles. I make no attempt to move, because I’m a dick like that, and force everyone to form around me. Awkwardly, we all shift our eyes from one another to see who’s going to start, everyone besides the guy in the baseball cap who doesn’t seem to want to interact just as much as me. “I guess I’ll start,” Snowflake says after a bout of silence. “Um, hi. My name is Daisy. Do we have to say why we’re here?” Marleen overhears Daisy’s question and answers, “That’s entirely up to you. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” “Oh.” Daisy acknowledges Marleen and turns back to us, her hands twisting in her lap. “Um, I’m here to start a new chapter.” Vague. Anyone could really say they’re here to start a new chapter but I won’t call her out on that because I will use the same bullshit line. Key to making it through this program . . . faking it. Looking around, Hollyn points at herself and asks, “My turn?” We don’t answer so instead she sits up in her chair and says, “I’m Hollyn.” We wait for her to continue but she doesn’t. “That’s it. I’m Hollyn. Move on.” From the corner of my eye, I can see Snowflake blush. Is she embarrassed for saying why she’s here

when Hollyn didn’t? Peeking up from under the bill of his hat, the stranger acknowledges our group for the first time. Recognition hits me before he can say his name. Jace Fucking Barnes, the shortstop for the Colorado Miners. No wonder they made us sign NDAs. “Hey, I’m Jace and I’m, uh,” he pulls on the bill of his hat clearly uncomfortable, “I’m in a bad place right now and need a way to get through it.” Visibly affected, he leans forward, hands clasped together, forearms resting on his legs, and his head down. Growing up in Denver my entire life, I’ve become a diehard fan for my local teams, the Colorado Miners being one of them. I watch as many games as I can and am immersed in each team, to the point that I know an embarrassing amount of information about the players. I know Jace is a pretty easy-going, fun guy. He’s a prankster and very casual in his interviews. However, that’s not the Jace I’m seeing right now. The Jace sitting next to me looks tortured. What the hell could he be going through? “Your turn,” Hollyn rudely says in my direction. Her arms are crossed over her chest, radiating bitch vibes. Slouching in my chair, I take a casual stance and say, “I’m Carter, and I can’t wait to write some fucking letters.” From the corner of my eye, I see Jace nod his head, a slight chuckle in his shoulders. Hollyn and Snowflake look less than thrilled by my comment. Snowflake seems like she wants to shrink into her illfitting overalls. “I hope you’ve had time to introduce yourselves,” Marleen cuts in with a clap of her hands. “You will become well acquainted with one another over the next few months, leaning on one another for support and guidance.” “Great,” Hollyn mutters under her breath, eyeing me up and down. Feeling is mutual, sister. Getting serious, Marleen folds her hands in front of herself and says, “We are all here for a reason, whether you want to talk about it now or not, that’s up to you and your comfort level. But you are here to make a change, to explore something new, to find acceptance for your past, and create a new future.” God, I’m so not interested in this right now. For the next half hour, Marleen lays out the groundwork for the program, what we should expect and what’s expected from us. There will be a series of challenges we must complete and write about—joy— and we’re required to attend all meetings. Marleen continues, “The point of this program is to address what life has given you, the cards you’ve been dealt. It’s not about complaining about what you’re going through, but about accepting it and making the most of the life you have. Living life with a purpose, proving your existence.” She pauses and looks around the room. Emphasizing her words, she repeats, “Prove your existence. That’s your new motto to live by. What did you do today to prove your existence, what are you doing tomorrow to prove your existence in this world?” Prove my existence. Isn’t that ironic. That’s what I’m fucking trying to do, but my uncle is making it practically impossible to do so with his low pay and overbearing eye. And thanks to Sasha . . . Continuing, Marleen says, “Proving your existence every day isn’t about making a grand gesture, or

achieving a goal, it’s about the small things. It’s about getting out of bed, living in the positive, and making the most of the life you’ve been blessed with. Today, you proved your existence by coming to this program, by taking a leap into the unknown, by meeting new people. Tomorrow, it may be something as simple as writing a letter to life. Proving your existence is about the intent of taking one smaller step toward your goals in life.” Glancing around the room with her hands clasped in front of her and a sincere look on her face, she says, “I know why some of you are here. I know the struggle you may be enduring, the depression you might be in, or the nervousness of the unknown.” Marleen looks at Snowflake for a second and then addresses the room again. “Whatever brings you here today, be sure to know, you’re not in this alone.” Beside me, Snowflake nods her head, as if what Marleen is preaching is hitting her straight to the soul. Hmm, she wants to start a new chapter. Despite not wanting to be emotionally invested in anything, I can’t help but be curious. What is going through Snowflake’s mind? Whatever affected her can’t be that drastic. She’s far too simple and sheltered to have experienced true hard knocks. “Today isn’t about fixing anything though,” Marleen says, pacing the room, her one-inch heels clicking across the lacquered floors. “Today is about grieving. Today is about accepting why you’re here and being mad about it. Today is the one day in this program that you’re allowed to be angry, to lash out, to allow the pain you’ve been carrying around to seep from your soul and onto the paper in front of you. Through the course of this program, you’ll be writing to life, explaining your thoughts and feelings, like a journal. It will be a cathartic experience for those truly invested in this program.” Clapping her hands together, the sound echoing through the sterile cinder-block walls of the room, she adds, “It’s time to grieve. Leave it all out on the paper. Take this moment and let go of the worries, the fears, the demons. Lay it all out. Because the point of this program is to move on, to create anew, but you can never truly and freely move on until you fully feel your anger. Let your anger consume you, let it eat you up and then write it all out, leak it onto the paper. Take your time, and when you’re done, drop off your letters into the box up front.” What? We don’t keep the letters? Who wants some random person reading their letters? And who the hell has the job of reading them? “Don’t worry,” Marleen continues. “Your letters won’t be touched. They are sealed by you and will stay sealed.” Well, that solves that small panic. Thank fuck. “For the rest of the evening, you are welcome to talk to your group or just write your letters. Either way, I want you to bundle the anger you’ve been harboring and bleed it out. Please be sure to see your goal for the upcoming weeks and be prepared for the next meeting. If you have any questions, you have my contact information in the folder.” With that, Marleen tends to her desk where she sits down and starts sifting through the NDAs. Other groups begin to quietly chat while our circle sits in silence. “Um, can I say something?” Snowflake chimes in as we all stare at the blank gender-neutral stationery in front of us. No one answers her but we do give her our attention. “I haven’t really been exposed to many social settings, so this is incredibly uncomfortable for me, and I might be a little off-base when I say this, but I’m going to go for it anyway.” Turning to Jace she says, “From the darkness in your eyes, I have a feeling you’re really going through something heavy, and Hollyn, it’s obvious that you’re hurting from

how closed off you are.” Turning to me she flippantly says, “And it’s obvious you don’t want to be here for who knows what reason, but I want to be here. I want to make a change, so instead of all of us sulking and being closed off, why don’t we make a pact now. Let this program be our New Year’s resolution. Let’s hold each other accountable and take this program seriously because if anything, we can at least appreciate the need for something to change in our lives.” Isn’t she just adorable with her go-get-’em attitude? The girl has a lot to learn. I’m about to say something sarcastic when Jace sits back in his chair and nods his head. “She’s right. If we’re going to be here, let’s make the most of it.” Come on, Jace. “I’m in,” Hollyn says with a shrug of her shoulder, looking slightly excited but trying not to show it. No surprise there, she likes to jump on the bandwagon. Looking around the circle, I ask, “Is this where we all put our hands in the middle and cheer?” “Don’t be a dick, Carter,” Hollyn chastises. I smirk, pen poised on my stationery. “I’m not, just a wondering mind, that’s all.” “So it’s settled?” Snowflake asks, hope in her eyes. “We’re going to do it? Our New Year’s resolution?” “Yes,” Hollyn and Jace say together. Everyone turns to me, waiting for my answer. Knowing I have no way of getting out of this, I succumb. “I guess so.” “Yay!” Snowflake cheers and then pulls out her cell phone. “Now I just got this the other day so I don’t know how to use it, but let’s pass our phones around so we can get each other’s phone numbers, then let’s write our letters.” Shit no. And here I thought working for my uncle was hell. *** Dear Life, It’s time to grieve. What does that even mean? As if I wasn’t allowed to grieve before? I’ve been grieving for almost two years. It’s time to be mad. Well, too late for that. I’m past mad and downright pissed off. Why do you ask, Life? Let’s see, I was married to the love of my life for a year, A YEAR before you took him away from me. Before your grand scheme of shitty plans took hold of my heart and snapped it in half. How is that fair? How is it all right to let rapists and murderers and shitty people walk around this earth unscathed but then someone like my husband, a man who committed his life to serve, you let him die? You took him away. Tell me, please, how is that fair? Oh, but sure, Petey Pedophile next door gets to live on and eat Rice-a-Roni on a daily basis while playing with his N64 because he can’t seem to afford anything else. Yup, thanks, Life, you sure know how to be fair. Thumbs up, pat on the back . . . thanks. Sincerely, Hollyn Dear Life,

Gosh, I’ve never written a letter to you before, so I might be a little awkward at first. Um, in case you didn’t know, I’m Daisy. Grams raised me and taught me everything I know. Ask me anything about musicals, go ahead, I dare ya. I will blow your mind with my knowledge. But when it comes to being social and “hip,” oh gosh, I’m so out of it. I know nothing when it comes to today’s life. Computers, cell phones, Panera, trampoline gyms . . . I had no clue any of this existed. There is so much out there that I’ve never experienced and it makes me sad. I’m twenty-one. I’ve never had a drink, I’ve never really had a friend besides Grams, and I’ve never known what it’s like to hold a man’s hand. I’m a hermit, a lost soul in a sea of modernized civilization. Life, you’ve sheltered me and I’ve had enough. I want to be a part of the world today. I will be a part of the world today. Goodbye past, hello future! Kind regards, Daisy Dear Life, Not much to say, not much to feel, not much to do. I’m an empty fucking vessel right now. No heart, no soul, no legs to stand on. You gave me a daughter, a DAUGHTER. A little girl full of so much love that it makes my heart bleed just thinking of her hand that so briefly wrapped around my finger. But I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t give her what she needs. I couldn’t be the parent she deserves, so I gave her up. I let her go. I gifted my soul to two women, hoping and praying they take care of her. I know they will. But, it cuts me deep . . . knowing I can’t be the one who kisses her goodnight, the one to brush her hair in the morning, or the one she clings to when she’s tired. I will never be that person. I will instead watch her from a distance, a mere observer rather than a participator. Life, you gave me a daughter when I wasn’t fucking ready. I wasn’t fucking ready. Jace Dear Life, Fuck you. Carter

Step Two: Let Go JACE

Ten unread text messages burning a hole in my phone. Ten messages with attached pictures. Ten messages I have no intent on opening anytime soon. But I can’t get myself to delete them either. Not when I so desperately want to look at them. What kind of psychotic mental episode is that? I want to see the pictures but I refuse to look at them? Pretty sure Dear Life won’t be able to help me figure out my backward-thinking psychosis. I’m almost positive no one would be able to. And yet, here I am, staring down at my phone, ten unread messages from June all containing pictures of Hope. I kind of wish she’d stop sending them, that the agreement we finalized with the lawyer wasn’t so open, that I was forced to wonder more about Hope than actually be able to see her. I don’t deserve that privilege, even though I know she is in good hands. “Hey, are you going to eat this?” Ethan asks from my kitchen, sniffing a pizza box he just pulled out of the fridge. “No, have at it.” Peeking in, he fists pumps the air. “No olives, that’s my man.” Taking a huge bite of cold pizza, he asks, “So how was your class the other night?” “It wasn’t a class.” “Okay . . . how was your thing the other night?” “All right. Not really sure how it’s going to help me.” With a mouthful, Ethan plops on the couch next to me, shifting the cushion up and down and asks, “Why do you think that?” I shrug, not quite sure. I left the gathering the other night feeling lackluster, as if nothing changed. I knew going into it that nothing was going to immediately differ from what I’m doing now, but I thought maybe I would feel a little different after leaving. Maybe a little lighter, like the world wasn’t trying to bury me alive. I didn’t feel anything. Actually, that’s not true. Driving home, after writing that letter, I felt angry, mad, pissed off at the world. At Life. I feel the same way even now, a few days later. Exposing myself like that, letting myself dive deep into my feelings, it wasn’t freeing. It was constraining, trapping me in a suffocating, self-imposed hell of a box that I can’t seem to find my way out of. “Just don’t feel much different.” Ethan scoffs. “You’re such a millennial.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Shoving another piece of pizza in his mouth, he leans back on the couch and assesses me, giving me the once-over. Pointing his half-eaten pizza at me, he says, “You’re all about instant gratification. Believe me, when it comes to the opposite sex, instant gratification is a train I want to be riding on, but when it comes to problems you might be facing, shit can’t just wash away that quickly. Especially the kind of trauma you’re going through.” Leaning forward, his face morphs into something sober, resolute. “Man, you gave up your baby.” “I know.” I stand and run my hand through hair. “I know what happened, okay? I don’t need to be reminded.” “Maybe you do,” Ethan replies. Setting down his pizza, he stands with me. “Jace, you made a huge sacrifice, one of the biggest sacrifices a person can make. You have to give yourself time to heal.” “It’s not that easy. I wish I could just forget everything, but it’s impossible. Every fucking morning, when I wake up, it feels like I have a three-hundred-pound man sitting on my chest, making it practically impossible to breathe. And when I do get out of bed and out of my place, I have to face the world. You can’t believe the amount of people who actually have babies. You never notice them until you’re missing yours. It’s a fucking punch to the gut every time I see someone carrying their baby, walking them in a stroller, making them giggle. It’s like everyone in Denver with a baby decided to make my life a living hell by following me around everywhere. It’s torture.” I throw my hands up in the air, gesturing to my surroundings. “This life is torture.” I never thought I’d know this type of pain. “Damn. I’m sorry, man. I wish I could relate, I really do.” The ring of my cell phone cuts me off before I can answer him. Sighing, I pull it out of my pocket and see June’s number pop up. What could she be calling for? “Uh, it’s Hope’s adoptive parents,” I say awkwardly. Ethan holds up his hands. “Say no more. I’ll get out of here. Call me if you need me. You know I’m here for you.” I nod and answer the phone. “Hey, June. Is everything okay?” “Yes, hi, Jace.” June’s voice seems weak, quiet as she talks. “I know we’re to only call for important things.” She almost sounds like she’s been crying. “But I had to hear your voice.” “You can call me whenever you need, June.” I really don’t mean this but when I feel uncomfortable, I say anything to try to make the situation better. The fact that she’s calling me right now has me on edge, like my life is about to fall apart with her next sentence. “I appreciate that.” Sniffing, she continues, “I just . . . Ugh, I’m not doing well, Jace.” The hairs on the back of my neck stick straight up in the air, warning lights threading their way into my brain, and my stomach starts to churn at a rapid rate, making it impossible to swallow the sudden tidal wave of saliva in my mouth. Taking a deep breath, I ask, “What’s going on? Is everything okay with Hope, with Alex?” “Yeah,” her voice becomes quieter. “Alex actually doesn’t know I’m calling you. She would be furious with me, but I had to talk to you, Jace. I haven’t been able to stop crying. I can’t stop thinking about the look on your face when you handed Hope over to us, the pure devastation in your eyes. It’s slowly eating away at me.” “You and me both, June,” I answer honestly.

Tightness clamps her voice. I can hear her tears and feel her pain through the phone. It’s the same pain I’ve suppressed for the last few days. “I took your baby, Jace.” Her voice cracks. “I stood in that hospital room and took your baby away from you. She isn’t mine, she’s yours. I can’t . . .” Her pain sears me through the phone. “I can’t be the mother you want me to be, the mother she deserves. She doesn’t belong to me.” “June,” I say in a tortured voice. “Stop.” Taking a deep breath, I collect myself, making sure to hold back anything that might further upset her. Between the both of us, she needs to be the well-composed one, so I can’t set her off any more than she already is. “Remember the first time we had dinner together? You told me all about how you’ve felt deep down in your soul that you were meant to be a mom one day? How you knew you were put on this earth to mother, to nurture? Are you telling me those feelings have changed?” “No,” she sobs into the phone. “Then what’s changed?” I swallow hard, the next words leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. “Hope was meant to be with you and Alex. If I didn’t believe that, I would never have handed her over.” “It’s just . . .” she pauses, a sniff coming from her, “watching you say goodbye, seeing the total desolation in your face when you gave her to us, it’s broken me, Jace. It’s stuck with me to the point that every time I look at Hope, all I see are the tears in your eyes and the regret in your face.” “There’s no regret,” I say quickly, surprising myself ever so slightly with the confession. “Fuck, am I sad? Yeah. Do I wake up, hating every aspect of my life? I do, I won’t lie to you about that. But do I regret helping you become a mom? Do I regret seeing the pure joy on Alex’s and your faces when you said hello to your daughter for the first time? I don’t. Those memories, the meaning behind the connection we’ve made, that’s what’s getting me through each and every day. Please, June, please don’t take that sliver of happiness away from me. Believe me when I say, you didn’t take my baby, you’ve blessed me . . .” I choke on my own tears, trying to find the right words. Blessed. The thought never really came to me until just now, until talking to June. Blessed. Is that really what this bond with June and Alex is? A blessing? Taking a deep breath, I say, “You’ve blessed me with the comfort in knowing that I’ve made the right decision. You and Alex, fuck, you’re perfect for Hope. I only wish I was as lucky as her growing up.” An empty childhood in a run-down foster home with a lack of warm arms to welcome me home. I would have given anything to have people like June and Alex as parents. “I think it’s going to take time,” June replies after a short silence. “This might sound strange, but I feel like I’m mourning your loss, that I’m carrying the weight of my emotions as well as yours on my shoulders. And I never thought I would feel that in adopting.” “No need to carry mine, June. Move on and enjoy your new family.” I take a deep breath and say, “I hate to cut this short but I have to take off.” “Oh . . . no problem,” she stumbles. “I’m sorry if I bothered you, I didn’t know who else to talk to. Alex doesn’t like to talk about it. She’s harboring her feelings right now and no one else I know has even remotely gone through the same thing we did. I know it’s been exponentially harder on you, but you’re the only person I could relate to. I’m sorry if I was out of line contacting you.” I press my fingers in my brow, wishing I wasn’t having this conversation with June, because every

word that comes from her mouth makes me feel guilty. Why the hell do I feel guilty? Maybe because I want to lash out at her right now. But why? Because she’s struggling with carrying my grief? That’s not something I should be mad at her for. Shit, that’s something I should be relieved about. It shows the kind and caring heart she has. “You aren’t out of line, June. Please don’t think that. I’m just going to need some time, you know?” A sniff comes from the other line on the phone. “I understand.” “Give it time as well,” I add, hating that she’s still sad. “It will get better. Don’t worry about me. I couldn’t be happier that you and Alex are raising Hope. I know you will do an amazing job. I definitely made the right choice. I just need to mourn the loss of being her father.” “Jace,” June gasps. “You will always be her father.” Funny thing, I really won’t be. I’ll be her birth father. There’s a difference. After some quick and rather uncomfortable goodbyes, I hang up the phone, emotionally exhausted. Grieve. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing right now. I feel like I went through the five stages of grief in the short amount of time it took to talk to June. The only stage left: depression. Is that what Dear Life wants? For us to grieve through the five stages? If so, this is some convoluted program because I feel like total and utter shit. Yup, not one ounce of me feels remotely better. If that’s what’s supposed to happen, then mission accomplished. CARTER “What the hell are you doing back here?” I ask Hollyn, who has a smarmy look on her face. Without a word, she plops a plate in front of me from the dining room. “Steak isn’t well done.” “That’s because steak should never be well done.” “Funny thing is,” Hollyn places a thoughtful finger to her chin, “the customer couldn’t care less about how you prefer steak to be prepared. They asked for it well done, not a, what did they say?” She thinks for a second and then says, “Ah yes, they didn’t ask for a bleeding heart on their plate.” “Bleeding heart?” Flipping a fork in my hand and grabbing a knife, I examine the steak that barely has any pink in the center. “They’re calling this a bleeding heart? I can show them a bleeding heart if that’s what they really want.” I wipe my hands on the rag attached to my hip and make my way away from the grill, soft threats at the tip of my tongue. “Fix the steak,” my uncle’s voice booms in the kitchen, his eyes glaring at me. “There’s nothing wrong with the steak. It’s actually overdone,” I argue. Gesturing a hand toward the dining room, I ask, “Do you really want customers thinking you’re handing out lumps of charcoal on plates instead of steak?” “Fix the steak,” he repeats, with malice. “What the fuck ever.” I give up, grab the steak off the plate and set it on the grill. Who orders a well done steak? What’s the point? Why even have steak if you’re not going to eat it medium well. I bet Bobby Flay doesn’t have to deal with this shit. If someone asks for well done, he probably demands they leave his restaurant. Not my uncle. It’s all about the customer and not the food. Which of course burns my already bitter soul. I went to school to learn how to appreciate the subtle combinations of foods and the bold flavors

you can pull from them. I learned to masterfully create meals that are not only appealing to the eye, but burst with flavor on your tongue. Think my uncle would allow me to put any of my knowledge to practice? No. He thinks serving the same Italian shit he’s been serving for the past twenty years is okay. Who wants to be just okay? I sure as hell don’t. I want to be extraordinary. I want to be known for thinking outside the box, for challenging people’s taste buds, for pushing their limits and comfort zones. Think of Remy from Ratatouille, how he immediately falls in love with the perfect, fresh ingredients and the plethora of combinations you can make. That’s me. Now if only I could break free of these shackles, to escape the debt looming over me. And I was so damn close. Until life kicked me on the tip of my dick, laughed, and then walloped me in the balls just to make sure I was paying attention to my misfortune, filling me with so much goddamn anger, I can barely breathe. “Any day now would be great, Carter,” Hollyn speaks over the warming lamps. And if my misfortune wasn’t bad enough, now for some reason, my uncle thought it would be a good idea to pair Hollyn and me on some of our shifts. My guess, because we’re taking the same shitty, my-lifesucks-so-help-me program. As if spending an unnecessary amount of time sitting in a circle, holding hands, and talking about our problems wasn’t enough time with the woman, yes, let’s add some shifts as well. Picking up the steak with my tongs, I plop it on its original plate and say, “There, the moo-er should be dead now. If they send it back again, I’m pube-ing the shit out of the thing.” “Mature,” Hollyn scoffs at me, flipping her hair and walking away, plate held high. God, I can’t stand her. “You two seem to get along,” Marcus, my fellow line cook, says as he flips a few steaks on the stained grill. Can you guess what the special was for tonight? Steak. Uncle Chuck got a deal on some steaks, decided to pair it with mashed potatoes and broccoli . . . at an Italian restaurant. There is nothing Italian about that. Might as well go to Red Lobster and order chicken. Not even bothering to look over at Marcus, I say, “Can’t stand her.” “Because she made you go to that weird program?” Of course Marcus would find out. Nothing is a secret around here. “Who did you hear that from?” “Hollyn. She was telling everyone about how you were sulking the whole time at the meeting.” “Yeah?” I ask, my anger starting to boil over. The faint sound of my teeth grinding together fills my ears, drowning out any sense of reasoning. “Yeah. Seems like you’re really getting a chance to reach deep down and express your feelings.” The laugh that follows his statement ticks off any last hold I have on reining myself in. Getting in his face, I ask, “What’s wrong with a man expressing his feelings? I bet a sensitive man gets way more pussy than some closed-off, video-game-playing deadbeat like you.” “Get the fuck out of my face,” Marcus replies, shoving me with his meaty hand. “Make me.” Pushing my luck, I bump him with my chest, egging the fucker on, begging and praying for a brawl. I would give anything to lay this dickhead out, anything to ease the tension coiling rapidly inside

me. But before Marcus can reciprocate, Uncle Chuck rips me back by the shoulder, sending me into the counter behind me. With a beet-red face, he snaps at me, “Office, now.” “Not unless you make her go too,” I say, my uncle knowing exactly who I’m talking about. This isn’t just my battle, it’s Hollyn’s too. Looking me in the eyes, he says, “Ashley, cover for Hollyn for a few minutes and send her back to my office, now.” Raising a brown eyebrow at me, he says, “Move.” Even though Uncle Chuck doesn’t particularly scare me, I move toward his office, flipping my tongs onto the counter because his face looks almost purple from anger, and I don’t want to be the reason he has a heart attack. The walk from the kitchen to his office is short, just down a narrow corridor with walls stained by spaghetti sauce and dirt. The restaurant is disgusting, barely passing health inspections with its dirty walls, sticky floors, and out-of-date machinery. It’s a less than desirable kitchen to work in. I barely have enough time to take a seat when Hollyn comes barreling into the office as well, her eyes a little wild with concern. From behind us, Uncle Chuck shuts the door and then takes his seat behind the metal desk covered in spreadsheets and order forms. How the hell does he get any work done in this mess? “Care to explain what that was back there in the kitchen?” Uncle Chuck asks me with his arms crossed over his chest. Turning to Hollyn, I say, “I don’t know. Hollyn, care to take a stab at the reason why you’re ignoring the NDA you signed at the Dear Life program and telling everyone we work with about how I interacted at our first meeting?” The girl may think she’s snarky and clever but at this moment, she knows I caught her and I caught her good. Searching my eyes, cluing in to her mistake, she says, “Uh, I . . .” “Don’t answer that question,” Uncle Chuck cuts in and then looks at me. “I don’t care about Hollyn’s discussion of the program, I care about your piss-poor attitude toward other coworkers.” Oh come the fuck on. Is he delusional? I’ve always been a miserable ass to work with. This is old news. Letting the anger take over, I say, “It’s bad enough I have to do this program, I don’t need her telling everyone about my personal life.” Uncle Chuck plays with a pencil on his desk, a knowing smile on his face. “Don’t worry, boy, everyone here knows about your desperate life. Keep picking fights and it’s never going to change.” “What is your dire need to keep me by your side?” I seethe. Sitting in the crossfire, Hollyn stays silent, leaning back in her chair with one leg crossed over the other. “Are you trying to make me as miserable as possible?” “You’re doing that on your own. I’m just taking what I deserve.” “What you deserve?” A sardonic laugh escapes me. “What exactly do you deserve?” The weight of his body causes his chair to squeak as he leans back, testing the hinges stability. “More than what you can offer. I took you in, I sheltered you, fed you, and helped put you through school. I’m just cashing in on all the IOUs you tossed in my direction.”

Fucking prick. “Funny, I never remember setting up any IOUs. When my parents died, you became my legal guardian. If I had any say in it, I would have gone into foster care. At least I’d be free now instead of paying back some old debt you insist upon me owing you.” Anger beseeches him. “If you went to foster care, you would never be the man you are today.” “You’re right,” I shoot back. “I would be a better man because I would have made a life for myself instead of living the life you want me to. You want me here in the restaurant, cooking your tasteless, generic food because you’re too lazy to get behind the grill anymore. You need me and you’re holding my future, corked up in a fucking bottle because you’re too much of a selfish asshole to let me go on my own.” “You ungrateful little shit. I’ve given you everything—” “You’ve given me nothing!” I shout, startling Hollyn next to me. I speak through a curtain of anger and pain. “If you were half the man you wished you were, I wouldn’t be living in a drafty converted warehouse, living on one, maybe two meals a day, saving every fucking penny of mine so I can finally repay you and leave this hellhole.” “The man I wished I was? You have no idea the struggle and sacrifice I’ve made to get to where I am today: a proprietor, a man with a successful business.” A dark laugh escapes me. “A proprietor? You’re delusional. You’re serving up tasteless recipes created by a mediocre, bitter man with no heart, no compassion for a boy who was scared from losing both his parents. You did nothing to make life better for me and you continue to do the same, repressing me because you’re too depressed about the turnout of your empty and lonely life.” A slight gasp escapes Hollyn but I couldn’t care less. I want her to see the kind of man my uncle is. Everyone in the restaurant thinks he’s a cool guy who pals around with his employees, but really he’s a sadistic man with a vendetta against me because my father was his brother, the brother he despised, the brother who overdosed one fateful afternoon, leaving him with a nephew he never wanted. Cheeks puffed in rage, mouth clamping together, his eyes blazing with disdain in my direction, he slowly says, “I suggest you get the fuck out of my sight before I double your debt. And if I hear you picking fights with anyone else in this restaurant, I will pull you from the program, make you pay the fine, and then triple the money you owe me. Don’t fuck with me, boy.” Not even acknowledging his threat, I stand and storm out of his office, slamming the door shut, not caring if it flies into Hollyn. A good bitch slap from my uncle’s office door might do her some good. Hell, she’s the reason I lost it. She’s the reason I had my future threatened once again. Every little nuisance, inconvenience, unwelcomed interaction piles onto the already billowing and bustling indignation building inside of me, and there is only so much I can take before I crumble, breaking in half. I’m fucking teetering on the edge, my sanity in the balance. Blocking out the rest of the world, I get back to work, searing steak after steak on the grill, thinking back to my first class at Dear Life. Grieve. What exactly am I supposed to grieve here? The loss of my money, of my girlfriend, or the fact that every day, my lifelong goal seems farther and farther away? I used to think one day, I would have my own place, my own kitchen with a sous-chef and a dining

room filled to taste my concoctions, but now, all I can envision is a crummy life behind this grill, porking out like my uncle, and not caring an ounce about balding. Apart from my tattoo-decorated arms, I’d be an exact replica of my uncle. Fuck me. Thanks, Life. You’re a real peach. Once again, note the sarcasm. DAISY “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?” “I’m fine, stop fussing and come sit down.” Grams pats the seat next to her on the couch beneath the window in her room. The Colorado sun beams through the soft, gauzy drapes, bringing in warmth on the chilly, wintery day. Winter in Colorado is tolerable, beautiful actually. Snowcapped mountains, brisk air awakens your senses, and the sun lights up the bright blue sky, a complete contrast to the dreary winters you see in movies. “Are you sure there is nothing I can get you?” I ask, taking a seat next to her. “No, I’m fine, dearie. Now,” she crosses her hands on her lap and assesses me, “tell me about this marvelous vest you’re wearing.” With pride, I smooth down the creation I just finished making before I came to visit Grams. “It’s an ode to your favorite quilt vest,” I say with pride. “I’ve always admired your blue, yellow, and white quilted vest with the flower fabric and decided to make myself one. It didn’t take me long. Did I do a good job?” Even though I’m considered an adult, I still look for my gram’s approval. “It’s lovely. The mauve and dirty-blue tones you used are quite fetching.” “I thought so as well. It matches my slacks perfectly.” Before I left Amanda’s townhouse, I donned one of my best outfits since I’ll be attending a Dear Life meeting tonight. Wanting to impress, I put on my Alfred Dunner blue slacks, cream turtleneck, and my newly finished quilt vest. I looked in the mirror before I left and I had to admit, the colors faired very well together. “You’re stitching has really improved over the years. I’m impressed.” “Thanks, Grams.” I glance around her room, taking in the subtle touches she’s made to it with some of her decorations, pictures, and afghans. “The place is looking really nice. Are you liking it here?” “I am. I wish I had a bigger room, but this will do. The women here are quite lovely. Very progressive.” “Progressive? Really? In what way?” “I don’t know if it’s appropriate to talk about.” Her cheeks blush ever so slightly. “Come on, Grams, you can tell me anything. Don’t hold back now.” Sighing, she leans forward, glances at her door for anyone who might come through and then says, “I’ve fallen to peer pressure.” A giggle escapes me. What kind of peer pressure could there be in a senior living community? Crazy puzzling? Wheelchair Olympics? Eating with no dentures? Look out! Holding back my smile, I ask, “What kind of peer pressure?” “Well, there is a book club here and every two weeks, we discuss the selected book.” “That seems like fun.” “That’s what I thought, until they gave me my first book to read.” Blushing some more, she says, “It was

Fifty Shades of Grey.” Not really aware of any kind of pop-culture. I ask, “What’s that? A fabric book? If it is, I would like to get my hands on it. I’ve had some trouble finding the perfect grey for this quilt I’ve been working on. The patterns I keep finding aren’t mixing well with my other choices so if this book has any suggestions, that would be awesome.” Shaking her head, Grams leans forward some more and whispers, “It’s erotic romance.” Eyebrows shooting straight to my hairline, my cheeks blush and I say on a squeak, “Erotic romance? Like . . . sex?” Nodding with her eyes wide she confirms. “Yes, sex. And oh boy, there’s a lot.” “Grams.” I blush some more, unable to form words, my hands on my cheeks. “I know. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I thought it was a book about a nice college girl interviewing a businessman until contracts start to be talked of and kisses happen in elevators. Then before you know it,” Grams wings her hands in the air freely, “penises are flying about and tampons are being pulled out.” Fanning herself, she continues, “I’ve been quite educated.” “Oh goodness. That seems . . . interesting. I guess it’s not about fabric.” “Not unless you want to talk about the kind of silk to blindfold a submissive.” “Submissive?” My brow pulls together. Patting my lap, she says, “Don’t worry about it, dearie. But I must say, I’ve enjoyed the tales this E.L. James weaves. Makes me feel young again.” “Well, I guess that’s a good thing.” She nods with pride. “It is. And get this, there are movies that correspond with the books.” “Movies?” I ask incredulously. “Sex movies, like,” I bring my voice to a whisper, “like those porn videos you always warned me about?” “Oh no, honey. Not like those porn videos, this has a storyline. There is a big difference.” “But, do you see—?” “The sex?” she interrupts. “Well, you don’t see male genitalia if that’s what you’re asking.” “Wait.” I hold up my hand, completely and utterly confused by the conversation I’m having with my ultra-conservative Catholic grandma who watched nothing but musicals and old videotapes of Irish dancers, and the occasional soap opera, but she always turned it off when things got heated. “Have you watched these movies?” “There’s only one out right now and yes, I have. It was for the experience. Remember when we were reading Pride and Prejudice together for your homeschooling and I would play pieces of the Pride and Prejudice featuring the beautiful Colin Firth for you to better understand the old language?” “Yeah,” I answer skeptically, unsure where she’s going with this. “Well, it’s kind of like that. We watched the movie to confirm what we envisioned in the book. But I must say, there was a lot missing from the movie. Oh Hollywood, always destroying the written word.” Nodding, very uncomfortably and starting to sweat in my cream turtleneck, I ask, “So you didn’t like it?” “Oh no,” she admonishes. “I enjoyed it very much. That Christian Grey, yowee, he’s a looker. And now I have this big fear looming over my head.” “What kind of fear?”

“Well, the girls in the book club and I have read all the books, but the movies are taking quite some time to come out.” “Are you afraid they won’t finish them?” She shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid I might die before I’m able to see Christian in action for all the movies.” “Grams! Don’t say things like that.” “I’m serious. What if I die before I get to see all the Fifty movies? How unfair would that be?” I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. My grams, the woman who told me that showing cleavage is unladylike, that has sworn me away from anything sexual my entire life, is talking about how she’s scared she might die before seeing all of her erotic romance movies. Who is this person and what did she do with my grams? “Uh, I really don’t know how to respond to that.” “Understandable.” She pats my hand. “It’s a hard notion to comprehend. Don’t worry, I’ll hold strong for Christian.” Isn’t that a relief. My grams is living for this Christian fella. Here I thought she might want to keep living for me. “So, tell me how you’re fitting in with Amanda and her fiancé.” “They’re very nice. They’ve really welcomed me into their home, which I appreciate. They have a pretty big townhouse, at least big compared to our old two-bedroom apartment. I have my own room and bathroom.” “Oh, how nice.” “Yeah, and there is enough space in my bedroom for me to set up my craft table. That’s why I was able to finish my vest. They also have cable. I’ve dabbled in a few shows but nothing has really caught my interest until Amanda introduced me to the Hallmark channel. Oh Grams, you would love the delightful movies on this channel.” “Romance?” she asks with a raised eyebrow. I blush. She knows I’m that girl who loves love. From the early musicals I’ve watched, to some of the I Love Lucy episodes I’ve fawned over, I’ve always enjoyed the love storylines. Girl meets boy, they fall in love, boy loses girl and then boy gets girl back with a grand gesture. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be one of those girls, to experience a man fawning over them, doing anything possible to win their heart. Would he sing me a song like Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain, would he propose to me out of the blue like in Meet Me in St. Louis, or would he get stupid drunk over my love like in There’s No Business like Show Business? Would it even happen for me? Answering her question, I say, “Yes, there is romance in the movies. All innocent, nothing like the books and movies you speak of.” “I’ll have to check out this Hallmark channel. We have cable here too.” “You’ll love it.” Pausing for a second, I bite my bottom lip and say, “I also joined this program down at the church.” “Program? Like volunteering?” “No.” I shake my head, unsure how to approach this topic. Why do I feel nervous telling her about Dear Life? Maybe because she’s one of the reasons I’m taking

it. How do I tell her that I need to learn how to live in the real world without insulting her? “Then what is it, dearie? It’s not some druggie thing, is it?” “No.” I chuckle. “Believe me, I would never do anything like that. It’s a program called Dear Life.” “Dear life? Sounds interesting. What’s it about?” Taking a deep breath, I say, “It’s a program to help you learn how to live.” Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?” Nervously, I twist my hands on my lap, trying to find the right words. “Well, since I’ve been living with Amanda, I’ve realized there is a lot I don’t know. It’s kind of a culture shock since they live so differently from the way I did. I’m sure you experienced the same shock when you moved into community living.” Her face lightens, understanding crosses her features. “Yes, it was quite startling at first, but I’ve adjusted.” “So you understand where I’m coming from. There is so much going on in the world I had no idea about. It’s quite overwhelming. And to be honest, I’m not as outgoing as you. I would never be able to walk up to a group of women and ask to be in their book club, let alone discuss an erotic romance with others. I wish I was as brave as you.” I don’t notice my face is cast down until Grams grips my chin and forces me to look her in the eyes. “You’re brave, dearie. You just have to find that bravery within you. So, is this program helping you find the new you?” Slightly relieved, I nod. “Yeah, you could put it that way. So far I’ve attended one meeting, and I have the second tonight. That’s where I’m heading once I leave here.” “That’s wonderful. Have you met anyone yet at these meetings? Made any friends?” “Not really.” My lips quirk to the side in disappointment. “I actually think I’m in a dud group.” “Why?” Sitting back, I recollect my first meeting. “We were sectioned off into groups, based on where we were sitting. I happened to be sitting next to the guy who doesn’t want to be there, his archenemy who is a girl, and a man who barely looks like he’s surviving. I know we’re all at the meeting for a reason but none of them really want to share. It’s a little upsetting. I was hoping to be in a group who was jazzed about the program.” “So it’s you, another girl, and two boys?” I confirm with a nod. “Are the boys cute?” Instantly my face heats from her question. Are the boys cute? Well, they aren’t Donald O’Connor and Danny Kaye tapping their way into my heart, but they aren’t bad to look at either. Actually, they are very attractive. Jace, with his blond hair and built body has the all-American-boy look. A tortured allAmerican boy, but an all-American boy nonetheless. As for Carter, he is almost scary attractive. Dangerous with his jet-black hair, tattooed arms, and don’t mess with me attitude. He intimidates me on every level. I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side. “By your silence, I’m going to assume they’re attractive.” Blushing feverously, I answer, “Well, they aren’t bad looking.” That gets a laugh out of Grams. “Let’s not talk about how they look.” I try to change the subject quickly. “That’s besides the point. They don’t seem like the friendly type, any of them. And I don’t have enough confidence to force myself upon them and make them be my friend, so it’s slightly disappointing.” Would anyone in the meeting be on my wavelength? Am I too different to not fit in at all? It actually terrifies me to think that might be the

case. “Maybe they’re all going through something rough, something that’s tickling their soul with dread and worry. You never want to judge someone based on outward appearance. Give them time, dearie, you might just find true friendship in those damaged souls.” That’s why I love my grams; she always knows how to say the right thing. Exhaling a sigh of relief, I say, “I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. Thanks, Grams.” She waves her hand in front of her face, passing off my appreciation. “Anytime, dearie. Now,” she rubs her hands together and leans forward, like we are about to talk about something top secret, “tell me about the boys again.” “Grams, what has gotten into you?” I giggle. “Christian Grey, that’s who.” She winks and then shivers from the mere mention of his name. Maybe I should pick up these books. They may help me find that same sparkle in my life, too. HOLLYN “Grief is hard, exposing yourself to it and therefore experiencing it even harder. I hope it helped you prepare to resolve what you are truly trying to free yourself from. It’s not easy, you know, to just let something go when there is no closure, when you have it looming over you, eating you alive with every breath you take. It’s not a light switch, something you can turn on and off anytime you want. Anyone experience that? How impossible it is to just stop thinking about it?” From a show of hands, everyone in the room had a hard time grieving. Welcome to my world. Over a year and a half later and I’m still grieving the loss of Eric. I don’t think it will ever be something I will get over, maybe someday I might be able to breathe a little easier. So far, no such luck. Marleen, our fearless yet slightly irritating leader, nods at the amount of hands raised. I glance over at Carter who is slouched in his seat, chewing on a piece of gum, popping bubbles, and looking less interested every minute. The conversation I had to sit through with his uncle, uh yeah, that was awkward. Like really awkward. Like, I’m still sweating over what happened between them. That was some heavy family drama, some serious airing out of their dirty laundry. No wonder Carter is such a bastard most of the time. And to make it even worse, once Carter stormed out, Chuck asked me to keep an eye on him at the meetings to make sure he’s actually taking it seriously. Apparently I have to report back to him. Yeah, that’s not something I want to do. What would I say about today’s meeting? Carter sat in his chair with an I don’t give a shit look on his face, stared up at the ceiling for a good ten minutes, and popped his gum a grand total of twenty-five times. I’m sure Chuck would thoroughly enjoy that report. Not going to happen. But not because I have some bond with Carter. There is zero bond there, absolutely nothing. But because I really don’t want to get in the middle of everything between them. Not going to lie, that is a real mess. Focusing back in on what Marleen is saying, I try to attach myself to her words. Despite my reluctance to grieve Eric, I still want to try to start feeling again, to see if I still have a heart or if I lost it when I lost

him. People don’t seem to comprehend that even though we had so little time together, my heart still shattered in a million pieces. I’ve simply lost my footing, and I’m not really sure I’ll ever get it back. A hollow chest is something I’ve gotten used to, but it’s not something I want to die with. “Today, you will try to take what you’ve been grieving and release it from your body, letting go. The first step in letting go of your grief is to admit it.” Thoughtfully, she continues, “Treat it as if you were in a group like AA, instead of harboring your sorrow, release it. Today, you will stand before your peer group, gathering strength from one another, and in one sentence, release to them what you’ve been grieving. The first way to let go is saying it out loud, accepting your sorrow and in return, creating happiness and proving your existence. This won’t be easy.” She sits down on the table behind her, propping one leg up on the side while her other steadies her firmly on the ground. “When I went through this program, week two was the hardest for me. Having to look others in the eye, tell them what I’d sheltered inside, what was eating me up and spitting me out, it’s not for the faint-hearted. You have to be strong because facing those demons head-on, with onlookers, that’s what’s going to get you over that hump.” After looking over the room, she stands, raises her finger in the air. “Don’t be afraid to engage and ask questions but be respectful of everyone’s space. Once your group is finished, take some time to write your letter. You are welcome to scatter around the room, please don’t feel the need to stay in your chair.” With her hands folded in front of her, she looks around the group. “As always, if you have any questions, I will be around. Be kind, be courageous, and keep moving forward. Keep proving your existence, day by day. Prove it.” My lips press tightly together in thought. Shit, have I been proving my existence? Do I even understand what that is? I think back over the time between meetings and realize I truly took advantage of the grieving process. Long nights on the couch, my face buried in a pillow covered by one of Eric’s old T-shirts, and listening to his Voxer messages on repeat. In other words, I continued doing the same thing as every night before. Images of my lonely nights vanish when the squeak of metal chairs across the lacquered floor resonate through the cold walls of the church hall. Looking to my group, I see Daisy moving her chair closer to Carter to make some room for me to maneuver into the circle. Jace, looking more sullen than ever, has his head bent, his hands clasped in front of him, and a bouncing beneath him, shaking his entire body. He appears to be in no mood to share. Despite his morose aura, I can’t help but notice the strong chiseled jaw that rests beneath the brim of his hat, or the obvious corded muscles that flex under his long-sleeve shirt, or his broad build with his long legs and large feet. You would have to be living under a rock to not know who he is. So, why is he here? Guess I’ll be finding out soon enough. “Who wants to get started?” Daisy, our silently designated group leader asks, looking annoyingly vivacious in her quilted vest that she’s constantly smoothing her hands over. Must be a nervous tick of hers. Last meeting, she was incessantly pulling on her overall straps. “Why don’t you, Snowflake?” Carter suggests, picking at his jeans, not even caring to look up. “Snowflake?” Daisy looks around, oblivious to the nickname Carter is clearly calling her. “Who are you referring to?” Carter lifts his brow and barely makes eye contact with Daisy. “You.” “Oh.” She points to her chest, looking more confused than ever but then proceeds forward. Her nerves

seem to be rattling her confidence. “Do we have to stand when we say our sentence?” “I’m not fucking standing,” Carter answers, popping a bubble. How long has that piece of gum been in his mouth? It has to taste like rubber cement by now. “Well I guess that settles it, no standing.” Daisy swallows hard. “Are you sure you want me to go first?” Carter nods his head, Jace makes no movement, and I feeling bad for the girl say, “No, I can go first.” “Really?” There is hope and relief in her eyes. She may be simpler than all of us but it’s obvious in the way she fidgets and the way her voice wavers with every word she speaks that she is way out of her comfort zone, so I will give her a break. “Yeah, so we uh, just say our name, our sentence, and we’re done?” “That’s correct,” Marleen agrees from behind, startling me in my chair. Tension coils in my back from her eavesdropping and I pray that she continues to circulate so I don’t have to admit my sorrow in front of her. “Remember to take a deep breath, find your demons, and with one final push, let them out, let them go and start creating and surrounding yourself with happiness. Before we leave, when everyone is writing their letters, we will go over our next step in the program.” “Okay,” I say, my voice raising higher, trying to be nice to Marleen. It can’t be an easy volunteer job for her, having to force people to talk about what’s been troubling them. “Go ahead, continue.” Luckily, when I clear my throat, Marleen walks over to the next group, giving me a little more privacy to make my announcement. “Hi, uh, you know my name is Hollyn—” “Hi Hollyn,” Carter deadpans, acting like a total dick. It takes everything in me not to flip him off. Instead, I tilt my head and give him my best fuck you smile. “As I was saying, I’m Hollyn and,” I take a deep breath, “I’m a twenty-two-year-old widow.” The words feel bitter, leaving my tongue. Branding myself in such a way it stings, like little needles prickling me all over, turning me into a blanket of numb. A widow. That’s what I am. There is no skirting around it. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” Daisy says, reaching over to pat my hand but then second-guesses her instincts and pulls back. “I’m sorry too, Hollyn,” Jace says, a deep, timber-filled voice carrying out of him as he lifts his head slightly to make eye contact. Glancing at Carter, expecting to see a smartass look on his face, he actually seems apologetic, the atmosphere amongst us growing serious. “I feel bad now, saying my sentence. It’s nothing compared to yours,” Daisy says. Shifting in his seat, pulling on his jeans that cling to his thighs, Jace says, “You can’t do that, Daisy. You can’t devalue what you’re going through because you’re comparing it to someone else. We’re all going through this program for a reason despite how big or small it is. This is not a competition, it’s a fellowship.” That’s the most I’ve ever heard Jace talk and hell, it shoots me directly in the chest. “Okay.” Considering her words, Daisy sits on the edge of her chair, preparing what she wants to say. “I’m Daisy, and I’ve been sheltered my entire life, leaving me with terrible social anxiety, no friends, and

little life experience.” Well, hell, I want to reach over to her and give her a hug. Swallowing hard, she looks at me and says, “And I now live with my half-sister who is actually your best friend, Amanda.” This comes as a surprise to me. I wonder why Amanda never said anything to me. Now I feel even more inclined to reach over and give her a hug. “You have no friends?” Daisy’s face turns bright red while she shakes her head. “Well, you at least have one in me.” Unlike her reluctance to pat my hand, I reach over and comfort her. A bright smile touches her lips, lighting up her embarrassed face. “Sheltered how?” Carter asks, looking a little more interested. “And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” “I don’t mind. It’s all about letting go, right?” With her hands twisting on her lap, she answers Carter’s question. “My parents weren’t in a position to raise me so I went to live with my grandma. She homeschooled me, taught me everything I know, and made me the woman I am today, a very closed-in, naïve girl with no clue how to function in real society. I’m hoping to leave my past behind, and learn how to be free, to live.” Carter nods his head in appreciation. “I feel ya on that, Snowflake.” “Oh yeah, then share with us, Carter,” I state, wanting him to actually try to take this program seriously. After hearing what he’s gone through with his uncle, being here might be a pretty good outlet for him. “No problem.” Still slouching in his chair, he passes as nonchalant, but I can detect heaviness in his voice. “I’m Carter, and life emasculated me in every which way.” He stops there, not even hinting at wanting to elaborate. I push. “Care to explain?” A resounding pop comes from his gum. He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.” Daisy, who once looked hopeful over having a connection with someone in the group, immediately falls flat from Carter’s dismissal. Despite the black tar coating his heart, he must notice the way Daisy’s shoulders slump because before Jace can start telling us about why he’s here, Carter adds, “I lost the one thing that was going to change my life and put me on the right track, that was going to set me free. I know how you feel, Snowflake, wanting that freedom.” A little more quietly, looking down at his hands, he adds, “I know all too well.” Taking a cue from me, Daisy reaches over and awkwardly pats Carter on the shoulder, patting him a little too hard. “You’ll get that freedom. Just stick with us.” Daisy fist-pumps the air, her quilted vest rising with her movements. Oh sweet, sweet girl. I’m going to have to talk to Amanda about helping her half-sister update her wardrobe. I’m also going to have to talk to Amanda about having a half-sister. Whatty what? Our attention is pulled to Jace as he clears his throat and lifts his head. The intensity of his eyes . . . “I guess it’s my turn.” “It is,” I answer with a sincere smile. “Not to be a dick, but I kind of want to remind you all of the NDAs.” “Dude, you’re safe with us,” Carter says. Is that compassion in his voice? Where the hell is this

coming from? I don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of Carter. He usually spends his time acting like a complete dick, strutting around the restaurant like the world owes him something. And maybe it does, maybe he deserves a break. Still, it’s going to take some time for me to feel that way about him. Jace nods and takes a deep breath. The way he fidgets with his hat, lifting it off his head so he can quickly run his hand through his hair, leads me to believe that what he’s about to say is truly eating away at him. He clears his throat and says the one thing I never expected to hear. “I’m Jace and uh, life gave me a daughter when I wasn’t ready, and I had to give her up for adoption.” Just like that, our group falls silent, our mouths drop open in shock, and I can’t speak for everyone else, but my heart is beating in my throat. He had to give up his daughter for adoption? How is that a decision someone can make without mentally breaking down every day? I can’t even imagine the pain he’s going through. Yes, I lost Eric after only a year of being his wife, but that wasn’t my choice. Jace had to willingly give his daughter away. Oh my God. Tears start to well in my eyes, his pain making sense, his closed-off façade understandable. I’m mourning the loss of my late husband, but he’s mourning the loss of his baby girl. It’s so incredibly heartbreaking that Marleen’s speech about next week’s class doesn’t register with me. I don’t realize we are done until everyone starts pulling out their stationery and they begin writing to Life. I know one thing’s for sure: life is fucked up in so many ways. *** Dear Life, Not going to lie, you truly know how to test someone’s will. As I write this letter, I can’t help but glance over at Jace and notice the acute pain he’s experiencing. A daughter, the man has a daughter but had to give her up. How is that fair? It’s not, that’s obvious from the way he could barely talk about it. How is it fair that I’m a widow? That’s not fair either, but there you are, giving us these amazing gifts like the unconditional love of a man, or the sweet, contagious love of a daughter, and without warning, you rip them away from us? Your actions make me cry. Your plans tear me apart. Your involvement in my sanity is eating me alive. But, then you do something like today. You bring four strangers together who know nothing about each other and expose their brokenness, their common heartbreaks, and give them a reason to breathe. The mutual need for companionship, for understanding. I know what it’s like to lose someone. I know the emptiness that slowly erodes your heart. I can help him heal, which in return, will help me. If this is the first step of letting go, then I’m proud to say that I’m ready to take that first step. Sincerely,

Hollyn Dear Life, How do you know if people like you? If they are being nice to be nice, or if they genuinely want to be nice to you? I’m not quite sure how to read Jace, Hollyn, and especially Carter. He scares me, but then again, he’s so much like me. Wanting to be free, wanting to break out of the confines, the imprisonment he’s been living in. I know the feeling. But where he seems to have someone holding him back, I have fear keeping me in place. Fear, probably my biggest enemy. I’m scared for so many reasons, but one of my biggest fears is never knowing what it’s like to experience life, to live on the edge, and to laugh with true friends. Do you think they like me? Or do you think they pity me? I have no clue how to approach them and I don’t want to look desperate. Gosh, why is this so hard? I’m ready to let go of the old Daisy, but there is that little hint of fear dragging me backward with every positive thought. How do I push that fear away? Just dive in head first, sidestepping past the worry? Am I brave enough to do that? I sure hope so. Kind regards, Daisy Dear Life, Letting go. Huh, easier said than done when it sits so fresh in your mind. There isn’t a minute that goes by that I don’t think about Hope, that I don’t picture her face, or smell her sweet, fresh baby scent. So how am I supposed to let that go when I’m still grieving? How could I ever stop grieving the loss of my flesh and blood? Fuck, the pain is too overwhelming to even think about anything else. Jace Dear Life, Fuck you. Carter

Step Three: Grow Your Support CARTER

“Toss me a beer, man,” Fitzy calls from his recliner, his entitled ass stretched out while Joe Buck talks about his winning prediction for the Super Bowl. “Buck is an idiot if he really thinks the Broncos are going to win again. No way. Their quarterback is way too young to carry the team.” I reach into the cooler Fitzy firmly planted in the barrel of his coffee table and toss him a beer. “They won’t need their quarterback. Don’t you remember last year? Peyton Manning barely did anything, as it was all about the defense. Cam Newton wasn’t able to penetrate their unbeatable shield. Buck is right, Broncos are going to take it.” “You’re only saying that because you’re a hometown boy.” “Damn straight.” I sip my beer and dip a chip in my famous buffalo chicken dip I make every year for our Super Bowl party. And when I say Super Bowl party, I just mean the get-together of Fitzy and me. We like to keep things simple, too many people, too much talking, and too many unnecessary voices putting in their unwanted opinions drives us fucking mad. Two years ago, we threw a Super Bowl bash, and it was the one and only after Fitzy and I could barely hear what the announcers had to say during the game. Plus, the people who came over were more interested in the halftime show and commercials, so we decided keeping it to just us was much better. “I’ve been seeing this girl,” Fitzy says out of nowhere, a smirk on his face. “You’ve been seeing a girl?” I can’t hide the shock in my voice. Ever since I’ve known Fitzy he’s never once made such a statement. He’s a pump-and-dump douchebag. I’ve had my fun, but I always felt the most fulfilled when I was in relationship, well, that was until Sasha ripped my testicles from between my legs. I used to like relationships. Now, not so much. “Yeah. I met her during at my SkeeBall league.” I direct a quizzical eyebrow at Fitzy, completely turning my body now to face him. “SkeeBall league? When the hell did you join a skee-ball league?” He shrugs his shoulders as if it’s no big deal. “Can’t expect me to lie around here by myself, waiting for you to get off work to play. Some guy at work told me about it and I signed up.” Smiling at me, he pridefully says, “Come to find out, I’m pretty damn good at it. That’s what got the attention of Martha.” “Martha?” I can feel the furrow in my brow and the scrunch in my nose. “Please tell me she’s young and not some sixty-year-old you think is a cougar when in fact she’s a sack of wrinkles.” “Martha is a sixty-year-old woman, with a hot-as-shit granddaughter. I was skeeing it up against Martha, giving her a run for her money, when her granddaughter came up next to her to cheer on the old coot. I was so distracted by the miniskirt she was wearing, I blew my last toss, handing over the win to Martha. But it wasn’t too much of a hardship because I had a front row view of Clara jumping up and down in excitement for her grandma. Totally hot, man.” “You were playing skee-ball against a sixty-year-old and lost?”

“Hot granddaughter in miniskirt? Were you not paying attention to my story?” he asks, slightly annoyed. “No, I was, that’s still no excuse. You should have been killing it.” Fitzy shakes his head as he slowly pulls from his beer bottle. “Listen, I want to recruit Martha for my team, that walker-wielding mistress hits the upper corners like it’s her job.” “Is that the real reason you’ve been seeing her granddaughter? To poach Martha for your team?” “Hey, if Martha wants to join us, that’s her choice.” “There is something seriously wrong with you. Do you at least like Clara?” “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.” Fitzy leans over, scoops up some buffalo dip, and plops it in his mouth. “She’s an accountant for some company downtown. I made her wear her glasses and carry a calculator to bed the other night. Fucking an accountant, never thought I would see the day, but hell, it’s hot.” “What the hell did you do with the calculator?” “It was a prop. She pretended to crunch numbers while I drove into her from behind.” I shake my head, laughter rattling my shoulders. “I don’t want to know the kind of trauma you put that poor calculator through.” “Eh, it’s not like it was a graphing calculator.” “Why?” I ask, snaking another handful of pretzels from the bag in front of us. “Come on.” Fitzy looks at me as if it’s completely obvious. Sighing from my ineptitude of calculators, he enlightens me, “You have to treat graphing calculators with respect. Those handheld geniuses work with multiple equations and ranging variables at the same time. No human brain is quite as smart as a graphing calculator.” “Really? Even though humans are the ones that created it,” I deadpan. “Pshaw, don’t be jealous, man. Push your worries to the sidelines. I treat you with the same respect as a graphing calculator.” I pull a sip from my beer bottle, my fingers digging into the Broncos koozie hugging the bottom of the bottle. “I don’t know if I should be happy about that or punching you in the nuts.” I pause and then add, “Where do I fall in line with an abacus?” “What kind of abacus are we talking about here? Chinese, Greek, Persian, Roman? If it’s Chinese, you are far above the wooden beads they would use on their abacuses, but if you’re talking about a Greek abacus, I’m going to have to give the upper hand to the counting board purely because they were made from marble and as you know, I’m a fancy fuck.” I stare at my obnoxious friend, perplexed from his asinine and useless knowledge. “Fuck you, man.” I laugh, shaking my head just as my phone beeps with an incoming text message. “I’m going to take a piss before the game starts, need anything while I’m up?” “I’m good,” I call out just as I look down at my phone. The caller ID reads Daisy, with a flower next to her name. Huh, what does she want? Curious, I pull up the message. Daisy: Go Broncos! Hope you guys are having a fun day. Step three is to grow our support so I thought I would start a group message. I hope that’s okay. I just learned how to do it from my sister. If you’re not Jace, Hollyn, or Carter, please ignore this message. Thank you. Sipping my beer, I stare at the message. Step three. Christ, it’s like this program is forcing friendships upon us. Daisy is all right, Jace is cool, well I assume he’s pretty cool, can’t tell at the moment, but

Hollyn, hell, she drives me insane. My phone beeps, speak of the devil. Hollyn: Great idea, Daisy. Go Broncos! Fucking blow my brains out, blow them out right now. I despise group text messages. Daisy: Thank you. This is my first time watching the Super Bowl. My sister said it’s the one time you actually want to watch the commercials. Hollyn: Your first time? How is that possible? This right here, this is why group text messages should never be allowed. Why do I want to be a part of a conversation that really is between two people? Thank you, Apple, thank you for fucking with my sanity. Jace: Yeah, how is that possible? “Ah, come on, Jace, not you too,” I mutter to my phone. “Talking to yourself?” Fitzy asks, jumping into his chair from behind, balancing a bowl of peanut M&M’s—my weakness—in one hand and his beer in the other. Fitzy knows all about the Dear Life program. After the first night, I stopped by his place and bitched to him for a few hours, telling him all about Hollyn, Daisy, and her strange old-lady look, but made sure to keep Jace out of the conversation. So basically, the bullshit I have to go through. Fitzy is my boy but the gossip this man can spin around the city of Denver is obnoxious. He swears he can keep a secret, but I know for a fact that’s not true. “Snowflake started a group text.” “Oh, Snowflake.” Fitzy shakes his head. “Doesn’t she know that’s piss-poor social etiquette?” “She has no idea.” Turning back to my phone, I catch up on the messages being shot back and forth. Daisy: We didn’t have cable and Grams is not much of a sports girl so we never partook in such an event. But don’t worry, I’m dressed for the occasion. The next text is a picture of Daisy. Smiling to myself, I press on the picture to make it bigger. Standing in front of the TV where the pregame is playing, Daisy holds a football in a throwing position, wearing a pair of light colored jeans that taper at the ankle, total mom-jean material, and a blue crewneck sweater with an orange Bronco emblem cut and sewed out of different fabrics. And I’m pretty sure . . . yup, once I zoom in, I see the use of puffy paint. Fuck, I can’t help the smile that grows from ear to ear. She’s kind of a dork but in a refreshing way. What’s the term? Adorkable? Shit, I hate that I even thought of the word. Hollyn: Where did you get that sweatshirt? I can’t help it, I ask as well. Carter: Yeah, where did you get that sweatshirt? It’s kind of amazing. Amazing in a quirky, old-school, it’s-cool-to-be-weird way, but hell, I would wear the shit out of that thing. Daisy: I made it! I went to the fabric store the other day and gathered the materials. I wasn’t too sure how it would turn out, but I made some for my sister and her fiancé as well. The next text is a picture of Daisy, with who I’m assuming is her sister and her fiancé arm in arm, wearing matching crewneck sweatshirts. I hold in the snort that wants out. The look on the fiancé’s face is priceless. The only reason that man is wearing that sweatshirt is because his woman made him. Just from

the way he styles his hair, I can tell he’s not an iconic dresser like myself. If I had that sweatshirt, I would wear it with pride. Hollyn: Matt looks like he wants to slam his head into a wall. Jace: Hey, Matt works in the front office of my ball club. What a small world. Daisy: Matt is humoring me for sure. Carter: I would wear that sweatshirt so fucking hard. The minute I press send, I wonder why I even typed out that response, let alone sent it. I don’t participate in group messages. I don’t participate in general, but there is something about Daisy that gets under my skin. Maybe it’s her story, how she’s looking to break free like me, or how she’s always looking to please and putting herself out there. Either way, I see the effort she’s making and it makes me want to at least return that effort to her. “What the hell are you doing?” Fitzy asks, pulling me from my phone. “You’re not even paying attention to the zingers I’m making at Joe Buck. It’s been some of my best material.” “Sorry.” I place my phone next to me on the couch but glance down when I see more incoming texts. There is an underlying need to open them, to read them, to see what everyone is up to. Why? Why is that something I need to know? I barely know these people. I really don’t care to know them, but here I am, forcing myself to watch the pre-game show as Fitzy retells his jokes, while I desperately itch to pick up my phone. “Joe Buck is delusional,” Fitzy spouts off. He then turns to me and holds up the bowl in his hand. “M&M?” “Sure.” I sigh, reaching over, my eyes catching a glimpse of another picture from Daisy. Shit, don’t look at it, don’t look at it. Don’t look at it! I pop an M&M in my mouth and glance down at my phone, tapping on the picture. It’s an up-close shot of the sweatshirt. So fucking perfect. I smile to myself as I turn my attention back to the game. In Daisy’s words, Go Broncos! DAISY “Everyone seems to think my sweatshirts are quite fetching,” I say, just as Matt starts to jump off the couch, screaming at the TV while holding his plush football he can’t seem to put down. Even when he goes to the bathroom. Blech. “That was not fucking passing interference. Are you blind? He didn’t even touch him.” Flopping on the couch in complete distress, Matt grumbles to himself, clenching his football to his chest, the sleeves of his sweatshirt rolled up, and his hair in disarray from pulling on it so much. Given this is my first football game, I’m quite lost. Amanda is reading a book in the corner of the couch, occasionally peeking up to see what’s going on, but not paying too close attention. I’m trying to follow everything but I’ve never been more confused in my life. The one thing I know, we want to score a touchdown. How that occurs is beyond me, but in the spirit of things, I raise my fist in the air and say, “Let’s go, Broncos, score that touchdown,” which in return will garner a fist bump from Matt. I’m not going to lie, sports are tiresome. I’m enjoying the array of junk food at our disposal though. Fritos Bean Dip is my new favorite thing, that and the giant chocolate chip cookie decorated in Broncos

colors Amanda picked up from the store. Giant cookie equals delicious on all accounts. Feeling the tension in the room from the apparent pass interference—whatever that is—I raise my fist and say, “Go Broncos.” Matt pounds the couch and raises his fist as well. “Fuck yeah, go Broncos.” That’s a lot of passion. Do I have that much passion about anything? I like crafting, but I would never pound my craft table and scream obscenities if there was a glue interference while securing jewels to a baseball cap. Maybe if Gene Kelly was still alive and I got to watch him tap away on Broadway to Singin’ in the Rain, maybe I would be fist-pumping the air and telling Gene to tap his heart out. Maybe. “Do we need a refill on chips?” I ask, looking at the empty bowl. Matt nods, eyes glued to the television. “That would be great, Daisy. Could you grab me a beer while you’re up?” “Matt, she’s not your maid,” Amanda chastises. “Oh, it’s okay. I don’t mind. I have to get another CapriSun anyway.” Snagging the bowl, I bring my phone with me and type out a quick text to the group. Daisy: What is a pass interference? I’m so lost when it comes to football, and it seems to be the one thing that is bringing this group a little closer together, so I want to know more. We have an impressive chip selection. Amanda informed me that the Super Bowl is like Christmas to Matt, that and the World Series. Both sporting events he goes all out for, no matter who’s playing. When he came home the other night with a trunkful of drinks, some alcoholic, and tons of snacks, Amanda wasn’t surprised. Instead, she went to the car to help him unpack. Grams was all about making our own food and never really eating anything processed. If we wanted a snack, we would bake. So, it was a bit of a shock to be able to eat a Little Debbie snack and actually enjoy it. Nuttey Bars are my new addiction. I try to keep them at a safe distance. I don’t want to eat too many and not be able to fit in some of the vests I’ve been working meticulously on. While I’m dumping Fritos Scoops into a bowl, my newfound love along with Nuttey Bars, my phone chirps with a message. I glance down, still getting used to the new form of communication and see a message from Carter. He’s not very chatty like the rest of us, so when I see a message from him, I get excited. Carter: Struggling over there, Snowflake? Snowflake. I don’t get it but I go with it. Kind of makes me feel special. I’ve always wanted a friend to call me by a nickname. My grams calling me dearie doesn’t really count. So, I will own Snowflake. Hmm, maybe I can make a vest and stitch the nickname Snowflake on the back, kind of wear it like a football jersey. Now that would be a fun project. I type him back. Daisy: I know nothing about football. How does anyone follow this? Jace: Takes a bit to understand. Hollyn: Not watching, but go Broncos. Hollyn’s not watching the Super Bowl? That seems odd to me since Amanda said Hollyn would probably appreciate the sweatshirts I made because she is a huge Broncos fan. Slightly confused, I bring

the chips, a CapriSun, and a beer over to the living room and set everything on the table. “Amanda?” I sit down on the couch and poke a hole with my straw through my juice pouch. “What’s up?” she answers before she pulls her eyes away from the book, so I wait until she’s finished. “I thought Hollyn is a Broncos fan.” “She is. Why do you ask?” Quirking my lip to the side in confusion, I say, “Well, she said she’s not watching the Super Bowl. That just seems odd to me.” “She’s not watching?” Amanda acts annoyed. What have I said to garner such a reaction from her? “Uh, no.” Amanda shakes her head and lays her book on her lap. Sighing, she pushes her hair behind her ears. We don’t share a lot when it comes to our looks, but we do have the same golden locks as our father. Everything else, we get from our moms. Before Amanda can say anything, Matt reaches his hand over to her and places it on her knee, eyes still fixed on the television. “It’s going to take time, honey. You can’t expect her to change after two meetings.” “I know. It would have been nice to see a little bit of change, though.” “Hey, she’s attending the meetings. That’s all you can ask for now.” I don’t want to pry, I really don’t but I’m curious. Why isn’t she watching the Broncos game and why is it such a big deal? Knowing it’s none of my business, I ask anyway, “Why isn’t she watching the game?” Deflated, Amanda answers, “The Broncos is how Hollyn met her late husband, Eric. It was at a tailgate party in the parking lot before a game. She’s been a diehard fan ever since I met her, but once Eric passed, she wouldn’t think about watching another game, or any sporting event for that matter. It was one of their favorite things to do, go to games together.” Pain shoots through my heart, breaking it in half. I can’t imagine the kind of sorrow Hollyn is going through. To lose someone so special to you, to be so young and not quite be able to experience what it’s like to be married, the mere thought makes me want to cry for her. “That’s terrible. Poor Hollyn.” “She will get there,” Matt encourages us both. “Give her— Run you dirty bastard,” he shouts, jumping up into the air. “Run, you motherfucker, run. Run!” Thoughts of Hollyn are washed away when I turn to the television to see one of the players in orange— the Broncos, I know that much—run into the painted grass area. Matt erupts in cheers and starts giving both Amanda and I rather aggressive high fives, but I go with it, throwing in my own cheers while Matt continues to sting my hand. “We scored the touchdown! So we win.” Matt laughs and sips from his beer, doing a bit of a stretch. “Ha, I wish, Daisy. We still have three more quarters to go.” “Oh.” My brow furrows. “I thought whoever scores the touchdown wins.” “Whoever scores the most touchdowns.” Matt winks and points at me with his beer bottle. “I have to pee. Be back, ladies.” When he’s out of earshot, I turn to Amanda and say, “He’s rather aggressive in his cheering.” “Wait until he starts making us reenact the plays, him being the quarterback and us being the receivers.

It’s a real joy having him toss his stuffed football at us.” Giggling at Matt’s enthusiasm, I say, “Can’t wait.” Beep Beep. Glancing down, I see a text message. It’s just from Carter, not part of the group. Interesting. But what’s even more interesting is the little release of butterflies in my stomach from the private text message. Carter: Did you get that, Snowflake? That was a touchdown. Smiling, I bring my knees into my chest and prop my phone on top of them while I type back. Daisy: I saw that. We scored! Although, I thought that was the end of the game. Apparently scoring the first touchdown doesn’t mean you win the game. Carter: Not so much. Daisy: It’s so hard to follow. All the players are on and off the field, running around for some kind of purpose but I don’t get it. Carter: Want a little help? My stomach does another flip from his offer. Carter wants to help me. Am I making a friend? Eep, I can’t help but feel a little elated from the prospect. Daisy: Would love it. The loud sound of Matt clapping his hands as he walks back in the living room startles both Amanda and me. “Don’t do that,” she chastises, closing her book in anger. “No one likes loud noises.” “Everyone likes loud noises.” “No one does,” Amanda seethes. From her tone, Matt backs off. Plastering on a charming smile, Matt holds out the giant cookie and asks, “Cookie?” Trying to look tough but failing miserably, Amanda cracks a smile. “Don’t try to win me over with a giant cookie.” “You know you want some.” He shakes the platter at her and holds up the knife we’ve been using to cut into it. “I’m on a diet.” A burst of laughter comes out of Matt. “You are so not on a fucking diet. And if you were, I would spank that ass of yours. You don’t need to lose weight.” “Okay, now you’re winning brownie points.” Pulling on her ankle so she slides across the couch into his arms, he scoops her up and plants a kiss on her cheek. “Just telling the truth, honey. You’re perfect.” She melts in his arms and I watch in blissful jealousy as they gaze into each other’s eyes and kiss. I want that. I want that more than anything. Beep Beep. Glancing down at my phone, I read my message. Carter: Are you ready for the quick and dirty, Snowflake? Daisy: What are you talking about? Carter: Here’s your crash course for football. Two teams on the field at the same time. One is offense, one is defense. They switch back and forth as to who is offense—the person trying to score, and defense—the team trying to defend them.

Daisy: Ah, that’s why Matt keeps chanting ‘hold them, defense, hold them.’ Carter: Exactly. Lame cheer. It’s actually made for cheerleaders, but exactly. A giggle pops out of my mouth and I cover it up but not soon enough. I catch Matt and Amanda’s attention. “What are you laughing about over there?” Amanda asks, her face full of light. “Just something Carter said.” “Carter?” Matt asks, a raise to his eyebrow. “That sounds like a boy’s name.” “It is a boy,” I answer, my face heating up. I’m one hundred percent positive if I looked in a mirror right now, my face would be bright red. “He’s a friend from the Dear Life program.” “Ooooo, a friend,” Amanda teases. “He is,” I defend, becoming more and more embarrassed by the minute. “Okay,” Matt and Amanda say, smiling and laughing together. Feeling mortified, I sink into the couch and look back down at my phone to see more messages from Carter, offering me a quick course on understanding football. By the end of the first half, thanks to Carter, I can understand what the players are doing for the most part. I don’t quite understand why sometimes the quarterback throws the ball and why sometimes he just hands it to someone, but I guess that’s for another day. You can’t learn everything all at once. Carter: You got the hang of it, Snowflake? Daisy: I think I do, for the most part. I at least know when to cheer, and I don’t have to wait for Matt to clue me in. Carter: Look at that, now you’re one of the cool kids. Not that you weren’t already, with that “bitchin’” sweatshirt and all. Daisy: I think the Broncos are winning because of the sweatshirt. Carter: I’m not going to argue with that logic. Daisy: Thank you for explaining it all. I’m sure you are busy. Carter: Nah, just watching the game with a buddy. Daisy: Well, I need to repay you. What can I teach you? Hmm, want to learn how to make a quilt? Carter: Not so much. Daisy: Didn’t think so. Are you into crafts? Carter: Not even a little. How could someone not even have a slight desire to partake in crafts? That seems so odd to me. Then again, I must seem odd to a lot of people. Daisy: I don’t know much. What about meatloaf? Do you like meatloaf? Carter: Love meatloaf. Daisy: Oh yay! I can teach you how to make meatloaf. Want to come over Tuesday? I hit the send button and then experience a weird sensation of panic, nerves, and dread. Oh goodness, did I just ask a boy to come over to my place? What if he thinks I’m trying to ask him out? Would he think that? Heat creeps up the back of my neck to my ears, burning me up right there on the couch. What if he says no? I’m just trying to be friendly. I don’t want him to think I’m being clingy. Oh gosh, will he want to avoid me now at the meetings?

I feel like I’m going to cry out of shear panic. My phone beeps with an incoming message. I’m too nervous to see what he says. My mind starts to wander in all the wrong places. Negative thoughts creep in, fear seeps through my pores, and all I want to do is cower under my craft table. Knowing I have to look at his response, I squint at the screen. Carter: Sure. Sure. One simple word washes away the buildup of anxiety. Sure. Okay, maybe that wasn’t so bad. Scratch that. That was terrifying. At least the end result came out in my favor. Hmm, now I have to decide what quilted vest I’ll wear on Tuesday. HOLLYN “No, I’m not going to hang out in the Cat Café like an old widow,” I say with an exaggerated breath while I look for a parking spot. “You know we have find your friends, right? I can see you’re right next to Denver’s Cat Company.” Dammit. I forgot we gave each other permission to know where we are at all times. Why did we do that? Seems like a pretty stupid idea now. Especially since Amanda is using it against me. So what if I want to have a drink and pet some cats on my day off. There’s nothing wrong with that. “Stop spying on me. Don’t you have better things to do?” “Not really.” She laughs. “I wanted to check in on you, see how you’re doing. Daisy mentioned you weren’t watching the game yesterday.” “You know I don’t ever watch the games.” “You used to,” Amanda counters. “Don’t go there, Amanda. I’m not in the mood to get in a fight with you. I’m trying to find my Zen right now. I need kitties.” “Fine,” she capitulates. “But tell me, are you liking this program so far? Do you think it’s helping?” Finally finding a spot a few cars down from the building, I put my blinker on and start the process of parallel parking. I’m a genius at it, so I have no doubt that I can fit in the space I’m attempting right now. “I don’t know if it’s helping just yet. We haven’t done much but talk, write letters, and try to let go of what’s been holding us back.” “Are you comfortable there?” “For the most part. Unfortunately, I was put in a group with my douchebag coworker, Carter. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be in the program and is just trying to skate through, so it’s hard sharing deep, personal stuff with a guy who couldn’t care less. I have to see him nearly every day, so there is no separation from the pain.” “Carter?” Amanda asks. “I think Daisy was texting him yesterday and giggling.” “Daisy was texting Carter? Like back and forth?” “It seemed like it.” Carter texting Daisy? Now there is something I never thought I would see. Daisy and Carter couldn’t be any more opposite than fire and water. Just after getting to know Daisy briefly, it’s obvious she’s too

sweet, way too innocent, and way too inexperienced to be a friend to Carter. Carter is your typical asshole with a vendetta against life. He’s never been someone you want to hold a conversation with and if he’s given the chance, he would rather ignore you than actually engage, unless it’s to pick a fight. He’s really good at picking fights, especially when it involves throwing fists. “Daisy should stay away from him.” “Really?” Amanda asks a little surprised. “She seemed to think he was a good guy.” Spinning the steering wheel, I back into the spot perfectly and put my car in park. “I like your sister, Amanda. She’s naïve but so full of hope and joy, which is infectious. She’s one of the bright sides of the program. Carter is not someone she should be around. He’s someone who can easily squash the sunshine out of her.” “Really? It didn’t seem like that. She seemed happy when she was texting him.” “I’m telling you, Amanda, he’s bad news. So not someone for Daisy.” I gather my purse off the passenger seat next to me, glance at my side mirror, and check for cars. When the coast is clear, I get out, lock up, and jog across the street to Denver’s Cat Company. “Listen, I’m at the Cat Company and I don’t want to be that person who walks in on their cell phone.” Hammering home my concern, I add, “I don’t want to hurt Daisy’s relationships, maybe I’m wrong about Carter, maybe he’s changing. I would be shocked if he was, but I just want you to know that she should be careful. That’s all. I’ve seen him in bad moods before and you don’t want Daisy near him when he’s like that.” “Okay. I’ll be sure to warn her. Thanks, Hollyn.” “Anytime. Now, I must get to petting pussy.” “Every time. You say it every time you go in there.” I laugh and hop in place, trying to stay warm despite the winter chill. “It’s tradition. I’m going now though, I’m freezing. Talk to you later.” Hanging up, I slip my phone in my pocket, and open the door. The atmosphere is very laid-back. The first portion of the shop is a mini café where you can buy drinks and look at all the profiles of the cats frequenting the café. They are all rescued and up for adoption. Every time I come, I’m tempted to adopt a kitty but I refrain, fearing being labeled a crazy cat lady. I’m trying to avoid that right now. As always, I grab a strawberry-kiwi Snapple from the cooler, pay the cover charge, and head up to my favorite spot in the corner—my favorite spot currently occupied by a rather large man with his head down, twirling a cat toy for a little black and white kitty. Ugh, why today does someone have to take up my space? Irritated, I watch for a second as the man’s forearms flex with each movement. Why do I know those forearms? I shouldn’t by any means recognize forearms, I haven’t fawned over forearms in quite some time, but I recognize these. Scanning the gentleman from head to toe, I take in his Nike shoes, dark grey sweatpants, pushed-up sleeves of a black Henley, and since his head his bowed, I only see the top of his black baseball cap. Jace? No, that can’t be Jace. Can it? I step forward, hoping and praying it’s Jace because I don’t want to be the creeper approaching a random stranger at a cat café for no reason. As I make my way toward him, a floorboard beneath me creaks, gathering his attention. I know it’s Jace the minute he lifts his head. Those dark blue, tortured eyes

penetrate me from beneath his bill, the scruff on his face letting me know he hasn’t shaved since our last meeting, and the defeated slump in his shoulders showing he still carries his dreadful pain. “Hollyn?” “Hey, Jace.” Feeling a little awkward, I say, “I didn’t know you frequent the Denver Cat Company.” He chuckles, a light smile peeking up at me. “I don’t. This is my first time here. I was just . . .” He pauses and then leans back in his chair, running his hand over his face, lifting his hat ever so slightly off his forehead. “Hell, I was wandering around, looking for something to take my mind off things. I saw this place and thought I’d give it a try.” Looking up at me through his impossibly long lashes, he asks, “How weird do I look in here?” I look around and wince. We’re surrounded by women with children who are walking around with the cats, trying to get them to play with the myriad of toys offered for visitors. He looks incredibly out of place. “Uh, weird might not be the correct word,” I smile, “but you make it work.” He chuckles again and then pats the seat next to him. “Take a seat, make me look a little less awkward.” Happy to have the company, I take the seat next to him and set down my drink on the floor. I watch him dance a ribbon in front of a cat, teasing it masterfully. In a joking, low baritone voice, he asks, “So, do you come here often?” A little chuckle comes out of me as I shake my head. “Yeah, my friend Amanda thinks it’s one step away from becoming a crazy cat lady, but I can’t help it. I feel like I can just sit back and forget about everything around me when I’m here. Just play with cats.” “How often do you pet pussy?” Jace asks with a wince, causing both of us to laugh. “I say the same ridiculous joke. My friend Amanda, Daisy’s half-sister actually, chastises me every time I say it. But how can you not? It’s such an easy joke.” “It’s pretty unavoidable. Honestly, you’re too much of a square if you’re not making that joke.” “Agreed, and no one likes a square,” I add but then think. “Although, if you’re not a square, what are you? What’s the preferred shape for people to be? A circle? Rhomboid? Trapezoid?” “Trapezoids are startling shapes. Never liked the little fuckers.” “Let me guess, you’re a diamond kind of man?” I ask, laughter in my voice. Still teasing the cat, he answers, “Grew up on the diamond, lived my whole life on one, pretty sure I will die on one too. I think that makes me a diamond man.” He looks like he’s lived his entire life in the gym, but I don’t mention that. “Did you always want to be a baseball player?” If I take a step back and think about it, it’s weird to know that Jace is THE Jace Barnes from the Colorado Miners, the Jace Barnes that broke all kinds of rookie records last year, the Jace Barnes who won Rookie of the Year. He seems nothing like the man I saw trending all season last year. He’s subdued, troubled, quiet. He has the exterior of a famous professional athlete with his broad build, strong and powerful muscles, and his rugged handsomeness, but his interior is shattered, barely hanging on by a thread. You can see it in his eyes; they are pleading for help, begging for the pain to stop. If only I knew how to help him, how to direct him. I know that pain, and I haven’t dealt with it well. Hell, I still don’t know how to deal with it.

“Ever since I could remember, I’ve wanted to play baseball. It was an escape for me. I didn’t have a stable household, shit, I didn’t have a household at all. Living in foster care, I clung to one thing: baseball. It was the only family I really had, so I hung on to it, lived it, breathed it. It’s what kept me out of trouble and kept my hopes alive for getting out of the hell I lived in. Luckily for me, I had a coach who saw my potential and helped me along the way, to get me to where I am today. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I would be right now.” Taking a deep breath, he nods at me. “What about you? What do you do?” I hate that question. Why is that a question adults feel obligated to ask in order to hold conversation? As if what we do defines us. It might define some of us, but not everyone. Then again, right now, I can’t particularly say anything defines me. Well . . . that’s not true. What defines me at the current moment? My trauma, my loss. That’s what singularly characterizes me. Not wanting to go into too much detail about my failed attempt to become a nurse, I settle for the easy answer. “Eh, nothing special right now. I’m a waitress at Carter’s uncle’s restaurant.” “Really?” Jace resembles shock in his expression. “Huh, I guess that makes sense since it seems like you know each other.” “Yeah, unfortunately. We’ve never really gotten along. He’s a beast to work with.” “There has to be a reason why he’s closed off all the time. Sarcastic. Kind of a brooding bastard, that guy.” “You can say that.” “But there is good in him,” Jace adds, this time surprising me. “You can see it in the way he listens to Daisy, like he wants to help her but doesn’t know how to. At the last meeting he showed a little humility, a little humanity, and hopefully, we’ll continue to see that in him.” How does Jace possibly see that in Carter? Maybe I’m blinded by his abhorrent display of anger I see regularly. “Are you the silent observer of the group?” He shrugs his shoulders, his eyes cast down toward the cat, his tan forearm flexing with each toss of the ribbon in a different direction. “It’s easy to observe when you sit back and listen, if you truly listen to someone rather than preparing to respond to what they’re saying. It’s the difference in creative listening and reactive listening. Being on the receiving end of reactive listening my entire life, I’ve strived to be a creative listener. It’s hard, but I feel that I hear people better when I do so.” I’m kind of blown away right now. Never in a million years would I have pegged Jace Barnes as someone with such a sensitive soul. Despite his broken veneer, he gives off a hopeful, positive vibe that I find myself gravitating toward right now. “That’s a beautiful way to think of having a conversation.” Tipping his head to the side, he glances in my direction. “It’s a beautiful thing to be able to listen to each other. Not just hear their words, but read body language as well. Imagine if we were all trained that way, the kind of compassion we’d have for everyone.” “I’m getting the feeling you’ve had an unfair deal of judgment.” He pulls on the brim of his hat, adjusting it lower on his brow. “You could say that. It’s funny that as a collective whole we ask for compassion and understanding but have a hard time handing it out when the time comes. I’ve always tried to put myself in someone else’s shoes before passing judgment, because you never know what that person is truly suffering from, why they are the way they are. Take Carter for instance. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be in the program, that he’s just going through the motions, but

there is a deeper reason he’s not sharing with us. Instead of jumping to the conclusion that the man is just a dick, I’m trying to see it from his perspective with every bit of information he gives. First impressions are meaningless, because not everyone can be on point all the time, and yet, one bad day can ruin us.” “Do you have a hard time trying to put on a happy face for fans and for the media?” “Not really.” He shakes his head. “But this year, this season, I’m going to have one hell of a time trying to keep myself from breaking down on the field, let alone in the locker room, or during interviews.” “I can’t imagine.” I take a deep breath and continue, “When I lost Eric, it almost felt like my breath was taken away with him. I felt cold as stone, lifeless, like a steel rod making the motions through life, but never feeling anything. I’m sure I wasn’t pleasant, or chipper, or even a joy to be around because I was either hating life, hating other people, or crying hysterically.” “But it got better?” His eyes plead with me. One of the ribbons provided for the cats runs through my fingers as I play around with it, needing to fidget with something as I talk about Eric. I hate to break Jace’s hopeful heart, but I can only be honest about my situation. “Doesn’t seem like it. Breathing feels just as hard, but unlike when Eric first passed, I’m used to it by now.” “You learned to live with it.” Not the first time I’ve heard that. “I guess so.” Sitting back in his chair, Jace lets out a long breath. “Shit, this is not the type of conversation we should be having in front of the cats. I’m sure they enjoy other types of topics, less morbid.” That garners a chuckle from me. “Yeah, what kind of conversations do you think the cats like to hear?” “Hmm.” He ponders my question for a few seconds, giving it some good thought. “They probably like to talk about the tuna count in local fishing holes. Latest trends in scratching posts, and of course, the drop of the next Taylor Swift album.” “Naturally.” I laugh out loud. “Oh to be a cat.” “Sure as hell is an easy life.” Turning, Jace smiles at me, a genuine, beautiful smile. It kind of reminds me of Eric’s smile in a way. Charming, very charming. A smile I haven’t seen in the media, a smile that seems reserved for intimate moments. “I’m glad I ran into you, Hollyn. It was nice talking to you outside of the program’s dictated discussion.” “I agree. You’re pretty cool, Jace Barnes.” “Pretty cool?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Only pretty cool?” “Hey, I have to give you something to strive for. It’s all about progression, Jace.” “True.” He chuckles. “Hey, look at us proving our existence today and growing our support system. Marleen would be so proud.” “If she was here, she would be gushing.” If I have to admit it, I’m gushing a little inside as well because for the first time since Eric passed, I feel a little at ease. It’s like the band around my chest relaxed somewhat. Odd. Jace gets me. He feels my emotional distress. He knows what it’s like to lose something so incredibly precious to you and for that, I know our friendship will always be unique. CARTER What the hell am I doing here?

Being a total dumbass, that’s what. Meatloaf? I’m here to learn how to make meatloaf? Fuck, I could make meatloaf in my sleep, and yet I accepted Daisy’s invitation to teach me one of the things she knows best. This was an incredibly stupid idea because honestly, what do I really have in common with Daisy? I barely know her, so what the hell are we going to talk about? And she’s going to find out I’m a chef at some point, that will just humiliate her, and I don’t want that. But fuck, texting her the other day, it felt almost normal. Guiding her felt normal and I have no idea why. It wasn’t until Fitzy started whining and tossing popcorn at me that I slowed down on the texts even though I wanted to continue to talk to her. The only other person I’ve ever really wanted to text was Sasha. There is something about Daisy that draws me to her. Is it her innocence? She’s so pure, so untouched, not even being close to jaded like me. Does that make me a bigger dick than I am, wanting to cling to her innocence with the possible chance of scuffing her pristine personality? I sure as hell hope not. Tucking my helmet under my arm, I take off my gloves and walk up to the townhouse Daisy gave me directions to. Yes, actual directions, not an address. She’s so old school. Shit, I like that about her. The weather is ridiculously cold still, so I blow into my fist a few times and then knock on her door. It takes a few moments to answer but when she does, an excited Daisy in a pair of khaki slacks, a cream turtleneck, and a maroon fleece zip-up vest greets me. What is with this girl and her vests? Her grandma clothes do nothing for the figure I know she’s hiding. “Carter, you made it. Come in, you must be cold.” “Thanks,” I say awkwardly, completely regretting this get-together. “Here, let me take your helmet, we can set it in the entryway.” Fumbling, she grabs my helmet and gloves, and while I’m trying to take off my leather jacket, she attempts to assist me but given I’m a good half foot taller than her, she ends up just pulling on one of my sleeves, making it more difficult to take off. Once I untangle myself, I take my boots off as well, not to track any dirt in the house. Daisy starts to assist me, but I put up my hand to stop her. “I’ve got my shoes.” Stepping back, she folds her hands in front of her and nods. “Sorry,” a light giggle pops out of her heart-shaped mouth, “I guess I’m a little eager to have company. I was doing a lot of reading on the Internet about being a good hostess and it told me to make sure I take your jacket and whatnot.” Reading on how to be a good hostess? Why am I not surprised? “Well, I’m not sure they meant for you to take your guest’s shoes off,” I say with a little chuckle. “Oh.” The expression on her face falls, her eyes casting down in embarrassment. Standing tall, I come up to her and with my index finger, lift her chin. As I notice her wide eyes, her breath picking up, I say, “It was a nice gesture though.” Looking around, I end the intimate distance. “Where’s the kitchen?” “Uh, over here.” She motions us down a short hallway into an open-concept space. To the left is a small living space with a beige sectional couch, purple frilly pillows, and a giant flat-screen TV on a dainty white cabinet with an Xbox tucked to the side. Man and woman cohabiting, blatantly obvious. To the right is a small dining area with a four-person dining set, matching buffet table and . . . a kegarater. I chuckle to myself, as this is most definitely man and woman merging their lives together. Anchoring the large space is the

modern kitchen with dark cabinets, marble counters, and a . . . oh hell, an electric stove top. The devil’s cookware. “Nice place,” I state, hands in pockets, not knowing what else to say. “I would say thank you but it’s not my house, it’s my sister’s. She’d done a great job decorating.” Taking in the décor, I ask, “Is she a wine drinker? Because it sure as hell looks like it.” Everywhere I look there is either a picture of wine, wine bottles, or wine corks shoved in decorative vases. “She loves wine. She always tries to get me to drink a glass with her, but I’ve never had alcohol so it’s kind of scary to me.” My brow furrows together. Never had alcohol? Oh hell, she is innocent. “You’ve never had a drink? You’re twenty-one, right?” “Yeah.” She shrugs. “Just never thought about it before. Do you drink?” A sarcastic laugh pops out of me. “Yeah. I’ve had a beer or two.” “Beer seems like it tastes gross. Matt drinks beer and I’ve smelled it a couple of times, it really smells like butt.” Like butt. I laugh out loud. Of course she wouldn’t say it smells like ass. “I can assure you, beer doesn’t taste like . . . butt. It’s an acquired taste though.” Taking in the kitchen, I see she has everything set up, things already measured out, and the double oven preheated. Shit, I need to confess to her or else this is going to be more awkward than is has to be. “Are you ready to get started? I have aprons for us.” Holding up two frilly white aprons, she smiles at me. Not in a smart-ass way, but in a way that says she’s genuinely serious about wearing the 1950s aprons in her hands, like we are Betty Croker and Julia Child. Christ. Grabbing the back of my neck, I say, “Uh, yeah. I kind of have something to tell you.” “Oh?” She sets my apron on the counter and starts tying hers around her waist. When she cinches it, I catch a glimpse at just how small her waist is. I knew she was petite under those drab clothes. “I should have told you earlier, but I’m a chef.” Pausing, her hands come to a standstill, no longer tying a double knot with the apron straps over her stomach. “You’re a chef?” The way she asks the question—complete disappointment in her voice—makes me feel like shit. It’s rare I feel like shit, but I do right now. “Yeah.” “Like a professional chef?” Would I call myself a professional? I don’t know. Stirring a pot and dumping noodles in boiling water doesn’t make me feel like a professional. It makes me feel like a man who barely knows how to hold his own in the kitchen, someone who specializes in making “cheesy dogs.” Aka, hot dogs with a split down the center and a slice of cheddar stuffed inside. Classy. “Well, I went to school for it.” “So you’re trained?” Her expression falls some more. Christ, I feel like the lowest piece of shit ever. I’ve never cared about disappointing people, but hell, Daisy doesn’t hide her emotions at all. They are like a Technicolor picture shown on a brilliantly large IMAX movie screen, there for everyone to see and experience. “Then it seems pretty silly for me to teach you how to make meatloaf. I’m sure you can make a

meatloaf way better than mine.” “Maybe,” I say like a dick, because I have no practice in being nice. “Yeah, probably.” Sighing, she looks around the kitchen. Shit, how do I fix this? Normally I couldn’t care less, but Daisy is different. She’s like a grown-up child, someone you never want to disappoint. “Um, I guess you can go home if you want.” “Do you want me to go home?” She’s avoiding all eye contact with me, trying not to lay out her cards, but with my question, she glances at me briefly, giving me a straight shot into those crystal-blue eyes of hers, slaying me right in half with her purity. “I don’t know. Seems silly for me to teach you how to make something you already know how to do.” I’m about to agree with her when she says, “Is there something you don’t know how to cook?” Not so much. I’ve studied cooking for so long that I’m pretty sure if you asked me to make anything, I would be able to deliver. “Not really.” I wrack my brain for something and then it hits me. “Honestly, I don’t know much about baking. Do you?” Eyes meet mine, and her smile stretches across her face, shining with pure joy. “Carter, I am so good at baking,” she practically cheers. She really is sweet . . . “Is that right?” Her enthusiasm is infectious. “It is! Oh gosh, what should we make?” Without even pausing to talk about it, she goes to the pantry and starts shuffling through ingredients. “Darn, no butterscotch or chocolate chips.” Some more moving of cans on the shelf. “There’s canned pumpkin but that’s out of season. Hmm . . . oh I’ve got it.” Whipping around with a box of raisins, she asks, “Do you like oatmeal raisin cookies?” “Love them but can’t bake worth shit.” “Then it’s settled. I’ll teach you how to make my special oatmeal raisin cookies.” Clapping her hands together, she jumps in excitement, and then starts pulling ingredients off the shelf. “This is going to be fun, Carter.” Fun. Fun might not be the right word. Interesting is more like it. Yeah, this is going to be interesting. DAISY “Hell, these are good,” Carter says with a mouthful of cookie. I watch him closely examine the cookie before he takes another bite. “They’re so chewy.” “It’s the flour and Karo syrup.” I wink and wipe up the counter. “My grams taught me all the secrets.” “Your grams is a smart woman.” He takes another bite, closes his eyes and really tastes the cookie. It’s something I noticed right away when baking with Carter. He likes to smell and taste everything. It’s fascinating. He told me his best tools in his chef toolbox are his taste buds and nose, so he constantly tastes and smells things, which is funny to me, because they are simple baking ingredients. “Do you bake a lot, Snowflake?” “I do. I love baking. When I was living with Grams, we would spend the whole day baking and then take baskets around to the different firehouses in the area to thank them for their hard work.” Carter has his arms folded across his chest, his hip leaning against the counter, and an inquisitive look

on his face, those deep brown eyes intensely observing me from under his jet-black hair. I’ve enjoyed his company, but I’ve also felt very exposed the entire time, not from his questioning or his posture, but by the way his eyes thoughtfully study my every movement. What’s he thinking? Not that I’m very good at reading people, but I would like to at least see some kind of tell from him. Does he think I’m funny? Dorky? Insecure? Could he see me shake when I dumped ingredients in the bowl? Could he hear the waver in my voice when I spoke about the recipe and how to not overmix the batter? Can he sense how nervous I am around him? I invited Carter over to grow my support system, to make friends. I really put myself out there, broke past some fears of mine to have him over and yet, all I can think about is how incredibly handsome he is, but not in the typical sense. He’s different, dark, very mysterious, and the complete and total opposite of my personality. I’ve tried to keep myself from staring at him, from leaning in to smell his intoxicating cologne, and getting too close, breaking his personal space, but it’s been hard. I’ve felt very awkward around him. I hate that. I hate that I can’t be one of those confident girls when talking to a man. But I shouldn’t be worried about that. He’s supposed to be my friend and nothing else. I’m not in this program to try to fall for the first guy I meet, I’m supposed to be discovering a new me. My priorities aren’t straight. Today was supposed to be about growth for myself but instead, I’m acting like a teenage girl around a cute boy. Or at least what I think that is like. He’s so worldly wise, he can probably tell how nervous I am. “Snowflake, you’ve been scrubbing that bowl in the same spot for a minute. Pretty sure it’s clean.” Startled from my thoughts, I jump in place, the bowl clattering around in the stainless steel sink. “Everything okay over there?” “Um, yup,” I say, startled. “Just thinking about the program.” “Yeah, not really looking forward to the meeting this Thursday.” “Why not?” I ask, rinsing the bowl now. “I like going to the meetings. Marleen has such inspiring things to say.” “Inspired is not what I’m looking for,” he answers, looking out toward the window in the dining area. “What are you looking for then?” “An out.” His voice is grim and before I can respond, Amanda pops through the back door, purse in hand, coffee mug from the morning in the other. “Hey Daisy, how—oh, I didn’t know you had company.” With a polite smile, she takes in Carter. My cheeks heat up immediately, as if I’m being caught doing something bad. “Welcome home, Amanda. Uh, this is my friend Carter.” “Carter?” Amanda asks knowingly then turns to assess him one more time. “Daisy’s mentioned your name. It’s nice to meet you.” Wincing, I turn to Carter who’s dropped the casual stance and is now standing ramrod straight. I have a feeling he’s no longer comfortable. Was he ever comfortable? I like to think so, but with Amanda here, I’m sure he’s feeling quite awkward, especially with the way she keeps looking him up and down. “Hey.” He nods in her direction and then turns to me. “I’ve got to get going. Thanks for the baking lesson.”

Without another word, he goes to the entryway and from the sound of it, starts putting on his boots. Heat crawls up my neck, embarrassment and humiliation swallowing me whole. Not knowing what to do, I turn to Amanda who waves her hand in Carter’s direction, telling me without words to see him to the door. I dry my hands on a dish towel and head to the entryway where Carter is already putting on his jacket. Jeeze, he’s quick. Twisting my hands in front of me, I ask, “Do you want any cookies to go?” “That’s okay,” he answers without looking up. Goodness, did I do something wrong? I try to think back to a few minutes ago and recalculate everything I said. Was any of it offensive? I don’t think so. Did I pester him too much? Dive too much into his personal life? Not really. Is it me? Does he just not want to hang out with me? Did he not have a good time? Sweat starts to prick the back of my neck. I thought I did everything right. I was kind, polite, I took his jacket, I made conversation, and I showed him how to make cookies. But was that not enough? Did I stare at him too much? The notion of him noticing my wandering eyes makes my stomach roll. Please don’t let that be it. How humiliating. Grasping on to anything, I say, “I hope you had a nice time.” He finishes buttoning up his jacket and tucks his helmet under his arm while putting on his gloves. His eyes dart up to mine, dark to light, our eyes opposite, our personalities completely different, our outlook on life not even close to matching. There is a slight tilt to his head, a small smirk to his lips, a small lean in his posture when he says, “I had a nice time, Snowflake. Thanks for having me over.” “Then why are you leaving?” The words escape me before I can stop them, surprising me. I clamp my hand over my mouth and shake my head, so terribly embarrassed. “Don’t answer that,” I say quickly. My stomach flips, sweat coats my upper lip, and saliva starts to rise in my mouth. “Um, I need to go. Please shut the door when you leave.” Before he can say bye, I run up the stairs to my bathroom where I quickly grab on to the toilet, my eyes watering. Ashamed, flustered, totally abashed, I sit on the floor of my bathroom, unable to comprehend the emotions rolling through me. I invited a friend over for the first time. When he wasn’t aware, I . . . I lusted over his handsome features. When he was looking, I acted like an amateur, unable to converse effortlessly. I should be proud of myself for stepping out of my comfort zone, exposing myself, and taking a chance, but instead, I feel regret. What he must think of me right now? And I have to see him in two days. Will he ignore me? Tears prick my eyes. I can’t even think about it. “Hey, are you okay in there?” Amanda knocks on the door. Wiping my nose, I take a deep breath. “Yeah.” My voice is tight so I keep it to a one-worded answer. “Okay.” Amanda pauses, and then says through the door. “He didn’t say anything to hurt your feelings, did he?” “No.” I sniff. “Okay, because, uh, Hollyn said something that worries me.”

Curious, I ask, “What did she say?” Opening the door, Amanda peeks her head in, a sad smile on her face when she sees me on the floor. “Oh, sweetie.” Quickly standing, I wipe at my clothes, straightening them along with my apron. I hold up a hand so she doesn’t feel the need to embrace me. “I’m really okay. Facing fears is hard, that’s all.” “Are you sure?” I nod. “Yeah, I’m sure. So what did Hollyn tell you?” With a concerned look, she says, “That Carter might not be the best guy and to be careful when around him.” Why would Hollyn say that? There is some history between them but it doesn’t seem like it would be to the point that she would tell Amanda to warn me. “I think Hollyn might be mistaken. I just don’t think they understand each other.” Amanda shrugs. “Just be careful.” From her pocket, she hands me my phone. “Here, this beeped after you went upstairs. I’m going to take a shower and then eat at least four of your cookies.” “Only if I can join you.” Winking, she says, “It’s a date.” Taking off, she leaves me in the bathroom, wondering what Hollyn meant when she said to be careful. Did she really think Carter could hurt me? He might be upset about something happening in his life, but I don’t believe he would ever really hurt me. Would he? I remove my apron, splash some water on my face, and then turn to my bedroom where I change into an I Love Lucy pajama set. Even though my khakis have an elastic waistband, I still feel more comfortable in my PJs. Plus, Amanda likes to change into comfortable clothes when she gets home from work, so I like to join her and chat on the couch, all curled up and cozy. I pull my hair into a ponytail and then reach for my phone, which is when I remember Amanda said it beeped with a message. I press the home button to make the screen come alive and immediately see a text from Carter. A queasy feeling fills the pit of my stomach and my hand shakes as I open his message. Carter: Why am I leaving? Because I’m not the kind of guy you should be friends with. Thanks for the cookies. Not the kind of guy I should be friends with? Why not? Is there something I’m missing? Is it because I’ve never had a drink before? Maybe I’m too boring for him. On the back of my door, there is a mirror that catches my attention. The reflection in the mirror is the girl I’ve always known. She’s sheltered, naïve, old-fashioned, maybe a little outdated, slightly childish. I’ve always liked her, but maybe there is more for the girl in the mirror. Maybe it’s time for her to grow up. Maybe she’s not as likeable as I once thought. I want there to be more. Maybe instead of relying on my comforts like baking and crafting, I’ll start expanding my horizons, try new things, see what it’s like to be an adult. A change needs to happen, because right now, the person I see in my reflection is still stuck in the past, and I want her to move into the future. I’m doing this for me. I’m changing for me. I’m peeling my layers for me. No one else. It doesn’t matter how much they don’t want to hang out with me. This is for me and only

me. JACE “The chatter in the room is wonderful to hear. I really hope you’ve been able to take the last two weeks and develop your support group. In the coming challenges, it will be important to have your group understand you, guide you, and help you through the fears and tests you’ll face.” Chatter? More like crickets in our circle. Even Daisy is quiet, which is surprising. I expected the closed-off, arms-crossed, slouching-in-his-chair Carter to be in attendance tonight—he always is—but even Hollyn is a little off. Does she feel weird after our conversation at the Cat Company? I hope I didn’t say anything to offend her. “Over the past few weeks, we’ve talked about grieving, letting go, and building support,” Marleen continues. “Not everyone will be at the same pace. Some of you may still be grieving.” Uh yeah, I’ll probably be grieving for the rest of my life. “Some of you might still be holding on to the past, not quite letting go just yet. And some of you might be tackling this program head-on. Being forced to move on to the next stage when you’re not ready isn’t helpful. But here you can learn a few strategies, new skills. You move at your own pace, but take in the challenges when you can. Learn from your peers and as always, spend each day proving your existence. As you would have seen in your information pack, there are names of psychologists who specialize in trauma counseling especially. Please ask if you would like to pursue more one-on-one guidance. The one thing I don’t want to see, is you staying stagnant or regressing to the person you were before you came to the program.” Staying stagnant, hell, I’ve felt stagnant since Hope was born. I feel like I’m still in that hospital room, handing her over to June and Alex, the feeling of total heartbreak coating me, constantly clogging my soul with pain. It burns, sears me, and mostly turns me from hot to cold in seconds. It’s like the movie, Groundhog Day, living in a vicious cycle of the same day over and over again, but instead of having to report the weather and trying to score with women like Bill Murray’s character, I’m in a constant state of nausea and utter depression. “For the rest of the evening, I would like you to talk to your group about the progress you’ve made, your feelings, what you perceive your holdbacks might be, and what you want to start accomplishing. As always, when you’re finished, write your letters, refer to your book for the next challenge, and feel free to ask me any questions you might have.” She claps her hands and says, “Have at it.” She’s a little too enthusiastic for me. Marleen, hint, hint. Some people in this program can’t take the goget-’em attitude all the time. Circling our chairs together, we face one another and wait for Daisy to speak up like usual but she doesn’t. Her gaze is cast down and she has an obvious slump in her shoulders. Not liking what I’m seeing, I ask, “Daisy, how are you doing? You seem quiet tonight.” Surprised I singled her out, she lifts her head and looks around in the circle, her eyes shifting longer over Carter who is fiddling with a pen, expertly flipping it through his fingers. Before answering, she fidgets in her seat. “I feel a little disheartened.” “Why are you disheartened?” Hollyn asks, true concern in her voice. “I guess I feel like I’m trying, but I’m not really doing a good job at it. I’m quite clueless as to what I’m trying to accomplish and I’m afraid the person I want to strive to be will never show up. It just seems like

I take one step forward only to take a few steps back.” “What happened in the past few days that has made you feel like that?” I ask. Glancing again at Carter, Daisy takes her time to respond. Something has to be going on there, but with Daisy’s vague answers and the inability to read Carter, I probably won’t be able to figure it out. “Nothing per se, but I was looking at myself in the mirror the other day and I didn’t necessary like the person in the reflection.” “I can’t speak for Jace and Carter, but I know the feeling, Daisy. It’s been a while since I’ve liked the person in the mirror. The person I see is broken, tired, sad. She’s given up.” After speaking with Hollyn, and really looking into her eyes the other day, I see the woman she’s talking about. It’s evident in the half smile she gives, the sorrow in her voice, and the constantly sagging posture in her shoulders. “Given up relates to me as well,” I add, wanting Hollyn to feel like she’s not alone. “I don’t feel the motivation I used to. I’m going through the motions because I have to, I’m obligated to, but I don’t feel the same thrill when I’m in the batting cage, or training. It’s just like my body is in a constant state of numb.” “Numb. It’s the perfect way to describe it,” Hollyn agrees with me. “Like nothing can penetrate the veil eclipsing you.” “Does it feel like you’re almost choking?” Daisy asks meekly. “Yes,” Hollyn and I answer. Carter, of course, is nowhere near the conversation. He’s off in his own little world. “I never realized how much I was missing out on, how sheltered I truly was, until I started living outside the bubble I was in with Grams. Now, seeing how Amanda and Matt interact with others, how easy it is for them, makes me wonder if I’ll ever be like them or if I will forever hide behind my craft table awkwardly wishing I was able to be a part of everyone else’s world.” Tossing the pen to the ground, Carter lifts his head, anger seeps out of him. “You don’t want to be like everyone else, Snowflake.” His tone is harsh, menacing. “This world is all kinds of fucked up. Hang on to your innocence. You don’t want to be a clone. Be you. Own you.” Own you. Those two words resonate with me. “Own you,” I repeat softly and then a little louder. “Own you.” Looking around the circle, into the eyes of my peers I was randomly put together with but for a reason, I say, “Carter is right. Own. You.” Taking a deep breath, I decide to step up. This feeling that’s eating me alive has to go away somehow, I don’t want to feel fucking sick anymore. “We are all here for a reason, because of something holding us back, whether it be our upbringing, a loss we’ve suffered, or a setback we’ve experienced. We are here to change. Like Marleen said, we’ve been given the tools to grieve, permission to acknowledge and experience the hole our grief caused us. Then, we let it go. We’ve been building the relationships between us, but perhaps what we need to do is accept who we are now, and move forward. Own. You.” “What if we don’t like who we are?” Hollyn asks. “You have to own it to change it,” I answer back. “Right, Carter?” “Sure,” he says, reverting to his unsociable self. And here I thought he was going to be helpful . . . for a second. “This week’s challenge is to set goals for ourselves. I think we should own who we are now and set a goal for who we want to be at the end of this program.”

“I’m sure Carter wants to be a manlier version of Cher, don’t you?” Hollyn asks jokingly, lightening the mood. Glancing up, he replies sarcastically, “I really do want to believe in life after love.” “Yeah, that will be the day. I’ve worked with you for a few years now, you’re not the love kind of guy.” “Love doesn’t exist.” Carter picks up his pen off the ground and starts twirling it again in between his fingers. “You don’t believe in love?” Daisy asks, looking like someone just stole her puppy. This sweet girl. He spares her a glance and shakes his head. “Hard to believe in love when you’ve never really known what it is.” The fun banter quickly dies off, and we’re left with feeling awkward once again. “Uh, we kind of got off topic here.” “Because this group stuff is bullshit.” Carter shifts in his seat, pushing down on his jeans. “Do you really think this is going to help you? Talking about your feelings?” “It’s better than bottling it up,” Daisy says. “She’s right. I don’t think this program is meant to cure you week by week like Marleen said. It’s supposed to present you with different challenges to break free of the monotony you’re living in. It challenges you to try new things, to actually talk when you don’t want to.” “Which is all the time,” Carter says under his breath. “Then just leave,” Hollyn counters. “If you don’t like it, leave. You’re bringing down the group, Carter.” An icy stare meets Hollyn, and I watch as she doesn’t back down. “You know I can’t fucking do that, Hollyn. You out of everyone should know I can’t just leave.” “Pay the fee, then, if you’re that miserable.” “Yeah? With what money?” Carter shoots back, looking more alive than ever. And it clicks. Hollyn is pushing his buttons to get him to talk more. Smart, ballsy woman. “It’s hard to pay for anything when your ex-girlfriend stole all your money.” The second his words leave his mouth you can tell he regrets saying anything. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he blows out a long breath. “Fuck it. Give me a piece of paper so I can write my damn letter and get the hell out of here.” “Is that what you meant about life emasculating you?” Daisy asks out of pure curiosity. “I didn’t ask you to psycho-analyze me, Snowflake, so don’t fucking try.” “I wasn’t . . .” She pauses, her eyes forming tears, a slight shake to her head. I’m about to speak up when Daisy flees her chair and walks briskly over to the hall where the bathrooms are. “Wow, great job, Carter. You made the innocent one cry.” Hollyn stands up and starts walking toward the bathroom. Regret fills Carter’s face and when I think he’s going to leave, he stands and chases down Hollyn, sending her back in my direction. Furious, she sits down and crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s such an asshole.” “He’s hurting too,” I say, trying to see it from both sides. “You’re not seriously defending him, are you?” “I’m looking at the situation from all angles.” I hold up my hands in defense.

“Creative listening, I know.” She smiles, a smile that eases the tension in my shoulders. “Ah, so you do remember how to smile. I was thinking for a second you forgot.” “What does that mean?” she asks. “It means you’ve been weird all meeting. Are you regretting our little pussy-petting rendezvous? Because I sure as hell don’t regret it.” Scanning the room for listeners, Hollyn leans forward. “Say that a little louder, why don’t you?” A chuckle rumbles from my chest. “Hey, I have nothing to hide. It was a good time. I felt comfortable talking to you.” The admission feels a little awkward, a little clumsy, but it needed to be said. I feel a connection with Hollyn, and I want it to continue to grow. For some reason, I can see a key to happiness within her. I can see her pain helping my pain. Looking me up and down, a smirk caressing her beautiful lips, she says, “I had a nice time as well.” For a moment, we sit there, smiling at each other, soaking in the atmosphere. What is she thinking? Does she feel the same connection I feel between us? I sure as hell hope so. “This is my last meeting for a bit, at least in person,” I say, breaking the silence. “What do you mean?” she asks. “Spring training. I have to report soon to Arizona.” “Oh, that’s right. I guess I forget you’re a professional baseball player.” Her cheeks redden. “Uh, so what are you going to do about the meetings?” “FaceTime in. You guys can sit me in the chair, my face on an iPad. I’ve already talked to Marleen about it.” “So we’ll only have iPad Jace.” Her negative response makes me happy for some reason. I want her to be disappointed to not see me in person. “Not for long. And I’ve worked it out that I can come back a few times as well. Believe me, the front office is being very flexible with me right now.” “I can imagine they are, they want their star player healthy and happy.” A laugh pops out of me. “I wouldn’t say star player.” “Rookie of the Year with a batting average that rated second in the National League, pretty sure you’re their star player.” Her hair falls to the side, vibrant red strands caressing her cheek, emphasizing the light spattering of freckles on her cheeks. I wiggle my eyebrows. “Reading up on me?” She shrugs, a light blush still staining her cheeks. “I used to be a huge sports fan, and I can’t help but read about my teams on occasion.” “Used to be?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. All she has to say is one word for me to understand. “Eric.” “Fair enough.” I lean forward, clasp my hands together, and look at her from under my bill. “But we’re going to have to fix that.” With a wicked smile, I meet her eyes, and fuck me, they’re sparkling right back at me. CARTER You know that feeling you get when anger eclipses you and you can’t think of anything else to do besides slamming your fist through a wall? That’s where I am.

Daisy, fucking Snowflake. She gets under my skin, buries herself deep within, and shows no plans on leaving. At first, when I was texting her, I was trying to be nice. It seemed like she wanted someone to talk to, and hell, I kind of wanted someone to talk to as well. She fascinates me. But then I took it a step further and baked with her. All innocent, right? Wrong. I’m not an idiot, I saw the way she was looking at me, I caught her staring every once in a while, caught the way her eyes would roam my body. And hell if I didn’t do the same thing. Under those khakis and turtlenecks, there is a beautifully pure woman waiting to break free. She’s hesitant, a little skittish, but from the look in her eyes when I would lean close, I could see something else: yearning. And that’s why this is all fucked up because a part of me wants to see where that yearning could lead, but I can’t because I’m a bitter bastard who would destroy her. She’s sunshine and rainbows; I’m rainclouds and puddles. I match well with girls like Sasha, who share the same hate I have toward life. I don’t go for girls who can easily see the good in everything. I knew coming to the meeting tonight was going to be hard, but I didn’t know it was going to be this hard. Even beneath the corduroy pants and crewneck sweatshirt with a watering can on the front, I felt the pull between us, like our beings were trying to attach themselves together. I wanted to talk to her, ask her how her fucking day was, if she brought me any cookies. But that almost seemed too intimate. So, I did what I do best. Acted like a dick. With a foot propped against the wall, my arms crossed over my chest, I wait for Daisy to come out of the bathroom. It’s only a brief five minutes before she appears and when she does, I immediately notice her red-rimmed eyes. Shit. “Oh,” she says, startled when she sees me. “Um, excuse me.” She tries to sidestep me but I grab her by the wrist and stop her. When I spin her back around, she’s shocked, maybe a little scared. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, just wanting to get this over with. “I didn’t mean to be rude to you or hurt your feelings.” “You didn’t,” she replies with a brave face and lifted chin. “No?” I cup her cheek and wipe under her eye with my thumb. “Then why are your eyes wet?” Searching my eyes, she tries to formulate a response. She tries to lower her head but I don’t let her. She lets out a frustrated breath and asks, “Why don’t you want to be my friend? I might be different, but I’m still a nice girl.” “Yes, you are a nice girl, Daisy. That’s the problem. You’re pure, the furthest thing from me.” Her nose scrunches up in a cute way that makes me want to . . . no, not going there. “I don’t understand.” Retreating away from her, I run my hand through my short, dark hair and say, “I’ll tarnish you, Daisy. I’ve done things, seen things that would make you blush, quiver, think again about ever stepping outside your house. I’m not the kind of person you should be hanging out with.” “And who are you to decide that?” she asks, puffing her chest out, surprising me. “Listen, I know your kind—” “No, you don’t,” she shoots back, poking me in the chest. “Do you know why? Because I don’t even

know my kind just yet. I’m still finding myself, so don’t prejudge me before I can find out who I am. That’s not fair to me.” “Daisy, I’m too much of an asshole for you to be hanging around with.” “That may be true,” she says honestly. “But maybe I need a little um, butthole in my life.” We both pause, mulling over her words, both cringing. Daisy is the first one to laugh out loud and cover her mouth while shaking her head. “Oh goodness, that sounded really bad.” Laughing with her, I nod. “Pretty gross, Snowflake.” Smiling brightly, she nudges my shoulder and says, “You know what I mean. And hey, maybe I might not need a butthole, but you sure do need some rainbow in your life.” “Stop saying butthole, please,” I beg jokingly. “Seriously, Carter. We both want to break free. Stop pushing me away and let’s help each other. I need a partner in crime, will you be that person for me?” A partner in crime. Hell, I could easily be that person for her but do I want to be? If I learned anything tonight, it’s that I can’t seem to leave her alone. So maybe being the one to liberate her will be the perfect distraction to get me through this godforsaken, let’s talk about our feelings and then dance around a rain stick program. She exchanges a hopeful glance in my direction and I concede. “All right, Snowflake, you got your partner in crime.” “Really? REALLY?” Jumping up and down, the watering can on her sweatshirt shifting with her movements, she cheers over her small victory. “Oh, I’m so excited. We are going to have the best time, Carter. I just know it. Oh, we can puffy paint together.” “Watch it,” I hold up my finger to warn her, “there will be no puffy painting.” We walk back to our circle and she bumps into my shoulder. “Never say never. Once you get that little bottle in your hand, you won’t be able to stop yourself from squeezing.” Christ. *** Dear Life, Learning to let go and move on, there is no learning there. You can’t teach someone how to forget about their husband, how to live without them. Learning to let go comes from within. A deep inner strength I have yet to find, that honestly, I don’t necessarily want to find. Not yet at least. But what I did find this past week surprised me. I found a friend. I found someone who has experienced similar pain and understands the damage losing a loved one can do to a soul. Jace Barnes, Rookie of the Year, starting shortstop, and broken man. My new friend. Talking to him eases the pressure within my heart. He understands me. For the first time in over a year and a half, I’ve found someone who understands me. For that, I guess I have to say thank you. Sincerely, Hollyn

Dear Life, Wowza. Have you been paying attention these last few days? Did you see me out there in action, making friends? Did you see those text messages? Brilliant, right? When Amanda showed me how to make a group text, which is actually quite simple, I couldn’t believe my luck when everyone started replying, interacting. And then the last thing I expected happened: Carter sent me a personal message. For some reason, he makes me feel self-conscious but also invigorated. He makes me question everything, but also challenges me. Is that possible? That’s why I asked him to guide me through this convoluted world, to assist me through the ups and downs because there is no doubt in my mind that no matter what happens, he will try to protect me, and in this big scary world, I need a protector. What’s going to happen next? I have no clue, but whatever it is, it’s going to change that girl in the mirror. Here’s to another step to a new me. Kind regards, Daisy Dear Life, Growing up in the foster care system taught me some valuable lessons. One, guard yourself and guard your possessions, you never know what might happen to them at any given time. Two, family is everything, it’s what every lonely kid wishes, hopes, and prays for. And three, love isn’t handed out in droves. Love is resigned for those who are special enough to find someone in their life to accept them for who they are and never let go. I have my possessions. I’ve never been one for materialistic things, but the few items I’ve kept have meaning in my life. They will forever stay with me. Family, I’m still hoping and praying for one. Even at my age, I want a family. Hope, she was my family but just like every other cruel happening in my life, I lost her too. And love, well, maybe someday. What do I have? An open and understanding ear in Hollyn. A small close-knit group of people to lean on. And hope for the future, hope that I might just be able to become mentally healthy again. Only time will tell. Jace Dear Life, Puffy paint? Fuck you. Carter

Step Four: Dream Big DAISY

“Come on you stubborn . . . little . . . thing. Oye!” I screech once the latch hook finally pops into the designated hole I’ve been trying to squeeze it through. “Stop being so difficult,” I chastise the latch-hook rug I’ve been working on for my grams. When I was in Michaels the other day, picking up some more puffy paint for the dream board we’re supposed to be putting together for Dear Life, I took a gander at the latch-hook rugs and saw a design with two puppies on the front, and I thought what a wonderful “housewarming” present I could give Grams. It would be the perfect little rug for her to step on when she first gets out of bed. It’s always nice to step onto something warm when you first get out of bed rather than a cold, hard floor. She will love it! I just didn’t think it was going to be this stubborn. “Daisy! Are you up in your room?” Amanda’s voice travels up the staircase. Hopping off my bed, I straighten my green corduroy overalls, and head downstairs. “Hey, everything okay?” I ask. In the entryway, Amanda is standing with her purse on her shoulder and Hollyn next to her, both wearing coats. “Oh, hi Hollyn.” “Hey, Daisy.” She turns to Amanda and they exchange a conspiratorial look. What are they up to? “We’re going to go look at bridesmaid’s dresses,” Amanda says, adjusting the strap of her purse. Holding onto the bannister, I say, “Wow, that’s exciting. Okay, so you’re not going to be around for lunch today?” “No.” Amanda chuckles. “We were kind of hoping you would come with us.” I point to myself and adjust the belt that’s cinched around my overalls. “You want me to come with you?” “Well, it’s kind of mandatory for all bridesmaids to go shopping for their dresses.” “Mandatory?” What is she . . . “Wait? Am I bridesmaid?” Hollyn and Amanda both laugh. “Yes. I can’t get married without my sister standing next to me.” “Are you serious?” I can’t help the giddiness that exudes me. I’ve never been a bridesmaid before. I’ve never had friends to even ask me to be a bridesmaid. This is so exciting. My little heart can’t take the joy coursing through me. “Of course I’m serious. Come on, go get your purse, we have some shopping to do.” My brain can’t stop my feet from moving. Instead of going upstairs, I fling my body at Amanda and give her a huge hug, before pulling away and looking at her through tear-filled eyes. With a clogged throat, I make her a promise. “Amanda, I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I promise I will be the best

bridesmaid ever.” Amanda endearingly cups my face like Grams would. “I know you will be. Now go get your purse.” Without skipping a beat, I run up the stairs, tripping on the top one so I fall to my knees. I hear Amanda ask if I’m okay, but I wave her off and scurry to my feet, quickly grabbing a jacket and a purse. Eeep, girls’ day out! Ahhh, I’m going out with the girls. I’m one of the girls. Grams will be so proud of me. The car ride to the department store is full of wedding talk. Amanda has almost everything planned, which apparently is a good thing since the wedding is in a few months. Being born and raised in Colorado, she wants a real Colorado wedding, so she’s having it out on a ranch just below the mountains, offering a picturesque view. At least that’s what she said. “Did Matt make any requests?” I ask, getting out of the car and following Amanda and Hollyn into Nordstrom. “Only that he wants steak and mashed potatoes. But really good steak with some kind of garlic butter sauce. Who knows, the venue has it under control. Oh, and he gets to pick out his suit and what the groomsmen are wearing.” “Matt is a sleek dresser, he will make the boys look good,” Hollyn offers. “I agree. I can’t wait to see what he picks out. He said since he won’t know what I’m wearing, I can’t see what he’s wearing.” “That’s cute and fair.” We walk through the doors of the giant department store and I immediately feel overwhelmed. I’ve never really been shopping in a fancy store like this. Grams and I would usually hit up the thrift store for some bargain finds. We never bought new unless it was underwear and bras because Grams said ladies with class buy their own garments, they don’t wear hand-me-downs. I’m grateful for that rule because the thought of wearing thrift store underwear makes me dry heave. “This way, ladies.” Taking charge, Amanda leads us to the wedding suite. We pass the dress section on the way and I can’t help but fawn over all the pretty garments hanging on the racks. Soft fabrics, beads, lace, brand-new tags . . . it’s a new world I’ve never experienced before. Even the smell of the clothing store fills me with euphoria. Shopping. With the girls. Heaven. While Amanda talks to a sales clerk, I thumb through the bridesmaid dresses hanging in the wedding suite. “They are gorgeous,” I say to Hollyn when she steps up next to me. “Everything here is gorgeous. Very flowy and elegant. You will look so pretty in all of them.” “Oh, I don’t know,” I say shyly. “I’ve never worn anything like these dresses. I think I might feel out of place.” “Don’t say that.” Hollyn shakes her head. “You’re not out of place, you’re just experiencing something new. Relax and enjoy it, Daisy. This is supposed to be fun.” “All right, ladies,” Amanda claps her hands, “I’ve hand-picked a few dresses for you two. Theresa, our lovely store clerk, has pulled them already and set up dressing rooms. You both will be wearing an icy-blue color but your styles will be slightly different.” “Icy blue, what are you trying to make Daisy look like an angel sent from above with her blue eyes and

blonde hair?” Hollyn teases and walks toward her dressing room. “Anything is going to look good on Daisy, it’s quite difficult to make her look bad.” Pointing at me, Amanda says, “You better grow a zit before the wedding, you can’t be prettier than me on my wedding day.” “Oh gosh. That’s not possible, Amanda. You’re so pretty.” Wrapping her arm around me, she guides me to my dressing room and leans into my ear to say, “So are you. Now try on that dress.” Pretty? I’ve never really put the word pretty next to my name. I pull the curtain back and only see one dress. Confused, I ask, “Are there supposed to be other dresses?” Amanda shakes her head. “No, once I saw this dress, I knew you had to wear it. I can’t wait to see you in it. Now, go change.” She slaps my butt and pushes me forward, shutting the curtain behind me. Goodness. I set my items down on the chaise lounge in the dressing room, undo my belt buckle and start undoing my overalls as I take in the dress. It’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like it. The color will complement my fair skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. The midsection of the dress seems to be very form-fitting, but the bottom half of the dress is made of silk chiffon and flows beautifully. It looks like something a modern-day Cinderella would wear. Feeling a little anxious, I pull out my phone and text Carter. Daisy: I’m trying on a bridesmaid dress for Amanda’s wedding. It’s so pretty. I’ve never worn anything like it before. Once I press send, I take a deep breath, and undress myself, completely aware of everyone on the other side of the curtain. I take my time putting on the dress, not wanting to rip it in any way. From the other side of the curtain, I can hear Amanda and Hollyn talking about a dress she just tried on and not liking the way the bodice has too much sparkle on the front. My phone beeps with a message. Before I put on the dress, I read the text. Carter: A new experience, soak it in, Snowflake. I’m doing just that. Daisy: I will. Want a selfie? Gosh, does that sound vain? I don’t want Carter thinking I’m full of myself. Would he? Carter: Sure. From his short response, I’m going to guess, no. Carefully, I step into the dress, the skirt pooling on the floor. Slowly, I shimmy the dress up my legs, loving the way the fabric dances around my legs. The sleeves are very delicate and hang off my shoulders, the chiffon barely kissing my skin. The built-in cups lend the support I need. I adjust my breasts, reach behind me and zip the dress up as much as I can. Taking a deep breath, I turn toward the mirror as a small gasp escapes me. Is that really me? “Are you dressed yet?” Amanda asks, peeking in the dressing room. My mouth agape, I stare at my reflection. For the first time in my entire life, the girl I’m used to seeing in the mirror is no longer there and in her place is a beautiful woman. A woman. Tears prick my eyes and an overwhelming sense of self takes over.

I’m beautiful. “Oh my God,” Amanda says, taking me in and then quickly turns and shouts out of the dressing room. “Hollyn! You have to come see Daisy.” Walking up behind me, Amanda zips up the rest of my dress and then puts her hands on my hips, leaning over my shoulder, she smiles at me in the mirror. “You are stunning, Daisy. Absolutely stunning.” “Let me see.” Hollyn pushes the dressing room curtain to the side. Wearing an icy-blue dress as well, hers sans sleeves, she brings her hands to her chest. “Ah, Daisy. Look at you. You look amazing.” Scanning me up and down, she comes closer and pokes my boob. “What? Those are real?” “Oh, I know,” Amanda adds. “The girl has an amazing rack but never shows it off.” “They’re so perky.” Hollyn pokes my boob again. “And big.” Amanda pokes the top of my breast. Is this what happens when girls go shopping together? Is it a rite of passage to have your boobs poked by a friend? “What are those? Cs?” “Can’t be any less than a C.” Both of them continue to talk about my breasts, poking them back and forth as I stare at myself in the mirror realizing this is a pivotal moment in my life. Right now, I look like a woman, the adult I want to be. Piled on the chaise lounge, folded neatly, is the little girl who I’ve been striving to get away from. I have two choices: I can take this moment and build off it, or I can remove this dress, forget about the woman in the mirror, and revert back to the little girl in overalls. For the first time, I want to be the woman in the mirror. Right now I’m supposed to be thinking about my future goals, who I want to be, where I want to be after the Dear Life program is over. I’m supposed to be dreaming big and that’s what I’m doing right now. “I need help.” My words interrupt both Amanda and Hollyn who have now taken to lifting their boobs in the mirror and comparing them. “What do you need help with?” Amanda asks. “Is everything okay with the dress?” “Everything is fine.” Looking at both of them, I say, “I need help giving myself a makeover.” Both Hollyn and Amanda exchange glances and then smile brightly at me. “Oh, this day just got so much better.” Amanda weaves her arm through mine, linking us together. “Goodbye overalls, hello hot-sex pants.” “No hot-sex pants,” I shoot back, a blush rising up my cheeks. “Oh, we are so getting you hot-sex pants,” Hollyn adds, linking her arm as well. “I don’t even know what hot sex-pants are.” “You will.” Amanda pats my hand. “Just you wait and see.” Oh goodness. Hot-sex pants, what did I get myself into? JACE “Thanks for coming over.” I step to the side and let Carter into my apartment. “Not a problem.” I watch closely as he takes in my place. It’s very modest for a professional baseball player but it’s me. I don’t need a bunch of flashy, unimportant things clogging up my living space. “Want a beer?”

“Sure?” Carter answers, hands in his pockets, still looking around. We both walk into the open-concept living space, and when I go to the kitchen for two beers, he stays in the living room and checks out the view of the mountain range. I don’t know much about Carter, but I can imagine my living space might rival his. “Here.” I hand him a beer, cap already popped off. He examines the bottle and nods in approval. “Laughing Lab. Good Scottish ale.” “Bristol Brewery down in the Springs is one of my favorite places. I love their micro-brews.” “I haven’t been but I’ve tried their Red Rocket and Beehive beers. Laughing Lab in my opinion is their best.” “Can’t agree more.” Motioning to the couch, I say, “Take a seat.” Even though I invited Carter over, I’m feeling a little uncomfortable. I don’t really know the guy but I want to get to know him because I think we could help lean on each other through a common ground; having no family to rely on. “What’s up?” Carter gets straight to the point. “Did you call me over here to try to convince me that that godforsaken program is actually beneficial if taken seriously? Because if you did, don’t waste your breath.” I don’t think I’ve ever met somebody with a bigger chip on their shoulder. Sitting back on the couch, I take a sip of my beer and say, “What happened?” If he’s going to be honest, then I’m going to be honest. “I want to know why you don’t mind acting like a giant dick most of the time.” A small smirk peeks past the beer bottle raised to his mouth, his fingers barely gripping the neck of the glass. He leans back as well, props an ankle up on his knee and says, “Is that what this is? You want to get to know me.” “Why the fuck not?” I answer back. “As the two men in the group, we should establish some sort of rapport, don’t you think?” “Not really.” He shakes his head. “But I’m probably going to ask for tickets to a game this summer, so it’s looking like I’m going to have to spill it.” “I’m glad you realize that,” I say with a smile. “Fuck.” He runs his hand over his face and then points his bottle at me. “They better be awesome fucking tickets.” “Your story better be worth it.” Silence settles between us. We both sip our beers, our gazes looking out the window toward the mountains, appreciating the great landscape of Colorado. “My parents died from a drug overdose,” Carter cuts in, keeping his eyes on the mountains. Oh fuck. “They were the best kind of parents. Irresponsible, never kept a job, couldn’t care less about their child, and often had friends over to binge on drugs and alcohol during the week days when I was trying to get my school work done.” He drapes an arm over the back of my couch and fixes his eyes on mine. “When they died, I was relieved. No more parties, no more seeing my parents high as shit, and no more cleaning up after them.” A sardonic laugh comes out of him. “And I thought that was hell until my legal guardian became Uncle Chuck.” “A real prize?” “Yeah, you can say that. My presence was apparently a real burden on his life, and he had no problem

hiding that fact from me. Every day. It’s a real slap to the dick, knowing as a child you’re not wanted anywhere.” “Tell me about it,” I say. “The foster care system isn’t fucking Disney World either.” Sizing me up, he tips his head up at me. “Foster kid?” “Yup.” “That’s shitty.” From over our beers, we commiserate together with one simple look. That’s all it takes. Carter smirks and says, “Look at us, fucking mommy and daddy issues.” Laughter fills the room and I sigh. “Yeah, real fucking lucky we are. So, your uncle is an asshole. What does that have to do with the program?” “I owe him money for school. I’m working off my debt and was so close to paying him off when my ex took all my money and ran. I was a month or so away from finally being able to tell my uncle to fuck off. Now, I’m back to zero. Lost my shit at work, and thanks to Hollyn, who suggested this program to my uncle, I’m in. I can either see it through or add two more years to my servitude. So, I show up, do the minimum, and leave. Nothing in it for me, man.” I nod, understanding his story. “Makes sense why you’re a shit stick at every meeting.” “Just a little window into my fucked-up life,” he offers with a tilt of his beer in my direction. Fucked-up life it is. “Don’t you want more, though?” I ask, knowing I’m pushing my luck with Carter. I’m lucky I got him to talk this much. In fact, I didn’t actually expect him to tell me anything. I really am going to have to score him good tickets. “The program might actually help.” “I can’t change the circumstances. The only thing I need is ten thousand dollars and a kick to the dick to end my misery.” “No matter how fucked-up your life is, man, you don’t want a kick to the dick.” Smiling, he nods, his mouth full of beer. “You’re right, I don’t feel that shitty about myself.” He then looks around my living space and says, “You should really have a pool table in here or something.” “Yeah, you’re not the first person to say that.” His phone beeps and I watch a small smirk appear on his face when he reads the message. He types something out in haste and then looks back out toward the mountains. I’ve only seen that smile on him one other time, when he’s talking to Daisy. So I decide to push my luck. “Besides the touchy-feely stuff you clearly don’t like to participate in, do you like the program?” “No. Seems useless to me.” “But the group is cool. It seems like you and Daisy get along well.” From the mention of her name, his eyes shoot to mine. “What are you getting at?” he asks, seeing right through me. Yeah, he’s good. “Just seeing where your head’s at with her.” “You her big brother?” “No. Just wondering.” Avoiding my question, he asks, “What’s with you and Hollyn?” “Nothing really,” I answer honestly. “We are kind of going through the same thing, suffering from the loss of a loved one. We get each other. It’s nice to talk to someone you can relate to. Kind of like you and Daisy, how you both want to free yourselves.”

“Daisy and I are completely different. She’s exploring the world for the first time. I know the shit the world has to offer.” “But you’re helping her,” I add. He shrugs his shoulders. “There is something about her I like. She fascinates me. If I have to do this program, I might as well help her on her journey.” “She’s pretty.” Smirking, he says, “You want to talk about the obvious boner you’re sporting for Hollyn?” I cringe. “Fuck.” “Dude, you stare way too much.” This isn’t news to me. I know I stare too much, but for good reason. With her sleek, red hair, bright green eyes, and light splattering of freckles, she’s fucking gorgeous. Not to mention her sarcastic tongue and endearing personality. It’s hard, but I know to keep my distance. She’s still grieving her husband. Her fucking husband. A man she obviously loved deeply. From the look in her eyes when she talks about him, it’s clear their love is the kind of love I’ve always wanted. It’s passionate, deep, soul-wrenching. I can’t go there, though. It almost feels wrong, lusting after another man’s wife. I know Eric’s passed, and it’s been a while, but it still feels wrong. Does it feel wrong because I’m not a man who cheats? Would that be referred to as cheating? Or is it because just from looking at Hollyn, I know she hasn’t let him go? Maybe a combination of both. “It’s a moot point,” I say. “She’s still too raw from losing her husband.” Does she notice me staring? Does it make her uncomfortable? Fuck, I hope not. Thoughtfully, Carter says, “I remember when Eric died. It was a dark day in the restaurant. I only met the man once, but even that brief moment I shared with him, his positive attitude was contagious. One of those guys who could rally the darkest of rooms. Pretty sure he would kick us Dear Lifers all in the ass.” A lively spirit, doesn’t surprise me. I couldn’t imagine Hollyn with anyone else. “When Eric died, he took Hollyn’s spirit with him. She’s not the same person she once was. She used to be witty, amusing. We never really got along but at least back then, we didn’t tear each other apart. After Eric died, my uncle had to put us on different shifts.” “Can’t blame her, man. I know what it’s like. I’m not the same man I was before Hope was born.” “Hope,” Carter tests the name out. “Is that your daughter’s name?” I nod, my throat starting to grow tight. “Yeah, Alex and June named her Hope because that’s what I gave them—a bundle of hope.” Fuck me, if I start crying right now. Instead of pushing further, sensing the tension coiling inside me, Carter leans forward and sets his beer on the coffee table. “I think I’m going to head out.” Forcing out the words, I say, “Okay.” Together, we walk to the door, not exchanging any pleasantries, both well aware of the heaviness resting in our conversation. Before he leaves, Carter says, “Good luck at spring training.” “Thanks, man.”

I open the door, my head cast down at the ground since our conversation turned heavy quickly. There is no need for the man to see me break down. Carter is about to walk out of my apartment when he abruptly stops and say, “Uh, sorry. I didn’t see you there.” Didn’t see you there? Glancing up, I see Rebecca standing at my door, a determined look on her face, a strong set in her shoulders. My body freezes, my heart begins to rapidly beat in my chest, and all I can think is what the hell does she want? Without another word, Carter leaves. What I wouldn’t give to force him to come back so I have a buffer, because from the look in Rebecca’s eyes, I’m not going to like the reason she’s here. Grabbing the back of my neck, my other hand on the door, I ask, “Rebecca, what are you doing here?” With conviction in her voice, she looks me dead in the eyes, no waver to them whatsoever. “I want her back, Jace. I want my baby back.” Fuck. CARTER Yeah, whoever that girl was at the door didn’t seem like she belonged there by the ghost-white look on Jace’s face. If I were a better man, I would have stayed to see if he was okay, but I had to get out of there before he broke down. Just the mention of his daughter had him about ready to lose it. Didn’t want to see that. Call me an insensitive prick, but I don’t do so well with feelings. I would end up making the situation worse by saying something he didn’t want to hear. Chalk it up to my fan-fucking-tastic upbringing. Hell, that entire get-together was weird. He just wanted to get to know me. Me. Who would want to do that? I’m barely nice to Daisy, the sunshine of our little fucked-up circle. Tired, I head to my motorcycle where I’m going to drive back home, flop on my mattress on the floor of my shitty apartment, and sleep until I have to wake up for my shift tomorrow. I’m fixing to retrieve my gloves from my jacket when my phone rings. Who the hell would be calling me? Daisy. This actually doesn’t surprise me. “Hey,” I say, leaning against my motorcycle. “Hi, Carter. How are you?” “All right, what’s up?” “Uh, are you busy?” “Not really. About to drive home.” “Oh, nice.” She’s silent and even through the phone, I can tell she’s nervous. “Why’d you call, Daisy?” “Well, um, I was hoping maybe you wanted to hang out. I’m kind of hungry. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I just thought I would ask since I’m hungry and was looking for company. Really up to you. You know what, I think I might actually just grab something from King

Soopers, you know, make a little diddy for myself at home. I can make a wicked meatloaf, oh, you already know that. Meatloaf might be too long—” “Where do you want to meet?” I ask, wanting to stop the incessant rambling. “Where do . . . oh, you want to meet? “Sure, I could eat.” “Wonderful.” Gleeful is not even a close enough description for the way she sounds right now. “I don’t really know of any places to eat besides Country Buffet and Cracker Barrel. They were our favorite places to eat.” Why does this not surprise me? They probably wore matching kitten sweaters while taking part of the early-bird special. “Meet me at Prohibition. It’s on East Colfax.” “Prohibition, sounds like a fun place. Do they take coupons?” “Not so much.” I shake my head at her. Coupons. Christ. “Meet you in twenty.” “Oh, sure, yeah. See you soon.” I hang up quickly before I can change my mind. Partner in crime, I keep telling myself over and over again on my way to the restaurant. It’s one of my favorite places to grab a beer, especially during the summer where you can sit out on the patio and watch Denverites mill about. I’ve made it my mission to become familiar with the restaurants in the city, studying their menus, the drinks they carry ranging from liquor to local micro-brews that complement the food. I’ve studied tirelessly, keeping track of who serves what, during what season, and for how much. I have an entire notebook dedicated to my future competition along with multiple menus I’ll use one day when I finally own a place. Fuck, it stings knowing I was so close. I planned to pay off my uncle, get a job somewhere else, and continue to save until I could perfect my idea and talk to some local venture capitalists. That was going to be me proving my existence, even if I didn’t know that term at the time. The drive to Prohibition put me in an even worse mood than I was in, which has me considering to cancel on Daisy, but I can’t seem to let myself disappoint her. So I find a parking spot close to the restaurant and head on in. Luckily, the booth in the very back is open. I take a seat so I’m facing the door, giving me the perfect view of Daisy when she walks in. Scanning the beer list, my eyes fixate on one of my favorite lagers, Upslope. Should I drink? The scruff on my jaw grates against my fingers as I try to make a decision, just as the door to the restaurant opens. I look up to find a woman walk in wearing skinny jeans, knee-high brown boots, a white T-shirt, and a form-fitting brown leather jacket. It’s not until the same woman smiles at me and waves erratically as if she knows me that I realize it’s Daisy. Daisy? Holy Shit. I want to wipe my eyes, shake my head, do a double take. That’s not Daisy. Is it? Where’re the overalls, the turtleneck, the quilted vest?

“Hi, Carter,” she says, a giant smile on her face, her thumbs looped in her low-riding jeans. I swallow hard. Shit just got so much more complicated. HOLLYN “You don’t have to make me dinner.” “Yes, I do.” Amanda stirs the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stovetop. “You were great today, Hollyn.” Turning around, Amanda places her hands over her heart. She’s the perfect picture of gratitude. “You were so helpful with Daisy. Did you see the smile on her face? I mean, she smiles a lot, but I’ve never seen her smile like that.” “It was no problem at all. I really like Daisy. She’s super sweet, and all she wants is to experience life; how could I not help her accomplish that dream of hers?” “Pretty hard not to.” Amanda leans her back against the counter and sips from her wineglass. “Can I get mushy on you?” “When has asking ever stopped you?” “True.” Sighing, she tilts her head and studies me. “I’m grateful for you coming out today and taking part in my wedding stuff. I know it must not be easy for you.” Understatement of the day. Must not be easy on me. Ha, more like it was a gut-wrenching, sweat-inducing, fear-clenching kind of day. If I wasn’t on the verge of having a panic attack, then I was ready to vomit from anxiety and the many memories assaulting me. With every white, lacy dress I came across, or talk of venues, flowers, and bridesmaid dresses, I had flashback after flashback of my wedding night, or my marriage . . . of the dark night I was told Eric passed. But I held it together. I don’t know how, but I did, and now I just want to leave and be alone for the night. Leaving wasn’t really an option though. Amanda insisted upon making me dinner for everything I did today. Honestly, I didn’t do anything but participate and defer all attention to Daisy when we started shopping for her because the more I helped Daisy, the less sick I felt. But now I’m back at Amanda’s house, alone with her and dreading all conversation. There is no buffer now, no way for me to change the topic without being massively obvious. Swallowing hard, not wanting to touch the topic of how hard today really was, I ask, “Is Matt going to be home for dinner?” “No, he sent me a text a little earlier, he had some kind of emergency meeting with one of his players.” Immediately my mind jumps to Jace and if he’s okay. “Did he say what player?” I ask, being totally obvious. “He didn’t.” Amanda gives me a knowing smile. “He usually doesn’t tell me details about things happening in the clubhouse because I have a big mouth.” “Smart man.” I laugh. “Wonder if Gonzalez got himself in trouble again.” Slightly shocked, Amanda asks, “Have you been paying attention to sports again?” “No. I just see things trending on the side of my Facebook.” Once the water is finally boiling, Amanda dumps dry noodles into the hot pot and then turns on me. I

know that look. Walking toward me, she leans on the counter, and asks, “Would you ever let yourself fall in love again?” Yup, I was right. She asked a question I didn’t want to answer. “Uh, I don’t know.” Don’t commit to anything, be vague, it’s the best way to get through this question. Would I ever let myself fall in love again? Is that even possible? To fall in love with two people? To give your heart to two people? A piece of me died with him. The fun, goal-driven, dream-living girl left and in her place is a shell of the woman I once was. Nursing school is no longer on my radar, having a family, having children, a mere memory. Wanting to be the wife who cooks dinner for her husband—naked, only wearing an apron—no longer exists. That person is gone. Vanished. Those dreams faded the day I lost the man who meant everything to me. He was my radar. The thought of actually revisiting all those dreams makes me laugh. I would never be able to accomplish them without Eric and my heart wouldn’t be able to handle any more of them untouched. That’s why I don’t strive for anything, why I continue to waitress at a low-end restaurant, why I’ve dropped all studies, and why I haven’t even attempted to date again. “You know you can love again, right?” Amanda asks, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s okay to love again, Hollyn.” It’s not, but she doesn’t need to know that. She wouldn’t understand. Needing to get out of here, I pretend to receive a text message. Checking my phone, I scrunch my nose and sigh. “What’s wrong?” Amanda asks. “Cindy from the restaurant needs me to cover her shift. Her son is sick again. I have to go.” “Oh no, I hope he’s okay,” Amanda says, falling for the lie. Yup, I just lied to my best friend. I’m an amazing person. Instead of telling her the truth, that I can’t handle all this talk, that today was a hard day for me, I plaster on a fake smile, and tell her a lie to free myself of the hell I’m currently experiencing. “I’m sure it’s just a cold. Sorry I have to bounce. Hopefully we can do dinner again soon.” She tags along behind me to the entryway where I quickly throw on my coat and retrieve my keys from my purse. “Yes, we have to.” Pausing, she wraps her arms around me from behind and rests her head between my shoulder blades. “I’ve missed you, Hollyn.” I’ve missed me too. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Returning the embrace, I grip her arms and hold them tight for a second. Suffocating. I have to get out of here. Hold it together. Hold it in. The walk to my car feels like a mile while I attempt to hold back the agony ripping me apart. Why did he have to die? Why did the love of my life have to die? The faint feeling of darkness is starting to encroach. I can’t. I’ve been here before. Last time I’ve felt this all-consuming feeling of despondency, I didn’t leave my apartment for three days. Not wanting to fall into that dark hole again, I reach for my phone and dial the one person I know will understand me. “Hello?” Two syllables. That’s all it takes. His deep voice instantly starts to calm me.

“Hey, want to get a drink?” I anxiously ask. “I’m already ahead of you. Come to my place, I have a bottle of Jack open and currently being consumed.” He doesn’t need to ask twice. DAISY “Daisy?” Carter asks, standing from the booth. I fidget in place, not quite feeling right in my skin just yet. My neck feels exposed, as if I’m not even wearing a shirt, my legs, although comfortable, can’t comprehend the lack of fabric not flowing around them, and my feet, well, they are confused as to why they’re wrapped up in leather. Thanks to my dad’s little “I’m sorry I was a bad dad fund” I was able to completely update my wardrobe, besides pajamas. Amanda and Hollyn tried to convince me to get some sleek and silky PJs but I wasn’t having it. No one sees me when I go to bed, so I told them I was sticking with my I love Lucy flannels. But everything, all the way down to my undergarments, has been replaced. Thongs, oye! They just sit right up in there, don’t they? And what’s the point of wearing them with jeans? I told Amanda and Hollyn you can’t see panty lines through jeans but they didn’t care. All granny panties will be removed from my drawer. I don’t see anything wrong with them. They are sensible undergarments. According to the girls, they are not sensible for a twenty-one-year-old. Also, interesting fact, vests are in but not the kind of vests I was wearing. I got a couple of cute, modern vests I’m allowed to wear with boyfriend Ts, but only if I tuck the front part of my shirt into my jeans that’s paired with a belt and a long necklace. Honestly, my head is swimming with fashion advice. I told the girls they’re going to have to take pictures of outfits for me until I get the hang of it all. Once we were done spending a pretty penny, getting alterations for our dresses, and indulging in an Orange Julius—what a treat—we headed home, but for me, I wasn’t done. I was riding a high of becoming a new woman on the outside and there was one person I really wanted to share it with. You would think it would be Gram but when I went into my phone to dial her, I ended up calling Carter. At first I was confident in my decision to call him, but once I started asking him to hang out, nerves took over and I tried to backtrack so I didn’t have to face rejection. Lucky for me, he said yes. The entire taxi ride over to Prohibition was full of bouncy knees and sightseeing. It wasn’t until I was paying the cabbie and getting out of the car that I realize just how nervous I was. This entire outfit is new to me. I might think I look nice, but then again, I thought I looked nice in my watering-can crewneck sweatshirt with embroidered polo shirt peeking out of the neckline. Who’s the judge of what looks good? Will Carter like it? Do I even care if he likes it? I hate to admit it, but I do care. He’s a handsome man, with his dark, almost sinister eyes and mysterious vibe. For once in my life, it would be nice for a man like him to look at me differently. Not like a friend or an acquaintance, but like a beautiful woman he can’t resist. The funny thing is, I don’t need him to validate if I’m pretty or not. I can look in the mirror and know I’m pretty, inside and out. I just want to be appreciated on every level. I want to be swept off my feet. I want a man to not be able to take his eyes off me.

Clearing his throat, Carter looks me up and down and runs his hand through his hair. “I, uh, I almost didn’t recognize you.” Pulling on the hem of my jacket, I shyly say, “Yeah, I did a little shopping today.” His jaw ticks as he takes me in one more time. Instead of complimenting me, like I thought he would, he clears his throat again and tells me to take a seat. His dismissal of my appearance breaks my heart. “I’m getting a beer.” His head is buried in his menu, so I can barely hear him. “A beer?” I ask, making sure I heard him correctly. He could have said he’s getting the deer, or he’s becoming queer, or he likes their schmear. What else rhymes with beer? Year, tear, veer, adhere. Maybe he’s switching gears or he wants to do a Bronx cheer. Or his friend is Buzz Lightyear. Being friend’s with Buzz Lightyear, now that is something I would be interested in talking about. “Why are you giggling?” he asks, annoyed, from over his menu. “Do you know Buzz Lightyear?” I ask, a little too giddy. His eyebrow questions me. Lowering his menu, he assesses my features, his face growing harder with each once-over. Uh oh, why do I feel like I’m about to get in trouble? Leaning forward, with a menacing look, he asks, “Are you high?” High? Is he insane? “I beg your pardon.” “Marijuana, did you smoke some?” “No! And I’m insulted you would even ask. I don’t do drugs.” Sitting back in his seat, he says, “Marijuana is hardly a drug, Snowflake.” “Well, it’s a drug to me, and no, I haven’t smoked any. Why would you ask that?” “Why would you ask if I know Buzz Lightyear?” “Because you said beer.” The look on his face is priceless. “I’m not following.” “It was a rabbit trail in my head. I don’t think you want to know.” Casually, he drapes his arms across the back of his booth, finally starting to relax. Maybe the whole Buzz Lightyear thing was a smart move on my end even though I can feel my cheeks blushing from the whole interaction. “Fair enough.” He gestures at the menu. “Are you going to get a drink?” “Like an alcoholic one?” Slowly he nods his head while biting his lower lip and studying me. “Yeah, an alcoholic beverage. You’re of age, and I think it’s time to take another step toward your goal, don’t you think?” I’ve already taken a big step by flipping my wardrobe and style upside down, isn’t that enough for today? By the look on his face and the way his teeth nibble on his lower lip, I think maybe I can take one more big girl step. “Okay, hand me the drink menu?” “Really?” Carter asks in surprise, as if he really didn’t think I was going to have a drink. “Yeah, really. Hand it over.” Resigned, he opens up the drink menu and pushes it in my direction. “You might want to stick to this section.” He points to the cocktails right above the beers. There are so many options, and oh boy, they are pricey, at least I think they are for a drink. I don’t

really have anything to compare it to. Whispering, I glance up at Carter and say, “Ten dollars for a drink? Is that normal?” Smiling wickedly, he nods his head. “Yeah, Snowflake, that’s normal.” “Goodness, it better be a good drink.” Looking over the menu, I can’t decide. “Moscow Mule, that seems interesting. I’ve never seen a copper cup before.” “You won’t like it,” he states bluntly. “How do you know? It might be my favorite drink.” “It’s not.” He folds his arms over his chest, so sure of himself. “How can you say that? You don’t know my taste buds.” “Snowflake, I’ve watched you gag meeting after meeting at Dear Life from the coffee they serve. If you can’t handle coffee, you’re not going to be able to handle a Moscow Mule.” “Fine,” I concede. “But for the record, that coffee tastes like sludge.” “I’m not going to argue with you about that.” “What about Breaking Bad. That seems delightful.” Smiling, he takes the menu from me and puts it back behind the salt and pepper shakers. “Now that’s more like it.” Eeep, why does that smile make me feel tingly all over? After we both decide on getting the house-made chicken pot pie, something they are famous for, we wait for the waiter to bring our drinks. “This is exiting, my first drink ever. Who knows, maybe by tomorrow I’ll be doing shots.” Carter’s brow crinkles. “You won’t be doing shots.” “I might,” I counter. “I don’t have a job. Maybe I’ll start doing shots in the afternoon just for the heck of it.” “If you’re someone who uses the term ‘for the heck of it,’ I’m pretty sure you won’t be going on any afternoon shot binging.” “Well, now I have to prove you wrong.” “Go ahead,” Carter challenges me. “And be sure to call me after your first shot, I’m sure you’ll be singing songs of regret into the phone.” I hate to admit that he’s probably right. Just the mere thought of doing a shot has my stomach quivering. “Fine, I won’t do any shots. But I could if I wanted to.” “You could.” He pauses and asks, “Do you want a job?” Having a job never really crossed my mind when I was with Grams because my job back then was taking care of her. Now that I don’t have her to watch over, I’m having a hard time figuring out what I want to do for a living. Answering Carter’s question, I say, “I do want a job. I’m not quite sure what it’s going to be though. I have some money from my dad to live on right now while I figure it out.” “Let’s figure it out.” Leaning forward, his arms propped on the table, he asks, “What interests you?” “Oh gosh, I love crafts, and making people smile, and watching musicals.” “Okay,” Carter drags out. “Not quite what I was looking for. What about baking? You could always do something along the lines of baking.” “Oh, that would be a dream. Baking for a living, what a wonderful job that would be.”

“One Upslope and a Breaking Bad for the lady,” the waiter says, handing us our drinks. I stare down at the colorful concoction with an orange peel floating inside and get nervous. With one sip will I feel drunk? How does this really work? “Are you ready?” “I think so. My first drink.” I pull my phone out of my purse and hand it to Carter. “Will you take a picture of me with my first drink?” “Why am I not surprised by this request?” he asks sarcastically. I hold my drink up with both hands and smile brightly. Carter stares at me for a few heartbeats before holding the phone up and taking a picture. His expression is so intense. Shaking his head slightly, as if he’s trying to forget something, he holds his beer up to me and says, “Cheers, Snowflake. Here’s to your first drink.” “Cheers.” We clink glasses and with a deep breath, I take my first sip. I let the liquid ride down my throat and into my belly while I wait. When I feel like it’s settled, I open my eyes, expecting to feel completely different, but I experience nothing. “Well, that’s a letdown.” “What is?” Carter asks, his grip on his beer strong. Why do I find that attractive, the way his hand grips a pint glass? “I thought after my first sip, something explosive would happen.” Once again, his eyebrow lifts. “What, did you think when you took a sip of alcohol you were going to morph into something else, like when Peter Parker is bitten by a spider and instantly he’s Spiderman?” “No.” “Did you think a mariachi band was going to appear and start playing a song for you?” “No.” I giggle, kind of wishing that did happen. “Then what were you expecting?” “I don’t know.” I shrug. “A little lightning bolt would have been cool. Or maybe a dancing leprechaun could have appeared and given me a high five.” “Ah, yeah, leprechauns are on strike right now. Not happy with union wages,” he jokes. “Well, that explains everything.” For the rest of the evening, we talk about what baked goods I excel at making, his favorite things to cook, and other drinks I should try since I apparently like the fruity ones. I’ve established that only after one drink. When it’s time to pay the check, Carter slips his card in the folder before I can even look at the receipt. Apparently it is his treat since it is my first night of drinking. Before we leave the table, I down two glasses of water, wanting to avoid any kind of hangover. Carter assures me it will take consuming many more drinks before I have to worry about getting a hangover, but I take a few more sips of water just in case. The cold night air hits us when we exit the restaurant, the dark, expansive sky lit up by the city lights. “Where’s your car?” “Oh, I don’t have one. I took a cab over here. I need to call the company to come get me.” I start to dial the phone number to the cab company I used to get here when Carter places his hand over my phone, his fingers grazing my skin.

“You’re not calling a cab. I’ll drive you home.” “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I don’t mind taking a cab.” “You’re not taking a cab,” Carter says more sternly. Before I object, he laces his fingers with mine and starts walking me down the street. My heart freezes in my chest. My brain short-circuits. Carter is holding my hand. Carter—one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen—is holding my hand and walking me down the street. My inner Daisy is squealing in delight, reveling in the moment, while the outer Daisy is trying to act as cool as possible. But . . . eep, I’m holding a boy’s hand. CARTER Pretty sure I’ve lost it completely. Warning bells are going off in my head, telling me to drop her hand, step away, and run for the hills, but instead of pulling away, my hand stays firmly in place, making sure Daisy sticks close by. I would be lying if I didn’t say that was the most enjoyable meal I’ve ever shared with anyone. It’s not just because Daisy’s light and sunny personality is contagious, but because I was able to talk to someone about my passion, and not only was she more than happy to listen, she was actually interested. In my passion. We bounced ideas back and forth about different flavor combinations and what dessert would match what entrée. It was . . . fun. Yeah, I fucking said it. It was fun. Fun was the last thing I thought I would have tonight after Daisy walked into the restaurant looking like a blonde bombshell. I’ve always thought Daisy was pretty, the girl next door, and it’s impossible not to see her innate beauty. But with the new clothes that frame her physique perfectly, I wanted to take her back to her place, retrieve one of her baggy turtlenecks and a pair of overalls and drape them over her. She was more than gorgeous. She looked sexy. And I wasn’t about to let sexy, naïve Daisy take a cab back home at night. Nope, not going to happen. “You really don’t have to do this,” she says from behind me, trailing my every step. “It’s no biggie.” I reach my motorcycle and I hear Daisy gasp from behind me. “Something wrong?” Her eyes widen as she observes my ride. “You’re going to take me home on that?” Swinging my helmet forward and into her view, I nod. “Do you have a problem with it?” She shakes her head rapidly as if she doesn’t want to insult me and then stills. Leaning forward, she whispers, “Aren’t motorcycles dangerous?” Matching her lean, taking in her flowery scent, I whisper back, “I’m more dangerous than this motorcycle, and you don’t seem to have a problem being around me. Now, hop on.” “B-but, I don’t have a helmet,” she stutters. I move in close, so close that she has to tilt her head back to look at me. Because I have to touch her— because against my will I feel drawn to her—I reach up and gently push her silky blonde hair behind her ear, my fingers grazing her cheeks. Eyes widen, mouth parts, and her cheeks flush. Shit, she’s so gorgeous. “You’re wearing mine,” I say in a husky tone, my voice almost betraying the way Daisy affects me. “What are you going to wear?”

I snap the chin-strap in place and flip the visor down so I see my reflection in my helmet. “Nothing.” I waste no time getting on my bike and snapping up the kickstand. Holding on to the handles, the wind whipping open my jacket, I nod toward the seat. “Hop, on, Snowflake. It’s getting fucking cold.” Hesitant at first, she steps tentatively toward the bike, almost looking like a bobblehead with my helmet on. “I don’t know . . .” Turning on the bike, balancing it upright with a wide stance, I lift her visor so our eyes meet. “Tell me something. Aren’t you the one who wants to change, who wants to experience new things?” “Yeah, but—” “But nothing. This is an experience. Eat it up and enjoy it.” I gesture to the seat behind me once again. “Now, hop on. Don’t make me tell you again.” Biting her bottom lip, she carefully straddles the seat and quickly wraps her arms around my midsection. Her legs grip my hips and it feels like I have a spider monkey attached to my back. Fuck, if it isn’t the most amazing feeling. Shouting through the helmet, she says, “For the record, I’ve always thought my peanut butter cookies were better than my grams’s. Let that be known to the world.” I rev the engine and move out onto the road. “Noted.” JACE “One more shot.” Hollyn sways, carrying a Tupperware container with Jack Daniels grazing the bottom. I don’t have shot glasses so we resorted to little Tupperware containers. Classy, I know. “One more shot was three shots ago,” I answer, my head feeling fuzzy. “Yes, but to end on five shots seems criminal. You can’t end shots on an odd number, then you will have bad luck.” “That’s not a thing.” “It is a thing.” She smiles down at me, wiggling the container in temptation. When Hollyn called, her voice was bitter, exhausted, like she was at the end of her rope. Kind of like I was feeling, so inviting her over was an easy decision because misery loves company. That, and I wanted to see her. No, more like I needed to see her. She would understand, she would listen, she would tell Life to go fuck itself like I want to. “It’s not a thing,” I counter back, not taking the shot. One more is a bad idea, a really bad idea. “Fine, you’re going to have bad luck.” She places the shot on the coffee table and flops down on the couch next to me. “Bad luck? Come on, Hollyn, pretty sure it can’t get any worse than it already is for me. I’ve reached the pinnacle of bad luck.” “Not true.” She shakes her head. “You could break your face and never play baseball again.” “Break my face? That’s the term you decided to use? Break my face, not my leg or my arm, but my face.” “Face is more dramatic. You can’t recover from a face break.” “Face breaks are easy to recover from,” I say, turning toward her, draping my arm over the couch. “Oh yeah?” She turns as well and tucks her legs under her ass, curling up. God, she looks so fucking

good right now, cuddled up on my couch, her hair flowing over her shoulders. “Ever break your face before?” “Can’t say I have.” “Huh, weird.” “Why is that weird?” I ask. Scanning me up and down, with a smile she says, “It sure does look like you broke your face at least once.” Burn. She’s laughing when I respond, “You must think you’re so funny.” “I know I am.” “You’re really not,” I counter. “You’re only saying that because I bruised your ego.” Leaning forward, providing me a whiff of her feminine perfume, she pats my chest, her hand lingering for a second or two. “Don’t worry, your face is pretty.” “Pretty? I don’t think I’ve ever been called pretty before. Handsome, hot, sexy, but never pretty.” She rolls her eyes and rests the side of her head on my arm that’s draped along the couch. “And that’s why I have to tell you it looks like your face is broken, so you don’t get too full of yourself.” “Believe me, I’m not full of myself. I don’t need your insults to keep me grounded. I have enough guilt to keep me floored.” She pauses before responding. “Are you going to finally talk? Or are we going to keep dancing around the elephant in the room?” “I don’t know, are you going to tell me why you’re here?” A sad smile crosses her beautiful lips. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” “Are we talking stories or boobs? Because I have no problem taking my shirt off right now.” A breath falls between us before she moves her foot and pushes my leg with her toe. “Are you . . . flirting with me?” We’re crossing over into unknown territory. Friends don’t flirt; friends also don’t lust after each other. I want to tread lightly, but the five shots are kicking in and my mouth starts talking before I can stop it. “Do you want me to flirt with you?” I answer with a question, because confirming my actions seems too forward at the moment. “Let me guess, you don’t like broken faces flirting with the likes of you.” She chuckles, and the almost-terrified look on her face vanishes, the smile I crave more than anything replacing it. “Broken faces need love too on occasion.” “Yeah?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her only to gather a palm to the face. “Get out of here with that.” Her head still resting on my arm, she continues, “Are you going to tell me what’s got your liver quivering? Or are you going to keep cowering in the corner about it?” “Bedside manner, might want to work on it.” She shrugs and waits for me to answer. Yeah, I knew this was coming at some point; she wasn’t going to let me drink and not say anything. That sixth shot is looking good right about now. Where do I even start? How does someone talk about their baby mama drama that goes way past who’s going to pay child support? This is the kind of drama that can ruin a person, and not just me. This is the kind of news that will destroy June and Alex.

Fuck, just thinking about the look on their faces is obliterating me from the inside out. “Jace, just get it out.” I nod, trying to find the right words. I run my spare hand over my face and blow out a long breath as I tilt my head back to look at the ceiling. Staring at something inanimate will be a hell of a lot better than seeing Hollyn’s reaction. “Rebecca came by my place today.” “Who’s Rebecca?” “Hope’s birth mom.” “Oh God.” Hollyn sits up and scoots closer. With her hand, she forces me to look at her, concern lacing her eyes. “What did she want?” “You don’t want to know.” “I do. Was it money? I hope you didn’t give her any.” “Ha.” A sardonic laugh escapes me. If only. “I wish it was money she wanted.” “Oh no . . .” her voice trails off. “Yeah, she wants Hope back.” “What? Are you kidding me? Can she do that?” “I have no clue. I talked to Matt today about setting up a meeting with the team’s lawyer and mine to go over all the legal bullshit involved in adoption.” “How can she even justify wanting Hope back? Didn’t she sign her rights away?” “She did.” I nod, my chest growing tighter and tighter by the minute, sobriety eclipsing both of us due to the heaviness of the conversation. Yup, shot number six would have been a very good idea. “Funny thing about the law, it’s pro family most of the time, meaning justice is often in favor of the birth mom.” “I don’t understand. She can’t just ask for her back. She gave her away.” I shake my head. “No, I gave her away.” And that’s where the problem lies. “What do you mean?” Blowing out another long breath, I try to steady my voice, anger, guilt, and anxiety making it sound rickety and uneasy. “When Rebecca came to me about three months ago, she said she wanted me to take the baby because she couldn’t handle it. I took that as Hope was my responsibility. When Rebecca signed the rights away to being a parent, she thought she was just signing them so she didn’t have any legal obligations to me. At the time, she wasn’t aware I was giving the baby up for adoption, meaning, she technically didn’t agree with the decision.” “But she signed the papers.” “Under false pretenses according to her.” Hollyn goes to respond just as my phone rings. Giving her an apologetic look, I glance at the caller ID and see June’s name come across the screen. Fuck. Instantly my body stiffens, my heart pounding, I feel the urge to throw up. With a shaky hand, I stand and answer the phone on a squeak. “Hey, June.” “Jace?” Her voice quivers. She knows, there is no denying it. Fuck! “Is it, is it true?” Taking a calming breath, my legs feeling like they are going to break beneath me, I ask, “What has been told to you?” “That Hope’s birth mom was unaware of the adoption and plans on taking legal action to get Hope back.”

Yup, that’s the gist of it. Shit. Her sobs break me half. “Can she . . . can she do that, Jace? Can she take her away? I can’t lose her, Jace. It will destroy me; it will destroy Alex. This is something we won’t be able to bounce back from.” I’m going to fucking lose it. Right here, with Hollyn in my home and June on the phone. Regret settles deep in my belly, regret for not making sure Rebecca knew my plans, regret for not checking all the boxes before I matched Hope, regret for being so hasty about having lawyers involved. This is all my fucking fault. Why hadn’t I been advised about this? Perhaps I should have been more clear, but at that moment in time, when deciding who to give my baby to, being clear to Rebecca wasn’t even on my mind. Now I wish it was. I pace the living room, pulling on the ends of my hair. “I’m not sure, June. I’m meeting with my lawyers tomorrow. We are going to figure this out. I promise.” “But what if she can have Hope back? What if she really isn’t ours?” “That’s not going to happen,” I say with a choked-up throat. “I’m not going to let that fucking happen. Do you hear me? I will fight this until the very end.” Tears fill my eyes and rip down my cheeks, my voice tight as I speak. “Hope is your baby, June, and I will be damned if it goes any other way.” “Okay,” she says weakly. “I promise you, June. Hope is your daughter.” A heaviness weighs between us, both our hearts cracking at the seams as we exchange goodbyes, me promising to call them in the next few days when I have an update. Deflated and completely spent, I toss my phone on the couch, lean against the wall of my living room, and slide down until my ass hits the floor. I grip my head, and a myriad of thoughts rush to the forefront of my mind. I gave June and Alex hope, hope for the future of being a family of three. How could Rebecca believe it’s okay to rip that away from them? So damn selfish. First she capitulated her role as a mother to that beautiful baby, and now she wants to tear her from her home? What the hell? Support. I need Hollyn. I lift my head to look for her but I don’t have to search long, because in seconds, she’s by my side, her arms encasing me, her head pressed against mine, and her mouth right next to my ear, telling me it’s going to be okay. But what if it’s not going to be okay? That’s a reality I can’t even begin to fathom because that would mean my faith in humanity is shot, my faith in God is destroyed, and my faith in all things good nonexistent. Because what kind of fucked-up world would it be if June and Alex lose their baby? One world I don’t want to stick around to be in, that’s for damn sure. HOLLYN Helpless. That’s how I feel. Completely and utterly helpless. There is nothing I can do or say to take away that tortured look on Jace’s face. She wants the baby back? What kind of woman would do that to another human being? I don’t know

much about the situation, or much about June and Alex, but what I do know is that they’ve had that little girl for about a month now and they’ve bonded, they’ve created a family, a loving home for three. Surely Rebecca can’t just come in and rip that all apart. Just the thought of it makes me want to find the woman and kick her right in the lady taint. “Fuck. FUCK!” Jace screams, rising from his seat on the floor. I want to calm him down, I want to put ease in his heart, but I don’t know how. I want to make everything better, but that seems impossible. I want to wash away his pain . . . Alcohol. Spying the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table, I stand to my slightly unsteady feet and hurry to the bottle. I turn to Jace and I hold it out to him. “Drink,” I say. “Drink to forget.” Drinking isn’t how you solve problems, but it’s the only thing I can come up with right now. “Hollyn.” His voice is pained, so I shove the bottle into his hand. “Drink, Jace.” His eyes move from the amber liquid to me, as he slowly stands, contemplating his next move. His grip tightens around the neck of the bottle, his jaw strongly set with his decision as he brings the drink to his lips. I watch in fascination, his throat moving with each long, drawn-out swallow. Pulling away, wincing from the burn, he holds the bottle to me and nods at it. “Drink.” There is no hesitation where I’m concerned. I bring the bottle to my lips and sip as best as I can. I don’t gulp it down like Jace did, but I drink enough to leave a chasing burn down my throat. When I’m done with the bottle, I still hold on to it but keep it at my side. Awkwardly, Jace and I stare at each other, the air in the room starting to grow thick with anger, with hurt, with something palpable I can’t place my finger on. Each passing second adds to the coiling tension between us. The alcohol doesn’t take long to heat my body. Adding to the preexisting shots already consumed, and the devastated expression in his eyes, I begin closing the distance between us. Step by step, I wonder what I’m doing. I’m chastising my body for even considering comforting him in my arms, but that doesn’t stop me. With the bottle of Jack Daniels at my side, I press the palm of my hand against his chest, stepping up in front of him. His heart is hammering against my palm, his eyes a window to his broken soul, breaking me as well. “Hollyn,” he says with a strangled sigh. Bringing the bottle back to my lips, I take one more swig and then offer it to him. He mimics my consumption and then drops the bottle to the floor, the clatter of the glass against the hardwood the only sound in the apartment. My hands betray me as they lift to cup his strong, chiseled jaw. The light blond scruff decorating his face feels rough under my touch, but familiar. His blue eyes, although tortured, are quite beautiful with waves of cerulean running through them. He’s tall, built, but not intimidating, more inviting with the way his hands grip my hips, his fingers pressing into my clothed skin, holding on for dear life. “It’s going to be okay,” I say, not even sure that it’s true. “This is so fucked up.” A lonesome tear cascades down his cheek. “I can’t fucking do this. It’s too much, Hollyn. It’s all too much.” “You can do this,” I say, leaning in some more, gripping his cheeks tightly so he’s forced to look me in

the eyes. “You’re strong, Jace.” He shakes his head. “Not as strong as I need to be.” “You’re strong to me.” My thumbs caress his skin, my toes lifting me up closer to him, the walls closing in around us, lifting the tension to an all-time high. Glancing down with heady eyes at my lips, he then leans forward, meeting my lifted face. Our noses connect, our foreheads press against one another, and our hands hold on to each other as if we are lifelines. Questions fly around my head, but I block them out as I take a deep breath and inch closer. Wandering hands roam up my back, past my shoulder blades, up my neck, and into my hair where his fingers twist, pull, and play with the long strands. “Fuck, Hollyn. Will this deathly feeling ever end? Will I ever feel normal again?” “I have no idea.” Moving just a centimeter closer, I say, “I want to believe it will get better. I need for it to get better.” I pause and whisper, “Make it better, Jace.” Taking my lead, he gingerly presses his lips against mine, tentatively exploring, never pushing too hard, but kissing me gently. My name is a whisper on his lips. Mixed with passion, hurt, pain, guilt, and anger, our lips meld together in a frenzy, searching for closure, a closure we try to find between our locked lips, rather than in the unknown. I hold on tight, a war of emotions raging within me as I explore his mouth as well, opening slightly for his tongue. Just enough that when his tongue meets mine, a throaty moan slips out. And just when I think he’s going to make it better, it gets so much worse. Guilt consumes me, images of Eric flooding my brain with the taste of Jace still on my lips. What have I done? Ripping myself away from him, I grip my forehead in total shock. I just kissed Jace Barnes. I kissed another man, a man who is not my husband. And for a brief moment, I enjoyed it. What kind of woman does that make me? A cheater, that’s the kind of woman I am. A cheater. DAISY “Thank you, Grams, but I really have to go.” “Are you rushing me off the phone?” “No, I would never.” Yes, yes, I am. I’m rushing Grams off the phone because my Dear Life meeting has already started. When she called, I was nervous something was wrong, so I answered before I walked in the doors of the church hall. What she wanted to talk about? My choice in footwear today when I came to visit her. Apparently she wasn’t too keen on my new ankle boots. She said they were impractical for the winter and didn’t want me breaking an ankle. To say she was a little shocked by my appearance today is an understatement. She nearly fell off her bed. It was a reaction I expected, since she’s known me to only wear baggy clothes she handed down to me. Modern Daisy was a surprise to her. Nervous at first, I almost didn’t visit, but I told myself this is the new me and she’s going to have to accept it. And accept it, she did, besides the ankle boots, apparently. She was a little confused at first but

once I told her about my day with the girls, her confusion turned into joy—joy for me and my new adventure. “Now you’re going to tell me where you got that belt, right? I would like one for myself.” “Grams, why do you need a belt? You wear elastic pants.” I small giggle pops out of me. “You never know when you’re going to need a belt. You know belts aren’t just used for clothing.” What is she talking about . . . Oh my God. “Grams, is this about that book series you’ve been reading?” “Christian likes restraint.” “Christian is also a fictional character. You’re acting like he might leap out of the book.” “Don’t even tease.” She sighs. “The belt isn’t for book Christian, but rather for movie Christian. What if I run into the actor one day and I’m sans belt? How embarrassing that will be.” “Ah yes, because I do believe Hollywood actors wander around senior community centers, looking to rip belts out of crocheted purses only to restrain the elderly for sexual favors.” “Oh, you little smart-mouthed girl, this world has tainted you.” “Me?” I laugh. “You’re the one afraid you’re going to die before all your erotic movies come out.” “It would be such an untimely and unfair death.” Chuckling, I shake my head. “I can’t deal with your movie complexes right now. My meeting has started, I have to get in there.” “Okay. But watch where you’re going with those boots; black ice is a killer of hips this time of year.” I fail to mention that I’m not a seventy-year-old woman trying to get around and slipping on black ice probably won’t require me to have a hip replacement. It’s all about choosing your battles with Grams. “Noted.” “Oh, and say hi to Carter for me. Ooo, la, la.” “Don’t say that.” A blush fills my cheeks. “Oh pish, he can’t hear me.” “Yes, but I can and I’m turning bright red. I have to go. Love you, Grams.” “Love you, dearie.” Her chuckle rings through before I hang up. I stick my phone in my purse and press my hands against my cheeks, willing them to calm down. Just the mention of Carter’s name has my body heating up to record temperatures and not because of how attractive I think he is, but from the way he treated me the other night. I felt like I was something special, like I could actually mean something to him. When we arrived home, he sat on his bike, steadying the vehicle with his powerful legs while I thanked him. It was a sight I will never forget: his jet black hair highlighted under the moonlight, his leather jacket lightly flapping in the breeze, and his eyes deeply fixed on me while I shook my hair from his helmet. We exchanged good nights, I said thank you, and for a brief moment in time, I pictured him pulling me in by my hand, spiraling me into his chest, and running his hand through my hair right before he kissed me. Unfortunately, instead, he nodded at me, put his helmet on and took off, leaving me wanting so much more and wondering. Does he want the same thing? I can’t be sure. I have no idea how to read men and since Carter is more of a closed book, he’s even harder to understand. He’s grumpy most of the time, but I get brief glimpses of happiness, and those are the moments

I want to remember forever; they are the cherished moments I like to reflect on when I’m about to fall asleep. Slowly I can feel myself changing, and not just from the clothes, but from the bravery I muster every day. A month ago, I wouldn’t have asked a boy to meet up. I would have cowered on my grams’s couch, popped in a musical, and called it a night. But a new me is emerging, and I’m growing in confidence every day. And the best part about it? I really like new Daisy. Since the meeting started already, I quietly let myself in to the church hall, spot my group, which consists of Carter, Hollyn, and Jace talking through an iPad. Earlier, I saw Hollyn walking into the meeting, looking less than thrilled to be here, which is concerning. I hope everything is okay with her. The seat next to Carter is open, so I take the opportunity to sit down next to him. When we make eye contact, I give him a bright smile. In return, he gives me a curt nod. The move would worry me but when I see him look me up and down from the corner of my eye, my concern eases. “I hope you all have your dream boards with you tonight,” Marleen says, directing the meeting once again. “These boards are supposed to depict where you want to be a few years from today, what you want to accomplish, what you want out of life.” Oh boy, did I spend some good time on my dream board. This has been my favorite task since we started the program. “In your groups, I want you to talk about your boards, really dig deep into your goals, and also talk about how you’ve been feeling the last few weeks. Do you feel a change? Are you still grieving? Are you still trying to let go? This is your support group, your peers who are invested in your change just as much as you are, so be open and honest with everyone. As for our next meeting, your challenge has more action. You are to learn something new. Now you can do this with each other or alone, it’s up to you. All I ask is that you bring some sort of memento from the experience to the next meeting so you can talk about it.” She sits on the table and clasps her hands together. “As always, write your letters before you leave. If you have any questions, I’ll be around.” Chairs scrape against the cement, groups form, and light conversation fills the hall. Per usual, my group is quiet to begin and it takes iPad Jace to start. “Hey guys, as you know, I’m in Arizona for spring training now, but I uh, I got some pretty shitty news the other day that I’m struggling with. Rebecca, Hope’s birth mom, has reentered the scene.” “Oh gosh, really?” I ask, sitting up in my chair, wishing I didn’t have to talk to an electronic device. “Yeah.” He runs his hand over his face and directs his gaze at Hollyn who is staring down at the folder she brought with her. “Apparently Rebecca wasn’t aware of the adoption when she signed the papers giving up her parental rights. She believed I would be taking care of Hope. Now she wants Hope back.” “What?” I gasp, my heart aching for Jace and for Hope’s adoptive parents. “She can’t fucking do that,” Carter says, speaking up. He shifts in his seat, sitting a little taller now, a look of frustration crossing his features. “I met with my lawyers,” Jace says on a sigh. “They think she might have a case.” “What?” Hollyn finally says, looking up from her folder but then quickly shying away. “Yeah, it’s a fucking nightmare right now. June and Alex are beside themselves.” Jace pauses, trying to collect himself, his eyes rimmed with red. “I won’t be able to make it through this if Hope is taken away

from June and Alex.” Growing angrier by the second, he says, “There was a reason I gave Hope up for adoption. I was trying to do the right thing by giving her a loving home with stable parents who will be there for her when she needs them the most. Why the fuck am I being punished for doing that?” “You’re not being punished,” I say, wishing I could reach out and hold him. “Is there anyway you can speak with Rebecca?” He shakes his head. “I’ve been trying, but she’s turned this into some lawyer battle now. I can’t seem to speak to her unless there’s a lawyer present.” With his head in his hand, he says, “I’m not looking for solutions, I just want you to know where I stand.” He clears his throat and then shows off a piece of paper with a few words on it. “I didn’t know what dream boards are, so I came up with a few goals for myself.” He turns the paper around so he can read it. “I’m going to be quick with this because I have to go. All right, I want to find peace with my decision. And one day, I want to be the birth father Hope deserves, strong and dependable.” He shrugs and folds his paper. “That’s all I can think of for now.” He looks distraught and tired, almost worse than the first time I met him. “Sorry for leaving early, I have some things to take care of.” Once again, he looks at Hollyn who’s eyes are averted elsewhere. He sighs and says, “You know how to reach me. Talk to you guys later.” The FaceTime ends and the screen goes blank. Feeling a little uncomfortable, I ask, “Who wants to go next?” “I need to get out of here,” Hollyn says, scribbling something down on a paper in front of her. “Oh, are you going to share your board with us?” I ask, wondering what’s going on. Hollyn continues to write quickly. When I glance at her paper, I notice it’s her letter to Life. She really is trying to get out of here. “I’m good.” She continues to write and I have no idea what to say. Our group is falling apart. Is this what friendships are like? Unpredictable, erratic at times? Makes me wonder. Are all of the other groups like ours? Or are we carrying heavier life happenings? Glancing around the room, I take in all the divided little circles. Variations of dream boards are being shared ranging from poster boards to scrapbooks to lists for those who are less creative. Most seem to be talking about the boards on display, interacting with one another and truly sharing. Then there is my group. Hollyn is packing up, a blank iPad sits across from me, and next to me is Carter, whose dream board is a cocktail napkin. How did I get stuck with the dud group? “Okay, I’m out.” Hollyn starts to stand, but I stop her. “What about my dream board? I worked really hard on it and was excited to share it with everyone.” “I’m sure it’s really nice, Daisy, but—” “Get up and I’ll tell Marleen you’re not taking this program seriously. Daisy made a dream board and wants to share it, so sit your ass down,” Carter chimes in, his face a mask of seriousness. Eyeing Hollyn, he says, “Go ahead, Daisy, show us your dream board.” Not sure how to handle the situation, I say, “It’s okay if she wants to leave.” “No.” Carter focuses his attention on me. “It’s not okay, and you shouldn’t be fine with her leaving. Stand up for yourself.” The level of uncomfortableness has kicked up a few more notches. I don’t want to make a big deal out of this. I’m still making friends but it doesn’t seem like Carter is going to let this go, so I muster a little bit of courage. “I would really appreciate if you stayed just a little bit longer.”

I try not to wince as I look at Hollyn. I really don’t want to make her angry, especially since she was so nice to me the other day and she’s Amanda’s best friend. Hollyn eyes Carter but then turns her attention on me. “I would love to see your dream board, Daisy. I’m sorry for being rude, I’ve just had a really horrible week.” “Do you want to talk about it?” She shakes her head. “No. I really don’t.” I don’t push her, instead, I take my dream board out of the plastic bags I wrapped it in and hold it in front of me. I really went all out, using fabrics, magazine clippings, fringe, and pretty much anything I could find in my craft drawers. “That’s fantastic,” Carter says, leaning forward to get a better look at it. Oh gosh, when he’s nice to me, it makes my stomach get all fluttery. “Thank you. Dreaming big meant something to me these past weeks. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing in this program, dreaming big, so pulling together a visual seemed easy. What it comes down to is, I want to live. I’ve been stuck in this little bubble my whole life, never really doing anything for me, always living for my grams but now that she’s taken care for, it’s my turn. I want to put me first and just live.” Bobbles and trinkets hang off my dream board, pictures representing milestones I would love to achieve, places I want to visit, and activities I want to do. “What’s with the rubber spatula?” Carter asks. “Oh, I want to work in a bakery one day. I have some time and money to explore the world right now, but when I’m done, I want to work in a bakery.” Carter nods his head and continues to examine the board. “You went all out, Snowflake.” “I like being crafty.” I shrug. “Didn’t she do a good job, Hollyn?” Carter asks, involving Hollyn into the conversation, who clearly wants to leave. “Fantastic. Looks like you have a lot going for you.” Do I? Is she just being nice? Kind of a weird comment. How does one respond to that? Thank you? You have a lot going for you too? Maybe you should just leave because the Debbie Downer vibe you’re sending isn’t quite working for me? “She does have a lot going for her,” Carter says, a softness in his eyes as he looks at me, dispelling any kind of uncomfortable feeling I might be having. Why is it so easy for him to make me feel like mush? And why does his comment give me all the confidence in the world? *** Dear Life, I have never felt so nauseated, so sick, so absolutely disgusted in myself before in my entire life. I kissed another man. I knew it was wrong. At that moment, with Jace staring at me, the same kind of hurt I saw reflected in my eyes, I knew I was too close. I knew I was getting too attached, and yet, I still moved forward and pressed my body against his. I let him touch me, hold me, kiss me back.

I’m a cheater. There is nothing else to say. Sincerely, Hollyn Dear Life, New clothes, new experiences, new friends. It seems like things are piecing together for me, and yet, I feel uneasy. Isn’t it obvious as to why? I have a HUGE crush on Carter. I feel so embarrassed just thinking about it. Kind of like the sad-nerdy-girl-who-likes-the-bad-boy-on-a-bike embarrassed. I can’t seem to stop thinking about him. It’s before I go to bed, when I wake up, even at these meetings. I get so excited to see him. And the worst part, there is no way he would feel the same way. Tonight for instance, he was so stand-offish, barely looked at me, until he started talking sternly to Hollyn, defending me, saying I have a lot going for me. He’s throwing me such mixed signals that I don’t want to do something stupid, like try to kiss him when all he really wants is to be my friend. Or maybe he sees me as some pity project? Once again, I’m hindered by my past, not properly preparing me to know how to read people, how to tell if they’re actually interested in me. And I can’t ask Hollyn. What does a girl really do at this point? Do I ask him if he likes me? That seems scary. A little too scary for me right now. Maybe I’ll just ride it out for now. That seems like a good idea. Kind regards, Daisy Dear Life, Hell, where do I even start? I can’t even formulate feelings for the bomb that was just dropped on me by Rebecca. I’m just going to say it. She’s a fucking bitch. A selfish, convoluted, twisted, fuck-up. That’s all I can reflect on because fuck, if I spend too much time thinking about, I will find my ass on the floor, staring down the empty end of a bottle. I’m barely hanging on by a thread. And the one person I want to lean on won’t talk to me. My phone calls and texts are going unanswered, which fucking hurts. It’s causing my anger to twist further and further into the dangerous, I’m-about-to-snap zone. That will have to be fixed, right away, because fuck if I will put up with Hollyn not talking to me. I don’t care if our kiss scared her. I need her and right now, she needs me too. Jace Dear Life, Fuck to the you. Carter

Step Five: Learn Something New HOLLYN

“I want sauce on the side, but only if it has onions in it. If there are no onions, then you can put it on the pasta but only with Parmesan cheese, the real stuff. Leave the garnish, but only if sauce is on the side. If sauce is not on the side, then no garnish. And I want my garlic bread extra crispy, but not burnt, if it’s burnt, I send it back. Got it?” Patience. What’s patience? I lost it around I “want” my sauce on the side. What a rude whore face. Working in the food industry for so long has taught me the proper lingo when ordering something. I want and I need? Yeah, you can go fuck yourself. I would like and may I please have, those terms will keep me away from slipping my thumb in your food. Tonight has been living torture. Rude customer after rude customer. Demanding everything from a seedless lemon for their water, to more napkins. Here’s a hint: stop slurping up your spaghetti like a slob and you won’t have to pat your squirrely mouth every two seconds with a napkin. The worst request of the night though, five coffee stirring straws, linked together to make one large straw. If the request was for a child, then sure, why the hell not? But there was no child in sight. Instead, it was a thirty-something-year-old man, wearing a Star Trek shirt and Klingon ears. He ended up “tipping” me with advice. Want to chap my ass, leave me no money, but instead, a written note telling me how I should be at home “making a home for my husband.” Yes, ladies, you read that correctly. He told me to make a home for my husband. Well, even if Eric were still alive, I wouldn’t be making a home for him, the damn man can make his own home. Chauvinistic prick! Yup, it’s been a beautiful night. “Sal, I’m putting in an order that I don’t even understand. Good luck deciphering it,” I say while plugging in the sauce-on-the-side girl’s food request. “Just hand me what you wrote down, it’ll be easier that way.” I quickly plug in the rest of the order, then tear off my slip and hand it to him. The clock above the salad dressings reads five minutes before my shift is over. At this point, I’m more than happy to hand over my tables to someone else and forgo the tips, staying later to tend to my tables doesn’t sound appealing to me at all. “Carla.” The one waitress always looking for extra shifts because she has two kids to support turns toward me. “Want to finish out my tables for me so I can take off?” “Really?” “Yeah, tips are yours. I just need to get out of here.” “That would be awesome. Thanks, girl.” I give her a quick rundown of each table, shed my short apron, and clock out, making sure not to clock out too early. I still want to get paid the full hour.

I gather my purse from my rickety and rusty locker and head out the back door where I’m parked. On my walk, I check my phone for any messages. I’m surprised to see nothing on the screen, no notifications at all. Seems strange since the past few days, I’ve received unanswered phone calls and texts from Jace. I guess I can’t blame him. I fled his apartment, like it was on fire after I kissed him and haven’t talked to him since. I guess after such a long stint of not talking to him, he got the picture. I have nothing to say to him. That’s not true. I have so much to say to him, but nothing I actually want to voice out loud. Digging through my purse, I search for my keys to my car. My hands hit my wallet, a packet of Lifesavers, and a few loose tampons, but no keys. “Ugh, where are those damn things?” I mutter. “Looking for these?” The voice in the dark night scares the absolute piss out of me, causing me to jump no less than five feet in the air. At least that’s what it seems like. “Gahh!” I hold my heart, my breathing erratic as I look up and see Jace standing against my car, holding my keys out in front of him. On the verge of having a heart attack, I place a hand on the hood of my car for balance as the other one holds my chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, scaring me like that? I could have whacked you in the nuts with my purse.” Chuckling softly, he steps forward, under a parking lot lamp so his face is well lit, forming deep shadows in his features. “Your purse to the nuts would have been easily blocked.” “I’m swift. There’s no way you could have blocked that attack.” He looks me up and down. “I would have taken my chances anyway. So tell me, Hollyn, why are your keys on the ground near your car?” Remembering he has my keys, I reach for them but he pulls away and waits for an answer to his question. “Ugh, I don’t know. I probably missed my purse when I was trying to fit them in.” “Uh-huh. Answer me this, do you always leave your door unlocked?” “If someone wanted to break into my car, that’s their problem. They won’t find much besides some wipes, a few pairs of ten-dollar sunglasses, some old gum, and a Glee CD that has been listened to way too much.” “Old gum is always a winning item to steal from a car.” He nods. “Okay, one more question. Why are you talking to me now but when I call and text, you refuse to answer me back?” Up front, isn’t he? What do I really say? I didn’t get them? That would be a blatant lie since he can probably see on his phone that I read his messages. Maybe I can say I was too shy to respond? No, that is probably the worst lie ever. The truth? That I can barely look at him after kissing him because it reminds me of the fact that I cheated on my husband and that, even though I feel guilty as hell, all I want to do right now is kiss him again. Where’s a psychologist? They would have a field day with that. “Well . . .” “Come on,” I respond, not able to look at him. “I’m pretty sure you know why I haven’t gotten back to you.” “Let’s pretend I have no clue,” he counters. “I want to hear it from your lips. Tell me why you’re not

responding to me.” “Jace.” “Hollyn,” he says back, not letting up. “Why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Arizona?” “I am. But I was able to squeeze out for the night. I fly back tomorrow. Like I said, the front office is being lenient with me right now, given my situation.” “So why are you here?” “Isn’t it obvious?” He takes another step closer. “I want to know what the hell is going on with you.” “Nothing is going on.” I stab at the asphalt with my toe, avoiding all eye contact with the handsome, all-American boy. “Bullshit,” he calls out and then sighs. He moves from standing in front of me to leaning on my car. He sticks his hands in his tight-fitting jeans, and I can’t help but notice the way his pecs ripple under his longsleeved shirt. Doesn’t he know it’s still winter in Colorado? Where is his jacket? “Hollyn, I need you,” he admits, pulling my thoughts away from his body and back to the man himself. “What?” I ask. Meeting my gaze, he continues. “I need you, Hollyn. You’re the only one I can really talk to about everything. I’ve grown to rely on you, and when I need you the most, you freeze me out. It’s not fucking fair. I thought I was more important to you than that.” “Jace,” I sigh, my heart wavering. He needs me. When was the last time someone actually needed me? The last time: when Eric was alive. And just like that, I’m back to the nauseous feeling that won’t go away. Wanting to tell Jace the truth, I say, “I feel guilty around you.” “Guilty?” His eyebrow quirks up, completely confused by my statement. “Why do you feel guilty?” “Because.” Yup, solid answer. I should be a master conversationalist. “Care to elaborate?” “Not really.” I cross my arms over my chest and continue to stare at the ground. “Hollyn, cut the shit,” he says sternly, throwing me for a loop. With his index and middle finger, he lifts my chin and forces me to make eye contact. “We’re honest with each other, if anything. Tell me what’s going on.” Sighing, I sit on the hood of my car and set my purse down next to me. Jace steps up in front of me, his body fitting between my legs, crowding my space. Nervous of his proximity, I take a deep breath before I tell him what I’ve been feeling. “We kissed.” “We did. I remember.” He smirks at me, which strangely eases the tension in my shoulders. “It wasn’t good.” His eyebrows shoot to his hairline in disbelief. “It wasn’t good? I beg to differ, it was fucking great. So good that the only reason I didn’t chase after you was because I figured you needed space. Otherwise, I probably would have fucked your mouth with my tongue all night long.” His voice is low, seductive, so incredibly sexy that I can feel my spine start to shiver just from his words. “Um, that’s nice,” I say awkwardly, causing him to laugh. “That’s nice? Come on, Hollyn, you’re killing me here. Give a guy a little ego boost.”

I chuckle from the pained look on his face. “I don’t mean it like that. The kiss was amazing, but that’s what makes me nervous. You’re the first man I’ve kissed since Eric died. No matter how I try to look at it, it feels like cheating.” From my confession, Jace’s face softens, he settles in closer, and squats so we are eye level, his hands on my thighs, warming me instantly. “Hollyn, you’re not cheating on Eric. I can understand how that must feel, to kiss another man when your heart is still partially with another, but it’s not cheating. It’s moving on. It’s letting go, it’s giving yourself a chance to continue to live.” “But I’m not ready for that.” My voice grows tight. And when Jace runs his hands up my thighs and grips my hips, I find it odd that I feel comforted. By him. He should be a stranger to me, yet I feel so connected to him. “You’re never going to be fully ready, Hollyn. You’re just going to have to close your eyes and jump. Trust in your strength and the strength in the people around you.” Tears fill my eyes, my heart breaking with the thought of letting go of Eric. How can someone let go when they barely even had them to begin with? How can I let go of the one thing that gave me life? Was it love or was it Eric? I’m mourning the loss of someone I didn’t get to fully experience, and yet . . . so is Jace. Realization really hits me hard. We truly are going through the same thing and despite his recent setback, he seems to have a little more strength than me. Can I channel his strength and move forward? He needs me, yet I have so little to give him. In fact, all I’ve done is to be there to listen. To listen. I have talked ad nauseam about Eric, although admittedly, it has often been to the four walls of my apartment. Would we find it easier to move forward together? Is that what he is suggesting? If I continue this friendship with him, am I being unfaithful to Eric, or is it okay to find a friend in grief? Although it would be a lie to say I only feel friendship toward Jace. What woman would? I have relied on him too, and in some sense, it would be incredibly selfish to deny him whatever strength and peace he finds in me. And I’m not that girl. Can I be more to him? Can I . . . “Are you jumping in?” I ask him. “If I jump in, will you jump in?” Backing away, he stands and moves his hand to the back of his neck, contemplating my question. From beneath his propped up arm, he glances at me. “You’re jumping in?” “Only if you do. I can’t do it alone.” “You drive a hard bargain.” A smirk passes over his handsome features. “It’s not going to be easy.” “I don’t expect it to, just don’t make me do it alone, Jace.” “Will you stop ignoring me?” “Yes.” I smile sheepishly. “And we’re honest with each other from here on out?” “Yes.” “No hiding, no holding back. Everything is laid out on the table.” “Agreed.” “Good.” He comes forward and links my hand with his. Pulling me forward to a stand, his other hand grips my hip, bringing me closer. Guilt still lurks in the back of my head, and my stomach flips with each of Jace’s intimate touches. “Since we’re being honest, I have to tell you, ever since I first laid eyes on you, I knew we were connected on a deeper level.”

“How did you know that?” I ask, slightly breathless. “Because,” the hand that was on my hip cups my cheek and his thumb brushes against my skin, “I saw the same tortured look in your eyes in my reflection.” Leaning forward, Jace brings his lips inches away from mine. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat, my knees feeling weak. Pressing those last few inches, I place my hand on his chest, stopping him before our mouths connect. “I can’t.” Lifting his head but still staying close, he says, “You can’t, but you want to?” Oh hell, do I want to. I want to so freaking bad. If I didn’t feel so conflicted, I would be wrapping my legs around Jace right now, begging him to take me back to his place. I’ve never been the girl to sleep with any man who shows interest, but Jace is right. From the moment we met, there has been that connection. Empathy. Plus, he’s everything a woman dreams of in a man. Strong, passionate, caring, sweet, and sexy. His short, dirty-blond hair, deep blue eyes, and powerful athletic build lure me toward him, like a piece of metal to a magnet. Swallowing hard, I nod. “I want to, Jace. I so want to.” He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, soaking in the air around us. “I want to get lost in you, Hollyn. In your touch, in your body, in your spirit. I want to forget with you, but I also want to experience joy again.” He sighs and opens his eyes. “But I can wait until you’re ready because you’re worth the wait.” “You barely know me.” His thumb runs along my jaw and across my lips. “You’re right; I barely know you, but what I do know I like. You’re stronger than any woman I’ve ever met. You’re loyal, and deep down you want to learn to live again. You want so desperately to flip the page to a new chapter. I see it in your eyes. Your ambition is sexy, your courage intoxicating, and fuck, your heart . . . it’s so damn beautiful.” Lifting his chin, he rests his lips on my forehead and presses down a kiss. “I can wait, Hollyn. I want to wait.” Those words. They’re all the confirmation I need. So I jump. DAISY “Did you know you’re not supposed to hang your sweaters, but you’re supposed to fold them instead?” I ask Amanda, who is lying on my bed, feet up in the air, and her elbows propping up her head. “Where did you hear that from? I hang mine and they seem fine.” “Tsk, tsk.” I jokingly shake my finger. “Stacy London, fashionista extraordinaire, specifically said by hanging your sweaters, you’re pulling on the fibers, stretching them out. It’s best to fold them and lay them nicely on your shelves or in your drawers.” Cocking her head to the side, Amanda asks, “Since when did you start listening to Stacy London?” “Cable has been an interesting thing for me.” I smile. “I’ve learned a lot from the happenings on television.” “I’m afraid to ask what else you’ve learned.” I wave her off. “Oh, nothing too randy. Get your mind out of the gutter.” Folding another sweater, I ask, “Did you know there are workout channels on there? People in spandex, on a beach, lifting weights. It’s

quite fascinating. I join in on occasion with cans of soup.” Propping herself up, Amanda asks, “So while Matt and I are at work, you’re here, in our living room, in your quilted vests, lifting cans of soup with spandex-clad people on a beach?” “Why, yes? Is that odd?” “Sort of.” She laughs. “Don’t worry. I don’t wear the quilted vests anymore.” “Oh, good, because that’s what the weird part was.” Beep Beep. Shaking my head at my sister, I check my phone. Carter: I’m outside your place. Get your ass down here, and wear something warm. “What?” I ask out loud and quickly go to my window where I part the blinds to look outside. Sure enough, Carter is outside the house, straddling his motorcycle, looking out at the street. “What’s going on?” Amanda asks, following my movements. “Carter is here. He wants me to go meet him outside.” “On his motorcycle?” Dropping the blinds, I quickly find my black ankle boots in my closet and put them on over the skinny black jeans I’m wearing, zipping them up rather quickly. Eager to get outside, I throw on my leather jacket, the only color besides black I’m wearing is the white shirt tucked into the front of my jeans. “It wouldn’t be the first time I rode it.” “Daisy,” Amanda reprimands in a joking tone, “you need to tell me about these things.” “Well, I’m telling you now.” On my way out, I swing my purse over my shoulder and head down the stairs. “When should I expect you home?” I’m putting on my gloves when I look up at Amanda who is holding on to the banister of the stairs, a smug look on her face. “I have no clue.” “Text me?” “Of course. See you, sis.” Excitement fills me as I open the door to find Carter staring down at his phone until he hears me approaching. His eyes turn dark as he eats me up with those chocolate pools. The way he looks at me . . . what it does to me . . . it’s like one look unleashes a thousand butterflies in my stomach. Never breaking his gaze, he puts down the kickstand of his motorcycle and throws one leg over the middle, dismounting the bike. His black jeans cling to his legs, riding low on his waist, his grey Henley looks painted across his strong chest, and his black leather jacket only intensifies his dark features, making him sinister, yet sexy. Eep, yes, he’s so freaking sexy. The total bad boy with the teddy-bear heart. That’s him. I’m sure if I told him that, he would scoff and then go and do something bad just to tarnish his image. Swaggering toward me, his hand caressing his jaw, assessing me, we meet in the middle of the sidewalk outside my sister’s house. I wait for him to say something, but instead, he takes a deep breath and once again looks me up and down, the intensity of his perusal so strong I shiver.

“Are you going to be warm in that?” I nod because right about now, my body feels like it’s about to combust from the heat coiling inside. “You sure?” “I’m sure,” I answer back, just wishing he would stop staring at me so intensely. “All right.” He links our hands together, melting me right on the spot, and pulls me toward the bike. “Ready to learn something new?” Learn something new? What? My brain feels like mush. Pretty sure if I were a cartoon, my head would be spinning around and I would be constantly spitting out the word, “doye” every two seconds. “Are you?” Carter asks again, shaking my hand. I mentally chastise myself and formulate a response. “What?” So clever, I know. Smirking at me, he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and says, “Are you ready to learn something new? You know, our next challenge?” Our next challenge . . . he smells so good. Focus, Daisy. “Oh, yes. I’m ready. What are we doing?” “You’ll see.” He reaches behind him into a compartment under the seat of his bike and pulls out a helmet . . . with a daisy sticker on the front. “Here, put this on.” A daisy sticker, right there on the front. A daisy sticker for me. Oh, be still my heart, I might just attack this man when he’s not looking. “It has a daisy on it.” “So?” He shrugs his shoulders, passing it off as nothing. “Did you put this daisy sticker on it.” Sighing, he looks down at the helmet in my hands and asks, “Are you going to make a big deal about this? Because if so, I’ll just peel the damn thing off.” “No.” I move the helmet away from him so he can do no such thing. “You better not take off this daisy.” “Then just put the damn thing on and stop making a big deal.” Heaven forbid he lets me indulge in his soft side. I do as I’m told and snap the helmet in place, making sure the chinstrap is tight enough. No point in wearing a helmet if you’re not going to wear it properly. When I’m all set, Carter checks the helmet, making sure I have it properly in place, making me sink a little further into being crazy for the man. He turns to get on the bike but I stop him. “Hey.” He looks over his shoulder, giving me another once-over. “Yeah?” Being as brave as I can be, I circle him so we’re facing each other and slip my arms in his jacket and around his waist. Holding on tightly, I give him a hug, resting my helmeted head against his chest. Frozen, he doesn’t reciprocate the hug, but after a few seconds, he gingerly puts his arms around me and hugs me back, almost as if affection is a new thing to him. “Thank you, Carter. The helmet is perfect.” Pulling away, he puts his helmet on as well and says, “Yeah, it will be perfect when I make my friend Fitzy wear it one day.” He straddles his bike, kicks up the kickstand, and nods for me to hop on the back. Still new at the whole bike thing, I take my time getting on, making sure not to tip us both over only for the heavy

machinery to fall on us. Once I’m situated, I slip my arms around Carter’s waist, loving the way I can feel his stomach muscles contract under my hold. “Ready?” he asks, the visor of his helmet still up. “Ready.” I grip him tighter. He flips his visor down, revs the engine, and in seconds, has us speeding down the road toward the highway. The wind whips by us, his cologne clogging my senses, putting me in a lustful fog where only Carter and I exist, everything else around us is at a standstill. This man, he makes me feel exhilarated, like a new person. I wonder, does he feel the same way around me? Is he just as exhilarated, just as excited when he’s around me? It’s almost impossible to think of myself being just as fascinating as Carter. The bitter bug of selfconsciousness starts to rear its ugly head but I bite it back, willing myself to think positively. Carter would not come pick me up randomly, without warning, because he thought I was boring. I offer something to this friendship; I’m just not sure what it is quite yet. CARTER Focus on the goddamn road. Stop thinking about Daisy, wrapped around your waist, her fingers dancing across your abs, her head resting against your back, and those tight-as-fuck jeans she’s wearing. Focus on driving the bike and not getting in an accident. But hell, those jeans. The way her innocent eyes ate me up with excitement when she saw me. The way she practically bounced up and down with glee from the stupid sticker. Why did I put a sticker on it in the first place? Because I saw it in one of those little quarter-candy machines at the grocery store. Christ. What am I even doing picking her up? Who the hell am I kidding? I know exactly why I’m picking her up. I can’t get her out of my head. I tried, fuck did I try hard. But every time I made the attempt to forget about her, somehow, someway, she found her way back into my mind, with that infectious smile and her thirst for life. That’s why I found myself driving toward her place, a new helmet with a goddamn daisy sticker on the front tucked in my bike, and a plan to help continue her pursuit to experience new things. And hell, right about now, I’m not regretting that decision. Seeing her, after a few days of only feeding on the images in my head, was like a breath of fresh air. She renewed my spirit with one simple, yet gorgeous smile. How is that even possible? That this woman, who knows nothing except how to be positive, can have such an effect on me? Maybe that’s what I need in my life, a little positivity, even though the cards I’ve been dealt in this lifetime are pure shit. Either way, for whatever reason, I crave to be around her right now. She’s the only bright spot in my life. It might not be permanent—it can’t be permanent—but I’m going to be a selfish bastard and soak her up as much as possible, because at least around her, I don’t hate myself as much. I just hope she likes my idea for today. With her arms gripping me tightly, we fly down E-470 at eighty-five miles per hour, the dry, somewhat

snow-covered Colorado landscape whizzing by us. We head north on the stretch of road toward Denver International Airport. In a blur, we pass housing developments, shopping centers, and flat plains, dried grass peeking out from under the light snow on the ground. It’s always said when you drive east in Colorado, you might as well be in Kansas because the terrain becomes extremely flat, very farm-like. It’s true. If I weren’t living in the city, I would live on the west side, near the mountains, where I can marvel at their size and expanse. But the city will have to do for now. I pull off at exit twenty-four and make a right off the highway, onto East Fifty-Sixth Ave. Farmland passes by, but it doesn’t take us long to get to where I want to go, an empty lot in the middle of nowhere. Once we arrive, I put the bike in park, pop the kickstand, and turn my head toward Daisy. “Swing around me.” “What?” she asks, confusion written all over her face. Instead of explaining, I just force her into position myself. I grab her legs and swing her around until she’s sitting on the little portion of the seat between me and the handle, her eyes looking straight into mine, her lips parted on a gasp. “Goodness.” Her legs drape over mine, and it’s an intimate position that I don’t mind one bit. Bastard. She’s an innocent, for fuck’s sake. Mind out of the gutter. Needing a little breathing room—for some reason my body seems to heat up whenever I’m around her —I take off my helmet and toss it into the soft dirt a few feet from the bike. I can feel the heat of my head, my hair damp from the helmet. She removes hers as well, but carefully leans down to place it on the ground beside us. “Do you think you can handle my bike?” Her eyes widen, searching me to see if I’m telling the truth. “You mean, drive your bike?” “Yeah. We have to learn something new. Why not learn how to drive a motorcycle?” The idea came to me when I was thinking about how hot Daisy would look driving it. I had to make the dream a reality. Had to. Like I said, bastard. She gulps hard, her hands resting at the base of my jacket, her fingers playing with the end. “Um, when we were told to learn something new, I was thinking of something more in line with learning a new knitting knot.” This comes as no surprise to me. “That’s too safe, Snowflake. You have to put yourself out there more. Knitting is in your wheelhouse, step outside your shell, like you’ve been trying to.” “By driving a motorcycle?” she asks, her voice rising with slight hysteria. “That seems a little extreme, don’t you think?” “Not at all.” I smile and cup her face. How is her skin so soft? “I’ll be behind you the whole time, guiding you.” “But I don’t have a license to drive one. I don’t want to get a ticket.” “You won’t get a ticket. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Now, are you going to grab life by the balls and do something unexpected, learn something new?” She bites her bottom lip adorably as she thinks. “Well, I’ve never really grabbed anything by the balls. Even a man.” Her face turns bright red. “Not that I want to grab a bunch of balls or anything, I just haven’t

done it before.” Exhaling hard, she leans forward and says, “I hear when you grab a man’s testicles, you have to be gentle because they’re sensitive, is that true?” My hand drops from her face, my head flies back, and a bark of a laugh comes out of me from the serious tone coming from her. Is she really asking me about “testicles” right now? “What’s so funny?” she asks, swatting my stomach. “That’s a legitimate question.” “I don’t know.” I laugh some more. “Do you like it when your boobs are squeezed hard?” If I didn’t think her face could get any more red, I’d be wrong. She casts her eyes down and shakes her head. “I’ve, uh, never done the boob or testicle grabbing thing before.” Peeking up at me through her long, dark eyelashes, she says, “I’m a, uh, virgin.” This comes as no shock to me. I could have guessed that given how sheltered she was, but she hasn’t even fooled around? Curious, I push her a little. “Let me ask you this. Have you ever kissed anyone before?” Shying away, she shakes her head, no. Never been kissed? This beautiful, vivacious woman has never been kissed? How is that even possible? Those sweetheart lips are going to waste, just resting on her gorgeous face, never once connecting with another soul. Why do I feel the need to rectify that? Because her lips are one of the things I haven’t been able to out of my head the past few days. I want to know how they taste, how soft they are, how they would feel up against mine. Would it be serendipitous? Like we were meant to be? There’s a scary side of me that believes that very well could be true. I block out that side of me though. I can’t go there. Not right now, not with Daisy. Instead, I focus my attention back on her. “You’ve never been kissed, Daisy?” She shakes her head, unable to really look at me, so I fix that. Lifting her chin, I force her to make eye contact. Those depths of blue hit me hard, harder than I was expecting, drawing me closer. Slow, intense seconds pass between us, the air growing thicker with each breath despite being outside. The heady atmosphere sucks me into her intoxicating orbit. Just one taste, that’s all I want, just one simple taste. “Never been kissed, huh? We’re just going to have to change that now, won’t we?” Wrapping my hand behind her neck, I pull her forward, her hands now shaking against my thighs. I’m millimeters away from her mouth, our lips barely able to graze against each other. “Tell me to stop, Daisy. Tell me you don’t want this.” Gripping tightly onto my jacket now, she ever so slightly shakes her head. “There isn’t one part of me that can tell you no, Carter. I want this. So much.” “Not as much as me,” I mutter right before I close the distance between us, our lips molding together in a gentle caress. At first, I take it easy, letting Daisy get used to the feeling of our lips pressed together, of our heads bending in opposite directions, of our hands clamping onto each other. Once I feel she’s comfortable, I move my hand down to her back and pull her closer, needing to feel her on a deeper level, not just on her lips, but with her body as well. When I scoot her closer on my lap, she quietly moans in my mouth, her lips parting just enough that I slip my tongue inside, eliciting another moan from her. The sexiest sound I’ve ever fucking heard.

For never kissing someone before, she’s fucking blowing my mind with the way she tentatively moves her hands inside my jacket, how her tongue barely grazes mine, and her lips move in conjunction with mine, like she’s trying to form a rhythmic dance with our mouths. It’s sexy as fuck. Sinful almost, the way she lightly strokes my lips, sending chills up my spine. This isn’t just some kiss, this is nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Hot, wet, explorative, tentative, scared yet excited, all wrapped up with a tiny little Daisy bow. Fucking perfection. Fucking terrifying. Nipping at her lips one last time, I pull away and watch like a proud motherfucker as her eyes flutter open, lust pouring out of them as she catches her breath. “Never been kissed? Not anymore, Snowflake.” She takes a deep breath, her hand going to her lips as if to check if they’re still attached. Don’t worry, Snowflake, they’re still very much attached and looking just as sexy as ever. Staring up at me in awe, she says, “I guess not.” Then with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, she adds, “Thank you, Carter.” Ah hell. I’m so fucked when it comes to this girl. JACE I’ve had my fair share of nervous moments. Whether it was having to hit the game-winning run, signing with my first major league team, or playing in my first major league game among thousands upon thousands of fans. I’ve had to shed the shaky hands and do my job. But this moment right here, this is a moment I don’t know if I can hide my nerves. Sitting in my rental car, I stare up at the apartment complex and take deep breaths, playing the conversation I want to have over and over in my head. I practiced it on the phone with my lawyers, who didn’t think it was a good idea, and with Hollyn, who coached me to be a little softer with my approach. Apparently I was coming off as harsh. How could I not, though? Christ. I look at my text messages one last time, hovering over Hollyn’s name. Hollyn: Just remember to stay calm, no matter what she says to make you mad. Stay calm, don’t lose my shit, don’t threaten her, but speak with authority. I’m doing this for June and Alex. I’m doing this for Hope. After locking my car, I make my way up the sidewalk of the rundown apartment complex Rebecca lives in. She’s moved since I’ve been with her. Taking in my surroundings, it seems something must have happened to her in the last few months, because she didn’t used to live in such squalor. Rundown doors after rundown doors appear as I walk down the balcony of the outdoor apartment complex. It has the feel of an old motel that someone converted into small apartments, some creepy structure out of a horror film. What the hell is she living here for? Scanning the paper again with her address, I note the apartment number, 2F. The numbers on the doors are barely visible but when I spot 2F, my body goes stiff, my heart starts beating out of my chest, and my palms instantly become sweaty. Knowing I just need to get this conversation over and done with, I rap two knuckles on the door and wait for her to answer, shifting from one foot to another, trying to keep myself busy so I don’t have time to

really think about what I’m doing. What am I really doing? Some people might say I’m reasoning, but I’m not above begging. If I have to, I will get down on my hands and knees. The distinct sound of locks being unlocked fill in the empty night air and the door barely cracks open, Rebecca’s head poking through. When she sees me on the other side of the door, her eyes go wide for a brief moment but then turn into a blank mask. “Jace, what are you doing here?” “Can we talk?” She looks back into her apartment and then says, “Now is not a good time. Just have your lawyers translate whatever you came to talk to me about.” She goes to shut the door on me but I stop it, my palm flat against the wood. “I’m not leaving until I talk to you,” I state, being firm. “Well, looks like you’re going to have a long night because now is not a good time,” she seethes between her teeth. “It’s a good time for me, so either open up or step outside. I’m not a very patient man when it comes to you, so don’t fuck with me, Rebecca.” So much for staying calm. “Jace,” she looks back into her apartment and then whispers, “I can’t do this right now.” Trying to peer inside her apartment, I ask, “What the hell are you hiding that you don’t want me to see?” “Nothing. Go home. Have your lawyers call mine.” “I’m not going—” “Becca, come check on the cookies, I think they’re done but I’m not sure,” a deep voice booms from inside the apartment, causing Rebecca to squeeze her eyes shut. I know that voice. “Rebecca?” “Don’t.” She shakes her head and tries to push the door shut again. “Just leave, Jace.” Not going to happen. I’m not putting up with this anymore. I stop her from closing the door, but this time, I push the door all the way open. Just as I walk into her apartment, Ethan, my teammate and my best friend comes out into the living room, wearing an apron, a fucking apron, and holding a tray of cookies. What. The. Fuck. “Jace.” He looks to Rebecca whose eyes are cast down and then back to me. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask, moving closer to him. I’m seeing red. “Jace, stop.” Rebecca stands in front of me and places her hand on my chest. Fury, anger, pure unadulterated rage is speeding through my veins. Not because Rebecca is with another man, I don’t give a shit about that. My best friend, the man I consider a brother, the man who knows about Rebecca’s attempt to get Hope back, the man who has watched me fucking cry over the possible loss to Alex and June . . . that man stands before me in Rebecca’s living room, clearly not his first visit. The. Bastard. “Ethan!” I yell this time. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He sets the tray on the card table set up in the dining area and tosses the oven mitts down as well. “Look, I was going to tell you, man.”

“Tell me what?” I charge toward him but once again, Rebecca steps between us, and puts her hands on my chest. “What were you going to fucking tell me?” I’ve got to give credit to him, he doesn’t back down in the presence of my rage, instead he steps forward, ready to talk. He’s calm. Calm. The fuck. I’m the complete opposite. I’m the epitome of rage, wanting to ram my fist through someone’s head. Preferably his. “We’ve been seeing each other, man,” he says calmly. Christ, he’s wearing a fucking apron, a polo on underneath, and his hair is parted to the side like some kind of whipped jackass. Who the hell is this man and what has he done with my best friend? “You’ve been seeing each other. How long?” I grind out. “A month,” Rebecca answers back. “A month?” My hands fly to my hair, and I start pulling on the strands. “You’ve been seeing her for a month and didn’t say anything to me? Especially once she came back to my place and asked for Hope?” I pace the living room, trying to comprehend this entire situation. As a best friend, how could he do that? How could he sit on my couch with me and listen to my tortured words, commiserate with me over my situation, and even offer guidance, knowing fully well that he’s banging my baby mama. Yeah, it breaks the bro code. What garbage did he feed me in his feeble attempt to support me? Jace, you made a huge sacrifice, one of the biggest sacrifices a person can make. You have to give yourself time to heal. The fucker. I don’t get it. I don’t fucking get it! “This is bullshit,” I shout, grabbing one of the dining room chairs and tossing it against the wall, not even caring about the damage. “Man, let’s sit down and talk about this.” My fury turns on Ethan. Keeping my distance, I point at him and say, “Fuck you and fuck talking. You’re dead to me.” Turning to Rebecca, I say, “Drop the request to get Hope back because if you don’t, I swear on my fucking life that I will make the rest of your living days a nightmare. You can quote me on that.” Without another word, I storm out of her dilapidated apartment, past the worn and torn doors, and down the metal steps leading to the parking lot. There is no fucking way my daughter is living in this shithole. Reaching into my pocket, I grab my phone. Need. Her. “Jace?” “Hollyn,” I breathe out. “Pack a bag and head to the airport. There will be a ticket waiting for you.” “What? Jace, I can’t—” “Please. I need you, Hollyn. I can’t explain it over the phone. I fucking need you.” “Okay,” she answers without hesitation. “I’ll pack right now.” DAISY “Brakes! Daisy, brakes!” Carter shouts into my ear as I fiddle with the hand brake, my fingers pulling back quickly. As we come to an immediate stop, I realize I forgot to hit the rear brakes as well when the motorcycle starts to lift and Carter flies into my back. “Oh goodness.” I fly into the front of the bike, my helmet-covered head hitting the controls and speedometer. Carter’s muscular frame pushes me even more forward.

From around my back, Carter leans forward, puts the bike in park, and quickly turns it off. With his superior strength, he balances the bike for both of us. I feel . . . exhilarated. I just drove a motorcycle. Eep! With Carter right behind me. “Off.” One word, that’s all he says, and I start to get nervous. I’ll be honest, I’m not the best driver, and trying to get me to understand how to drive a motorcycle, yikes, I might have given Carter a few minor heart attacks. I’m betting this last little stint will be the end of my motorcycle driving days, especially since I almost ran us into a fence. A little disappointed, I get off the bike, take off my helmet, and fidget in place while I wait for Carter, who seems to be catching his breath. He flips his visor up and that’s when I see his eyes for the first time since he started teaching me. They are wide, yet when they rake over my body, it’s not anger I see, it’s . . . concern? He pops the kickstand, gets off the bike, and walks over to me. In the sexiest way possible—I swear I’m not just saying that—he removes his helmet and drops it to the ground. He does the same with my helmet and then cups my cheeks, searching my eyes. “Are you okay?” How is he not angry? He’s worried . . . about me. “Yeah, but I think you should be asking your bike that, not me. She took more of a beating than I did.” He glances back at his bike and then returns his gaze on mine. “She’s replaceable, you’re not. Are you sure you’re okay? You really flew into the handlebar.” “I’m okay.” As if he doesn’t believe me, he continues to assess me. His thumbs run over my cheeks, his eyes rake up and down my body. When he seems satisfied, he lets out a long breath. “Shit, Snowflake. You’re terrible at riding a bike.” “Hey! It was my first time,” I say. “I bet you weren’t Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle when you first started.” “Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle?” His eyes twinkle with humor. “Yeah, you know, Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle.” “I really don’t.” He laughs now. “Enlighten me.” “Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle is like pro status, it’s an expression.” “Huh, never heard it before.” His hands fall to my hips and pull me in closer to his body, sending a bolt of heat straight down my spine, not that I need it. Ever since he kissed me, my body has been on fire. Gah, he kissed me! My first ever kiss, with a man like Carter. With the man I’ve been crushing on for weeks now, he kissed me, without any warning. It was so magical, like something you would see in a movie, at least that’s what it felt like. I doubt it felt like that for him, of course. I’m sure Carter has kissed many, many girls before me. And none of them would have been so . . . inexperienced. And when he pulled his lips away from mine, he fell right into step with showing me how to drive, his hands roaming my body, helping me learn something new. To be honest, my learning something new could have just been the kiss, but I still allowed him to teach me how to ride, even though I enjoyed him running his hands all over my body more than actually driving. But I would never admit that for two reasons: I’m unbearably shy, and I don’t want him to feel like he wasted his time. Not that I consider what he taught me a waste of time, nope, not one bit. “Daisy?” He steps closer, his forehead lowering to mine. “Hmm,” I practically purr. Being so close to him does that to me.

“I don’t ever want you driving my motorcycle again.” “What?” I pull away from him. “Why not? I wasn’t that bad.” He doesn’t let me get far because he uses my arm like a yoyo string and reels me back into his body, my palms flattening against his hardened chest. Gosh, he’s so nice to touch. As if he’s a warm biscuit fresh out of the oven, you just need to play with it in your hands, or is that just me? “Snowflake, you were terrible.” “Hey now. Terrible is a strong word. I wasn’t that hard on Nancy Drew.” “I thought we talked about not calling her Nancy Drew,” he counters, light still in his eyes. “What am I supposed to call her? Harley? That seems so lame. Nancy Drew, now that’s exciting.” “How is naming my motorcycle after a fictional character who would identify as an amateur sleuth exciting?” “Because Nancy Drew is exciting and a bit of a mystery, both qualities your bike possesses. I mean, if you were going to be so picky about a name for her, you would have named her already.” “Who says I haven’t?” He avoids eye contact with me. Oh my goodness, he’s named her! “You named her? And you didn’t introduce me properly before I straddled her? How rude are you? Gosh, what she must think of me?” “She was saying you were rude the other day.” His smile stretches across his face in a James Franco way. Sigh. “She wasn’t saying I was rude.” I take offense. “Now if you ever want me to get on that thing again, you better introduce me properly. You know, it’s not every day I sit on someone. So, a proper introduction will make it less awkward for when I sit on her next.” “You’re ridiculous.” “Maybe, but don’t you want to know the people you sit on?” “I don’t sit on people.” “But if you were to.” “I don’t sit on people,” he repeats. “Ugh, just tell me her name.” “So demanding.” He pushes some of my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering, sending chills down my arms. “Snowflake, I want you to meet Veronica.” “Veronica?” I giggle. He shrugs. “I had a thing for Veronica Mars.” Veronica who? A stitch of jealousy takes place in my stomach. He named his motorcycle after a girl he liked? Did she ever drive his bike? Did he ever try to teach her? The euphoria I was feeling just turned bitter. I thought I was special. I guess just not as special as this Veronica Mars girl. What a stupid name. Ugh, that’s a lie. Mars is a pretty cool last name, but I want to hate her . . . I swallow hard and say, “Veronica Mars, huh? Did you guys date long?” “What?” Carter asks, a furrow in his brow. I’m about to ask again, maybe he didn’t hear me, when his face goes from confusion to humor. Right on cue, his head falls back and he laughs, full-body, from deep within his gut, laughs. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, his neck exposed to me for my viewing pleasure. I hate to admit

it, but with each bark of laughter that escapes him, I grow more and more self-conscious over this Veronica Mars girl. I wonder what she looks like. Is she pretty? Of course she is. She had to be someone special for Carter to name his bike after her. Growing a little tired of his laughter, I say, “I don’t see how this is so funny.” His hysterics die down. He takes me in. “What? Are you jealous?” “Jealous? Who me?” I point at myself and then wave him off. “Of course not. I’m not jealous at all.” Oh my gosh, I am so jealous. Darn you, Veronica Mars, for making me feel like this, darn you. “Oh, Snowflake.” He cups my cheek again and pulls me close, pressing a very light kiss on my lips, once again sending chills up and down my body, which is a stark contrast to what’s happening inside me. With our lips just a whisper away, he says, “Veronica Mars was a TV show a few years back.” “A TV show?” “Yeah.” He chuckles. “Did you really think I would name my bike after an ex-girlfriend? Do I look like that kind of guy?” Feeling awfully stupid, but relieved, I answer him. “Well, you are moody. Maybe it was a rebellion thing.” “You are so sheltered.” Laughing some more, he pulls me into a hug, and I take that moment to rest my head on his chest, memorizing the way his chiseled chest feels against my cheek. Loving the way his chiseled chest feels against my cheek. “Come on, I want to show you something.” Linking our hands together, he walks me over to the fence that I almost ran us into, grips my hips, and lifts me to sit on top. Not wasting any time, he joins me, making sure to sit as close to me as possible. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks, looking out into a field of nothing. Thanks to the cool winter months, the ground is brown, no spring life in sight quite yet. “Beautiful?” I ask, confused. Maybe he’s seeing something I’m not. “The field. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Okay, so we are looking at the same thing. Seeing the beauty in everything has always been a trait of mine but this, this is a field of upturned dirt. “Uh, sure?” I ask as a question. He snuggles even closer and wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side. Is this how he is with every girl? Being this close to him, having him touch me so easily as if he’s done it for years, is incredible. I’m trying desperately to not read anything into his tactility. Perhaps he’s just one who likes to touch. He speaks closely into my ear, and his breath tickles. “Sometimes, Daisy, you can’t see the beauty in something right away. Sometimes you have to sit back and hope it grows into what you know it can be. Life is a fucking funny thing. There is so much we want from it. We both desire freedom, but in two different ways. And even though I’d like to say there is a beautiful future ahead of me, it’s hard to see the potential in my situation. But with you . . .” he kisses the side of my head, his lips grazing my skin as he continues, “you have a field like this in front of you, with just as much potential. It may seem like a dirt pile at first, but when you let it grow, when you actively nurture it, it can grow into something of such beauty.” From the side, his arm lifts up, his phone in his hand, a picture displayed on the screen. When it comes into view, I see why he brought me over here. We are in the same spot the photo was taken, but instead of a brown field in the picture, it’s a field of sunflowers, spanning out for yards. Bold varieties of yellow against the bright blue Colorado sky enchant me. It’s one of the most gorgeous pictures I’ve ever

seen. “You’re just like this field, Daisy,” he continues to whisper in my ear, “waiting to sprout and bloom.” Kissing the side of my head, he says, “Don’t let anyone stop you from achieving what you want. Got it?” My eyes fixated on his, I nod. “Got it.” “Good.” He sighs and looks back out at the empty field. “You’re special, Daisy. You have so much potential. I hope you know that.” If only he believed in his potential as well. HOLLYN Announcements about arriving and departing flights ring through the airport as I make my way down to passenger pick-up. The world stands still around me, family and friends celebrating and reuniting, kids running around, their parents trying to wrangle them in, but nothing fazes me. I look for Jace, his pained, yet angered voice still haunting me, but I don’t see him until I’m at the very bottom of baggage claim and moving toward the doors that lead to the street. There he is, leaning against the wall next to an elevator, his sweatshirt hood pulled low on his head, one of his feet propped up, the other balancing his large frame. Deflated, his shoulders are slouched, his gaze cast down, and in one hand, he scrolls through his phone until he looks up, instantly making eye contact with me, as if he knew I was in the same room as him. He shifts off the wall, pockets his phone, and swaggers over to me, little blond sprigs of hair poking out from his forehead, his blue eyes focused directly on me. I only have a small duffel carry-on bag that I have slung over my shoulder but when Jace reaches me, he frees me of my bag and links our hands together. Without a word, he guides me out to the temporary parking lot. Soon he unlocks a black Range Rover, places my luggage in the trunk, and guides me to the passenger side where he helps me in the seat but then turns me so I’m facing him. He lets out a strangled sigh and buries his head into the crook between my shoulder and neck. It’s as if he can finally rest, find peace. What on earth has happened since I last saw him? “Thank you for dropping everything to be here with me.” Pushing his hood down, I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the tightening in my chest from the intimate touch, but I move forward, knowing Jace needs the contact more than anything. “What’s going on?” His hair is soft against the pads of my fingers, reminding me of all the times I used to play with Eric’s hair. The memory creates a dull ache in my chest. I miss Eric, but . . . have I mostly missed being intimate with another human? “From the way you’re reacting, I’m going to guess your conversation didn’t go very well with Rebecca.” “Not so much.” Lifting his head, he asks me, “Can we just drive?” “Yes, we can just drive.” He stands up, pinches my chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Thank you, Hollyn.” Starting up the car, he pulls out of the parking spot, navigates onto the road, turns up the music, and drives. The twangy sounds of a steel guitar fill the cab along with the smooth, yet very country voice of Alan Jackson. It’s soothing, calming, perfect for the drive. The city passes us, turning into the dark empty night sky, desert landscaping the sides, cactus standing tall, casting shadows under the moonlight. The only light on the road a distant shack up ahead, the moon,

and bright beautiful stars shining in the sky. Not even bothering to strike up a conversation, I revel in the silence, letting my mind become clear. It’s not very often I get to sit back and let my mind be free, and now is the perfect time. Getting comfortable, I put my feet up on the dashboard just as Jace pulls up to the little shack I spotted in the distance. It’s a drive-thru ice cream shop. “Milkshake?” he asks, turning toward me, a boyish charm in his smile. “Strawberry, please.” He raises an eyebrow in question. “Strawberry? I would have pegged you for a chocolate girl.” “At least you didn’t think I was vanilla.” He shakes his head. “With that beautiful red hair of yours, there’s no way you’re a vanilla girl.” “Smooth.” I laugh and look out the window, listening to Jace put in our orders. Two strawberry shakes. For some reason, it makes me giggle knowing Jace likes strawberry shakes as well. It always seemed like a girl drink to me. I’m so wrong because Jace is anything but girly. In fact, he’s the complete opposite. Complete. Opposite. It doesn’t take very long for our shakes to be made and for us to be out on the road again, a cold cup in hand, and no destination ahead. After a few more minutes on the road, Jace pulls off onto a little lookout parking area and puts the car in park. Turning to me, he asks, “Want to sit on the hood with me?” “Do you have a blanket?” He nods to the back of his car. “Got you covered.” He’s thought of everything. While he grabs the blanket, I go to the front of the car where I contemplate how to get up on the hood. I always thought sitting on the hood of your car could dent it but from the way Jace approaches me, determination in his eyes, I don’t think he really cares. “Need help?” He sizes me up. “Um, I think I can handle it.” I assess my attack of the hood once again but don’t get a chance to finish because Jace has me by the hips and lifts me up on the hood effortlessly. In seconds, he’s sitting next to me, milkshake in one hand, blanket in the other. Scooting back to the windshield, we lean against the warm surface, and gaze at the dark sky. A light wind whips against us. Thank goodness for the blanket. Getting a little more intimate, Jace pulls me into his body so my head is against the crook of his arm and shoulder. He’s so warm that I don’t pull away and instead, relish in the comfort of another human. In silence, we sip our milkshakes, enjoying each other’s company in the dark depths of the desert. At least that’s what it feels like with no light in sight. It’s almost spooky but with Jace next to me, I know I have nothing to worry about. Knowing we can’t sit here in silence forever, despite how peaceful it is, I stare up at the stars and ask, “What happened with Rebecca?” The feel of his fingers running through my hair sends shivers up my spine. It’s that touch—something I’ve been missing out on for so long. It makes me feel alive again. I lean into him some more, clinging to the spark of energy running through the tips of his fingers. “She’s been seeing my best friend, Ethan.”

“What?” With a hand to his chest, I sit up to look him in the eyes. “Are you serious? For how long?” “A month,” he replies on a long breath and then runs his hand through his short, unruly hair. “I still can’t even comprehend it. Honestly, I couldn’t care less who Rebecca dates. It’s the betrayal by my best friend that is fucking gutting me right now.” Sitting up, Jace props his knees and rests his forearms on them, his head bent forward. Wanting to comfort him, I scoot close and entwine one of my arms with his. “He sat there, Hollyn. He sat there and watched me fucking cry over the fact that Rebecca wants to get the baby back and the entire time, he’d been fucking her. He just sat there, not saying a damn thing.” I swallow hard, my emotions in turmoil for Jace and the pain he’s feeling. “What kind of best friend is that?” He shakes his head. “Never in a million years would I have guessed Ethan would do something like this to me. He’s always been loyal, forthcoming about his life, and never once would I have guessed he could betray me. I don’t get it.” “Maybe he really likes her,” I suggest. “Sometimes when you find yourself falling in love you do stupid things. Just to preserve the connection you have with another human being.” “There’s a code, Hollyn. You don’t sleep with your best friend’s ex, whether they mean anything to you or not,” Jace hisses. “When Rebecca first showed up at my apartment to tell me she was pregnant, he was there. I mean, fuck . . .” he pauses and slams his fist on the hood of his car, startling me, “was he with her then? Did he pretend he didn’t know she was pregnant when she told me? And is he part of this whole plan to get Hope back? He was my family, Hollyn. My brother.” He pauses, as if the words are just too much to contemplate. “Is he encouraging her to ruin my life, Hope’s life, and the lives of two incredible women? Why? What’s his part in all of this? Why has he lied to me, Hollyn? I don’t get it.” I don’t get it either. Jace is one of the best men I’ve ever known. He’s kind, selfless, intelligent, and thoughtful. How on earth do I help him with this? “Maybe you should talk to him.” A sardonic laugh comes out of him as he leans back on the windshield and stares up at the dark sky. “And say what? Hey bro, why are you fucking me over? Come on, Hollyn. What’s the point? He’s just going to feed me a bunch of bullshit I don’t want to hear. There’s no use for reconciliation. I’ll never trust him again.” There is use for reconciliation. No matter how big or small the problem might be, you should always find a way to find peace with the people around you, because life will step in, grab you by the heart, and change everything in a matter of seconds. You don’t want to be the person living life full of regret, regret for what you said right before someone passes. I know from experience. “You know, Jace,” I stare down at my hands, trying to find the right words, “life is so much bigger than this, than us, than your friendship with Ethan. It flies by with just a blink of an eye, as if it’s a mere dream you experience rather than an entire lifetime. Don’t waste your time sitting in the corner, hating on the people who’ve done you wrong. Rise up and fix it, because if you don’t you’re going to regret it. You’re going to regret it more than you will ever know.” “Hollyn . . .” He presses his hand against my back but I shake him off, sliding down the hood and onto the dirt. “No, I don’t want to make this about me.” I take a deep breath and look out into the bleak desert. “This

is about you. Just don’t throw away your friendship quite yet. Hear him out, as there may be a reason why he didn’t say anything to you. Is it fucked up what he did? Of course, I’m not going to devalue your feelings or emotions. You have the right to be mad, but be mad with a purpose. Be mad at the right thing.” The sound of the hood bending clues me into his approach. I can feel his heat before he wraps his arms around my midsection and pulls me in close, his head hanging over my shoulder, his voice low when he speaks. “Be mad with a purpose.” I nod, unable to speak. Memories of that morning playing out in my mind. That petty fight. Those hurtful words. The lack of goodbye. The loss of hearing I love you one last time. Tears stream down my cheeks. It happened all too fast. I was going to apologize that night. I had it all planned out. His favorite dinner, his favorite beer chilling in the fridge, our love playlist poised and ready to be played. I was going to say I was sorry, but I never got the chance. “Hollyn, talk to me.” Turning me around, Jace grips me by the shoulders, a slight shake in his need to get me to look at him. “We’re honest with each other, remember? Tell me what’s going on so I can help you.” With the heaviest and saddest heart, I say, “I told Eric I hated him before he died. That was the last thing I said to him, the last words he ever heard my voice say. I hate you.” “Hollyn, he knew you didn’t mean those words.” “It doesn’t matter if I meant them or not,” I shout back. “That was the last thing he heard from me. He went to training that day, thinking the worst of our marriage, of me. And then . . .” I choke on a sob that pops out of my mouth. “What if . . . what if what I said distracted him? What if I’m the reason he died, because he wasn’t paying attention, he wasn’t focused? I did that to him.” “Don’t.” Jace steps up and grips my jaw with his strong hand, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Don’t you dare take the blame for his death. You had nothing to do with that.” “But what if—?” “What if is a waste of time. Don’t ruin your life over a what if. Like you said, life is so much bigger than that.” “Life is bigger than that,” I confirm. He nods, his hand still gripping my jaw, his other hand finding my hip. “He knew you loved him, Hollyn. It’s hard not to know that. Just from the way you’ve spoken of Eric, it’s clear the passion, the relationship, the connection you had with him. Don’t throw that away on a few wasted words that were said in the heat of the moment but meant nothing. Like you said, don’t devalue what you had because of a mistake.” He pauses, allowing time for his words to sink in. Shaking his head, eyes cast down, he chuckles. “Fuck, I hate that what we are going through is so similar and yet, so different.” “Like we were meant to find each other. Help each other.” “As if we were brought together in this world, at the most difficult times in our lives, to be mad, but with a purpose.” There is something magical about his repetition of my words, like he’s actually hearing me, rather than

just placating. Must be the creative listener that he is. “Exactly.” Sighing, he pulls me in closer. “He loved you, Hollyn, but I think it’s time you take some of your words to heart. Life is bigger than this, live it, love it . . . prove your existence.” I search his eyes, so full of sincerity, of understanding, of lust. He’s the first man to gain my attention on an intimate level since Eric’s death, and for the first time since I uttered those three miserable words to Eric, I feel like moving past it doesn’t seem so scary. Not with Jace by my side, guiding me. Eric knew I loved him. He knew. Feeling the need to jump all in like we talked about, I run my hands up Jace’s strong and chiseled chest and say, “Kiss me.” His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, confusion in his expression. I don’t blame him, the request came out of left field, but I need this to move on. I need to prove to myself that I can do this, that I can forgive myself for my words. Deep down, I know Eric will always be with me, but I need to learn to live again. Because life is so much bigger . . . I don’t wait for him to make a move. Instead, I grip his jaw and pull him closer until our lips are a whisper apart. “I thought you weren’t ready,” he says, his lips dancing close to mine. “I’m taking one step closer. It’s time I take this program seriously and truly prove my existence. Kiss me, Jace. Make me feel again.” A brief smile passes over him before his lips connect with mine in the most intimate of dances. This time when we kiss, lust for this man eclipses the lingering and understandable guilt wrestling within me. Feeling free of guilt will take time, finding the will to move on takes time, and it’s been nearly two years. I’m moving on. I’m proving my existence, one kiss with Jace at a time. CARTER “It’s not a mansion, but it does the job.” I shrug my shoulders, feeling completely self-conscious. Why did I bring her here? She continues to look around, taking in every little spider web in the ceiling corner, every speck of dust I never bothered cleaning, and every rip, tear, and scuff on my dilapidated furniture. If I wanted to impress her, I’m doing a pretty shitty job of it. Is that what this is? My need to impress her? Is that why I brought her back to my place? If so, I need to be punched in the dick because bringing her here to impress her was a pretty stupid decision. Hey, Daisy, come see where homeless people pee on the side of my building, and while you’re at it, check out the mattress I sleep on, on the floor, and the broken-down kitchen I’m ashamed to cook in as a professional chef. And that draft you’re feeling? Yeah, that’s a winter special. It’s called come catch pneumonia. Yup, she’s a real beauty, isn’t she? Fuck me. “Wow,” she finally says, looking at me. Is that a wow I can’t believe you live in this shitty place? Or a wow . . . who am I kidding? It’s a wow I can’t believe you live in this shitty place. There is no other wow when it comes to my life, my living arrangements, my goddamn luck.

I grab the back of my neck and avoid eye contact. “Yeah, it’s, uh, the only place I could find at the time.” “Why are you doing that?” she asks, pointing at my hand that’s rubbing my neck. “Doing what?” She impersonates me, but in an exaggerated way. “Fidgeting. Why are you doing that?” “Isn’t it obvious?” She looks at me blankly. “Come on, Snowflake, this place is a shithole. I don’t know why I brought you here.” Her brow furrows and her nose wrinkles in the cutest way possible. Fuck, I want to kiss her again. “What are you talking about? I said wow because it’s so amazing that you’re living on your own. Look around.” She spins, her arms spread wide, her hair fanning out with her revolutions. “You have all this to yourself. This is yours. You don’t have to worry about a roommate, or a grandma, or a half-sister and her fiancé, who I hear having sex by the way.” She shivers. “You can walk around naked if you want, leave the milk out for two seconds without being cussed out, and you don’t have to worry about disturbing someone else. You really are living it large.” She sits down on one of the rickety bar stools at my kitchen island and taps the counter a few times. “Gee, this is great.” Is she being serious right now? I look around my apartment, making sure I’m seeing the same thing she is. She thinks my apartment is great? Is that even possible? “Snowflake, this place is a shithole.” She shakes her head. “You’re not looking at it properly.” Standing, she comes to my side, links our hands together, and waves them in front of us, gesturing to my living space. “You may see the scuffs on the floor or the old, broken-down furniture, but what I see is freedom.” She turns to me, that gorgeous smile I’ve come to crave gracing her beautiful face. “This is your sanctuary. To you, it might not be much, but it doesn’t have to be, it just has to be your space. Got it?” She repeats my words back to me, making me smile. “Got it,” I reply. “Good.” She claps her hands in excitement. “Look at me teaching you how to love your space. Oh!” She turns to me, eyes bright. “This could be the something new you learned for Dear Life.” “Ah, come on. You know I don’t participate in that stuff.” “Yeah, your dream board on a napkin was very winning,” she says sarcastically. “That took me a long time.” There is laughter in my voice. “I’m sure.” She floats around my apartment, touching things, exploring as she speaks. “Why don’t you participate? You have to go to the meetings and write the letters, since you’re already there, you might as well join in.” “I join in just enough.” “Oh, I forgot.” She plays with the sheets nailed over my windows. “You’re Carter Crawford. You don’t participate, you’re too cool for that. Instead, your contribution to society is making sure the masses don’t get lost in the clouds by putting them in place with your cheery disposition.” “I’m sensing sarcasm from the girl who is often stuck in the clouds.” I move up behind her, crowding her space. “Living in the clouds can be fun.”

“Yeah, but at some point you’re going to have to face reality, which will vastly disappoint you.” “So why not live in the clouds then?” she asks, turning to face me, her fingers tangling together with mine. “Because, Snowflake, some of us aren’t as lucky as you. We can’t all live off money Daddy left behind. Some of us have to work for what we want.” “Hey.” She steps back, her brow furrowed again, but this time, it’s not a furrow that’s going to win me brownie points. “That wasn’t very nice, Carter. I didn’t know my dad left me that money, it was a surprise to me.” “I didn’t mean it like that.” “Then how did you mean it? Because right now, it seems like you’re being a jerk and for no reason.” God, she’s mad, and I find it adorable. “You’re taking this the wrong way. You don’t get it. You should feel lucky you don’t have to work as hard as I do just to stay afloat.” She shakes her head. “No, Carter, you don’t get it. You think the world owes you something because so far you haven’t had the best luck. Well, guess what? You’re not the only person who thinks you were jousted by life. I’m twenty-one, I’ve never been on an airplane, and I’ve never been out of the state of Colorado. Friends? Didn’t know what they were until a few months ago. Being intimate with a man? Yeah, have no idea what that’s like. I’m so sheltered, so cut off from this world. For each new experience I have to constantly deal with high anxiety and the constant questioning of myself, making sure I’m not coming on too strong or being insensitive because the only true human interaction I had was with my grams. This is all new to me and don’t you think I feel like I’ve been missing out? Because I have. I’ve missed out on everything. Prom, first boyfriends, sneaking out just to spite my parents, and doing stupid stuff every teenager does just for the heck of it. That’s all foreign to me. You might feel like life owes you something, but it owes me too. Life isn’t all cotton candy and rainbows over here.” “Then let’s change that,” I say, staring her down, like a wolf eyes his prey. “What do you mean?” she asks, looking like a scared little lamb. “You want reality? You want to fall from the clouds? How’s this for you?” I take a few steps toward her, closing the distance between us. “When I first saw you at Dear Life, in those hideous overalls and a turtleneck, all I could think about was what you might be hiding underneath. And then you opened your mouth.” I take another step. “Your voice, so innocent, so pure, it hit me straight in the gut like nothing I’d ever experienced before.” Another step. “Then you smiled, and I thought I got sucker-punched in the goddamn jaw. You were so bright, so untouched.” Finally reaching her, I cup her cheek. Is she this soft everywhere else? “And then I saw your heart, and I thought it was a fucking dream. How could this intricate snowflake, so crystal clear yet complex, how could she even want to talk to me?” Reaching with the other hand, I cup the back of her neck. “But you did, and fuck if I haven’t thought about you every day since then.” I take a deep breath and leap forward. “I like you, Daisy, more than I should, because we both know you should be hanging out with someone a whole lot better than me, but hell if I’ll let that happen, not when you still find me interesting. Call me a selfish prick, a fucking asshole, but you make me forget everything around me. You’re an authentic beauty, but not the everyday kind. You only meet a Daisy once in a lifetime, and fuck if I’m going to let this chance pass me by.” Before she can answer, I crash my lips to hers. My fingers dig into her skin, electrifying our connection,

forcing her to do the same. Tentatively, her hands shake in the best way possible as she presses her palms against my roughened jaw. Her lips, so soft; her touch, so gentle; the light mews coming from her mouth, so fucking bone jarring because they’re not fake. They’re real. She’s so real, from the innocent look she gives me when she’s about to learn something new, to the way she smiles while joking, to the lustful look I see right before I’m about to kiss her. So fucking real. And that right there, that is what has me clinging to her. As if I can’t let go. Her innocence, her purity, the way she sees this world unfiltered. I’m addicted. Pushing her up against the sheet-covered window, I press my hips against hers, pinning her. She doesn’t try to move. Instead, she sinks into my touch, her body melting like butter against me, fully giving herself over. There are no walls, no boundaries between us. From her face, I move my hands down her neck, past her shoulders to her rib cage, my thumbs dancing dangerously close to her breasts. On a sexy gasp, her lips disengage from mine, her eyes wide from the way my thumbs are gently caressing the skin right below her breasts. “Carter,” she says breathlessly, searching my eyes. She bites her bottom lip, a nervous look about her. “I’ve never, um, done anything of the sexual nature.” Deep in my throat, a bark of laughter wants to come out from her phrasing. “The sexual nature.” Only Daisy would say something like that. But to avoid humiliating her, I tamp down my reaction, swallow hard and say, “I kind of guessed that, Snowflake.” “Is it that obvious?” Her cheeks stain red. Of course it’s that obvious, but that’s not a negative thing. Her purity, I love it. I press our palms together and hold them up by our shoulders, looking in those beautifully shy eyes of hers. “It’s not obvious. I just know your past, where you’ve come from.” “Do you think I’m a loser?” “What? No,” I respond angrily. “Why the hell would I think that?” Her shoulders move, unsure as to why she would ask me that question. “Being cool is not defined by how provocative you’ve been in your earlier years, but by the kind of person you are on the inside. And after hearing about the stories with your grams and the way you treat everyday life occurrences with a smile, makes me believe you’re pretty fucking cool.” Her bright smile eats me alive. “You’re pretty cool yourself, Carter.” “I damn well better be in your eyes.” “You are.” With trepidation, she stands on her toes and presses a kiss against my lips, our bodies settling against each other once again. I love how she reached out to me this time. She pursued me. Me. “I have a question or you,” she says when she breaks apart from my lips. “Yeah? What’s that?” Her fingers play with the back of my head, twisting and turning in my short strands. “Would you want to maybe meet my grams? Just because she wants to know who I’m hanging out with. You know, she’s very protective and since—” “Sure,” I say to silence her. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” she asks, that smile becoming impossibly bright. “You make out with me on the couch. This talking is driving me fucking crazy. I just want your lips on mine.” Nervously, she says, “Um, okay, but I’m not . . . ready, if you know what I mean.” “Yeah, neither am I,” I answer. “Wait, what?” she asks, looking a little insulted, which only makes me chuckle. “Yeah, that’s right, I’m not ready to go much farther with you either. Just because everything about you turns me on doesn’t mean I’m about to bone you up against the window. When you have a connection like ours, you cherish it. Don’t worry about me pushing things past making out and some heavy petting.” “Heavy petting?” she asks, a rise of her eyebrow. So fucking cute. “Well, yeah, you can’t make me stay away from your tits for too long. I’m a man, for fuck’s sake.” As she giggles, I scoop her up in my arms, move us to the couch, and lay her down so my body is on top of hers. Pressing my weight against hers, I cup her face, my forearms framing her, and I lean down, loving the way she feels, so soft, so warm. And at this moment, this one right here, I don’t feel anything but Daisy’s purity, and fuck if I’m not infatuated with it. With her. JACE “Uh, do you have everything you need?” I ask from the hallway of my little apartment. “I’m good,” Hollyn replies. Shifting away from the bathroom, I stand there, next to my bed, my hand rubbing the back of my neck, unsure what to do. Hollyn is spending the night. I offered to get her a hotel room but she told me not to be ridiculous, that she would just stay with me in my little short-rental apartment. She didn’t want me spending any more money on her . . . even though I was the one who asked her to come out here. Hell, I wasn’t going to put up a fight. The only problem: my place is a total bachelor pad, meaning, there are two chairs that sit in front of a big-screen TV and one bed in the back of the apartment. I don’t even have a dresser, which was fine until Hollyn came over and saw all my clothes folded and on the floor. It looks fucking tacky as shit. I shouldn’t care, but I do. I care a lot actually because I like Hollyn and want to make a good impression. Although, lately I haven’t been doing a good job at that. I’ve been a blubbering mess around her, and that’s embarrassing. Today. With Ethan. Yeah, that was some fucked-up shit. When I left Rebecca’s, all I could think about was one thing: getting to Hollyn. While I waited for her to fly in, I kept thinking what I was doing, why I needed her, but once I saw her in the airport, I knew exactly why I needed her. She soothes me, but not just me. She soothes my soul. From her kind, knowing eyes, to her gentle, pacifying touch, she is able to take the darkness that tends to envelop me and turn it into something bright, something real. The sound of objects clinking around in the sink of my bathroom draws my attention back to the here and now. Hollyn, she’s here. She’s really fucking here. “Everything okay in there?” I ask.

The door opens, light floods into the bedroom, and Hollyn stands in the middle, her hair tied on top of her head, her face free of makeup, and a long T-shirt hanging loosely on her shoulders. “Uh, do you have some paper towels?” She toes the carpet, her hands behind her back, and her eyes avoiding all contact with me. “I have leftover Chipotle napkins.” I wince. Cleaning supplies don’t exist in my apartment since I have a maid service come in, but I should at least have paper towels . . . if I hit up the grocery store like I was supposed to. “Those should work.” I turn to go get the napkins when an assault of my cologne hits me. What the hell? “Did you use my cologne?” I wave my hand in front of my nose. “Like a lot of it?” Guilty is written all over her face. There is no hiding it. “Um.” She rubs her forehead and shifts in place. “I kind of wanted to smell it, and in the midst of doing so, I might have dropped it in the sink, breaking the bottle open accidentally.” Laughter bubbles up inside me, but I tamp it down. “But my cologne was in my medicine cabinet. What were you doing in my medicine cabinet?” Her wince deepens, shame and embarrassment visible on that beautiful face of hers. “If I said I was looking for night cream, would you believe me?” “No.” I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. “What about Gold Bond?” My brow furrows. “The itching relief body powder? Not so much.” “Tampons?” she tried one last time. A smirk crosses my face. “That’s a fuck no.” “Fine.” She succumbs with a defeat in her shoulders. “I was snooping, found your cologne, fumbled it like an idiot and then smashed it in your sink. I just wanted a sniff. Who knew the bottle was going to be so slippery?” “And why did you want a sniff?” Teasing Hollyn, making her blush, God, it has to be one of my new favorite things. “Because, uh . . .” she pauses and then says, “I’ve heard if you smell something before you taste it, you get the full experience?” There is no confidence in her voice. It’s all question. Fuck. Me. “Smell it before you taste it?” I step toward her, closing in rapidly. “Are you referring to tasting me or the cologne?” The distance between us shortens quickly, her body stiffening with my approach. Her hands are trembling. Is she second-guessing this? Or is she nervous? “Not the cologne,” she answers shyly. The last few inches between us close. My hand to her waist, my eyes trained on hers, my breath a whisper away. She said she was ready? Right? I don’t want to push too far, and yet, I need to dive in. I need to know what it feels like to have her intimately pressed up against me, our skin melting together, our tongues tangled, and our hearts beating as one. I need this more than anything. But I will wait if she’s not ready. I don’t want to, but I will wait. Tentatively, I trace the line of her jaw with my thumb, marveling in the beautiful, delicate structure of

her face, taking in every contour, every divot. And I can’t help but think, Eric was one lucky son of a bitch to have married Hollyn, even if it was for a short period of time. “I want to kiss you, Hollyn. So fucking bad.” “Then do it,” she says on a whisper. “I can’t.” With a cute tilt to her head, she asks, “Why not?” Isn’t it blatantly obvious? This woman can be so oblivious at times. “Because,” I lean in, my nose running along her jawline, stopping at her ear to finish my sentence, “if I kiss you right now, I won’t be able to stop myself from stripping this T-shirt off you and kissing your entire body, leisurely exploring you with my tongue.” Her breath hitches, the pulse in her neck quickens, and everything in her body stiffens. At that moment, I know I fucked up. She let me kiss her, that was it. It wasn’t an open invitation to talking about licking every inch of her body. Christ, Jace. Shit. “What are you waiting for?” My head is cast down, shame coursing through me when her words register in my brain. What? What am I waiting for? Wait, what? Shocked and already excited, my eyes meet hers for confirmation. There is some hesitation in the way her body rests against mine, but those eyes, they give her away. She wants me as much as I want her. I don’t want her to regret it in the morning, causing me to pause. “Are you sure?” Even though I’m itching to explore Hollyn’s body, I’m conscious of the trauma she’s been through. I would be the first man she’s been intimate with since her husband died, so I don’t want to be insensitive and capitalize on a weak moment of hers. Looking away for a second, she bites the inside of her cheek, contemplating her decision. Right there, the uncertainty in her decision, causes me to back down. “It’s all right.” I step in, linking our hands together. Lovingly, I kiss the inside of her wrist and say, “We can just go to sleep.” I attempt to pull her toward the bed but she resists. “I don’t want to go to sleep.” “Hollyn—” “No, don’t analyze this. Just let me be in the moment, let me explore these feelings I’m having.” Her eyes plead with me, begging to listen to her rather than follow the protective instinct I feel toward her. “Please . . .” Fuck me. Those lips, those eyes, the way she’s squeezing my hand. How can I say no to that? I want to be the chivalrous knight she needs, helping her through these new stages in her life by guiding her, but I also want to taste her, every fucking inch of her. Again, I’m weighing the options between my selfishness and what I think is good for her, but before I can voice my concerns one more time, she’s pushing me down on the bed and crawling on top of me, her legs straddling my torso. My arms fly out to the side, her hands find the hem of my shirt and drag it up my stomach, exposing the

hard work I’ve put in at the gym. Glancing up at me, there is lust in her eyes as her fingers dance with my six-pack, raising awareness in my aching cock. Scratch awareness. Just raising my aching cock. It’s hard to stop, to slow myself down, but with Hollyn’s panty-clad ass resting on top of my lap, I know she can feel me hardening under her. There is no hiding it, especially with her fingers smoothing over my muscles, finding the underside of my pecs, brushing them lightly until her nails scrape along my nipples. And fuck, that feels so damn good. “Christ,” I mutter. Every part of my body wants to flip her onto the bed, her back against the mattress, her legs spread, my body perfectly aligned with her, but I refrain. This isn’t about my need to be barbaric, almost raw with the woman. This is about giving her the reins in taking the next step in her life, allowing her to prove her existence for today. Lifting up only briefly, I aid in her taking my shirt off, only for her to toss it to the side and take in my naked chest. Her hands fall to my shoulders, grazing my biceps, testing their width, their strength, until she brings her hands to my forearms and then to my fingers where she guides them to the hem of her shirt. I’m getting a great view of her thighs from how the shirt has ridden up on her, and judging from the need I can sense, I’m about to get another great view. A view I’ve been dying to see. I don’t jump forward. I don’t rip the damn thing off like I want to. I wait, patiently as she lets my fingers dance with the fabric. She seems unsure, indecisive about her next move. From the shift in her eyes, it’s obvious she’s giving herself a pep talk. If only I could read that pretty little head of hers. Is she nervous? Does she want to do this with someone else? Is she thinking of Eric. . . After a few minutes, she startles me by jumping in, just like she said she was going to do. Instead of letting me help her, she disrobes herself in one swift movement, exposing her bare breasts into the moonlit night. Christ. So perfect. Small, perky, just an ideal little handful. I could spend hours with her in this exact position, me starring up at her, taking in ever little inch of her skin. Sensually, lust now reentering her eyes, she reaches up to her head, undoes the bun her hair was tied in, and lets the strands cascade down her shoulders in a wave of red. Hell, if it’s not the most seductive thing I’ve ever seen, the silky curtain framing her beautiful features. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Hollyn.” The words slip out naturally because the statement couldn’t be more true. This isn’t about me trying to impress her; this isn’t about a quick and dirty fuck. This is about the connection we’ve made over the past two months. This is about the undeniable force that has brought us together to not only to help one another, but to help heal. “It’s been a long time, Jace,” she admits, leaning forward, her forearms on the side of my head, her breasts brushing against my bare chest. The feeling is so sensual—so damn erotic—that I have to take a few deep breaths, willing myself to settle, to let her take control. “I know, babe.” I’m gentle, sincere, careful with every word that comes out of my mouth. “You’re in charge. I won’t do anything unless you initiate it.” “What if I want you to take charge?”

I shake my head. “No, Hollyn. This is your show. You lead me. I don’t want to overstep.” Growing even more serious, she pins me with her gaze. “And I don’t want you to treat me like porcelain. I’m broken, Jace. You’re broken. Heal both of us. Take control and make us feel again. Make us know what it’s like to live again, at least for a few moments in time.” “Hollyn, you don’t know how hard it is right now for me to hold back.” “Don’t.” Her hand goes to my lap, her fingers getting dangerously close to my erection. “I want to know what it’s like to be intimate again. Remind me, Jace.” She lifts her bottom half for a brief second, and my body hates the lost connection until her hands grip my cock through my shorts. Eyes closed, strain in my neck and chest, curses rest on the tip of my tongue, the feeling of her small hand wrapped around me, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Let go,” she whispers. “Let go and take me, Jace.” With one more squeeze, she’s on her back, my body hovering over her small body, her hair spanned across the grey comforter decorating my mattress. I take one final moment to look her up and down, to soak in the way her breasts sway with her squirming; her tight, hardened nipples looking for relief; her pouty, full lips needing bruising from my rough jaw. I thought I knew what sexy was, fuck was I wrong. Hollyn, in this moment, is the fucking sexiest sight I’ve ever seen in my life, and hell if the ice-cold block around my heart cracks for this woman. I know, once I fully insert myself inside her, my life will never be the same. She’s a game changer, a life-altering presence that is going to consume me. I only hope it’s in the best way possible. Forget everything. Ethan, Rebecca, Hope, forget it all. Be in this moment. Lowering down, I don’t tread lightly, I give her what she wants: healing, intimacy, a reason to live again. Our lips crash together, our tongues tangling in a frantic mess, her hands to my hair, pulling, tugging, begging to be closer. Our hips grinding together, our legs weaving in and out, our soft moans ringing through the silent night air. Everything is connected, every inch of our bodies rubbing against each other in a sexually-charged harmony. There is no finesse; there is no holding back. It’s a fumbling mess of the rest of our clothes being peeled off, of our bodies pulsing together, searching for relief. Relief away from the torturing demons hovering over our heads. I cup her breasts, pinch her nipples, loving every gasp, every fucking moan coming from her lips. Her nubs so hard, so small, so pointed against my fingers. My cock swollen, seeking her warmth. Need feeling the air, our breaths mingling together. She squeezes my length, moving her palm over the tip, squeezing so damn hard that I lose my breath. Fuck, I might lose it all right now. Together, we roll on the bed, squirming, rotating, her skin pressing together, sweat soaking every inch of us, our mouths never once parting, our tongues never once giving in. I want to pull away, I want to lick and kiss every square inch of her, but I can’t seem to control my mouth. All I want to do is make out with this woman, find solace with her lips, find ease within our notso-dry—yet wet—humping. My cock dances dangerously with her slick pussy, with her leg, with her belly button as we continue to move.

But nothing is good enough as we scramble. I need more. We both need more. “Condom,” I mutter in her mouth. “Now.” Putting distance between us, I disengage the tangling of our bodies, and fly to the pathetic nightstand in my apartment for a condom. Once in hand, I tear the wrapper with my teeth and sheath myself in seconds. The entire time, my eyes fixed on Hollyn below me, her body slick with sweat, her hair a tangled mess, her cheeks a beautiful rosy red. So fucking sexy. Need. Yearning. An undeniable attraction passes between us. We waste no time in reconnecting. This time, her legs spread high and wide, giving me the perfect passageway. And hell, I take it. Straining, I lower my forehead to hers, our breaths mixing together as I prop myself up and ease my cock inside her. On her initial gasp, I pause, letting her adjust until she takes a deep breath. So tight. So right. She melts into the mattress and urges me forward. I take that as she’s ready for more, so I bury myself deep within her, never once letting this moment slip from my memory. “Oh God!” she screams, her hands gripping on to the back of my neck, her mouth immediately seeking mine as she rolls her hips. Sweat starts to mingle together, heat roaring between the both of us. One thrust and a squeeze. Another thrust and. . .God my cock is so swollen, pulsing. Fucking hell, she’s taking no time at all, so I match her need, pumping my hips into hers. Slapping of skin fills the room, our connection electrifying the night, bursts of pleasure surrounding us, as our mouths never break, our tongues mating. Push and pull. Push and pull. In and out of her. My body reacting to every clench, every sound, every touch of hers, it’s a kaleidoscope of erotic sensations, a feeling I’ve never felt before. Her moans, her tight channel sucking me in, barely letting me go, her legs wrapped around me, driving me in deeper. It’s all here. Every sensation, every sound, every smell. I could die right now and go to fucking heaven with Hollyn wrapped around me. “Oh, Jace,” she moans. “Oh God. I’m going to come.” Fuck me. So am I. My balls draw up tight, the straining in my neck so intense I feel like I’m going to pop a blood vessel. In the far-off distance, I hear Hollyn call out as she grips me so damn tight that my vision blurs, turning to black as I come so fucking hard I’m pretty sure my dick is going to fall off. Her name drips off my tongue, my hips pumping, my cock driving into her until every last drop is gone. Slowing down, falling off the biggest high of my life, I open my eyes to see Hollyn gazing up at me, her eyes holding a sense of wonderment in them. At that moment, I realize just how fucked I am. I like her. Not only do I like her, but I’m falling for her. And I’m falling for her so damn hard. I just hope I’m not falling for someone who will never love

anyone but her husband, because with my already cracked heart, that might shatter it. DAISY “Um, I just have to ask one question,” I say, pulling away from Carter’s lips, putting a pause on our makeout session. Languid eyes slowly open up as his dark-chocolate irises focus on me. His hair slightly falling forward, and his lips swollen from my kisses. My kisses! “What’s up? And this better not be one of those questions you asked earlier about where people came up with the term, ‘The birds and the bees.’” “It just doesn’t make sense.” He sighs in obvious frustration, his hand running through his hair. “It’s all about the bees pollinating and . . . no, we are not going through this again. Just ask your question.” “Okay. So, I’ve been through some sexual education. I know some stuff.” “Good.” His frustration turns into a sexy smile. “I’m glad you know some stuff.” “But I would like some clarification, just one thing.” “Just one thing?” he asks, a humorous question in his voice. “Wow, just one thing, you must have been well educated.” “Don’t tease me.” He holds his hands up in the air in defense. “Not teasing, Snowflake. Just in awe.” I bite my bottom lip, which he kisses quickly and says, “Go on with your question so I can get back to playing with these sexy-as-hell lips.” Gah, butterflies take off in my belly, sending shivers through my bones. He makes me giddy. Gathering my wits, I say, “Okay, but don’t make fun of me.” “I promise, I won’t. What’s your question?” Feeling incredibly nervous, I take a deep breath. “That thing pressing against my thigh, is that your boner?” Pausing briefly, a tilt to his head as he studies me, I wait for him to respond, hoping and praying I don’t sound like a complete idiot. As if in slow motion, the corner of his lips turn up toward the sky, his lips parting and showing off his teeth, his bright smile beaming down at me. “You’re asking if my boner is pressing against your leg?” “Yeah.” “Why don’t you reach down and find out.” Without even having to look in a mirror, I know my ears, cheeks, and neck are turning bright red from the way everything heats up. Reach down and find out? That seems so brazen and yet, I want to do it. “From the look in your eyes, I know you want to.” His body shifts so he’s propping more of his weight on his forearms, giving me a little wiggle room to explore. Should I? This is so far beyond my comfort zone, I don’t think I’m even in my comfort zone zip code. More like three states over.

But I’ve never been that girl. Goodness, I’ve never even been this intimate with a man before, would it make me a street walker if I stuck my hand down a guy’s pants when making out with him? Can I phone a friend and ask Amanda? From the determined and challenging look in his eyes, I’m going to say phoning a friend is out of the question. I’m going to have to make this decision on my own. I’m about to answer him when a laugh starts to trickle out of him. He shakes his head at me as if he’s in disbelief. “Snowflake, I so did not expect you to grab my dick. I’m just kidding. But the idea of you even thinking about it is adorable.” Leaning down he kisses me on the nose. Adorable. Why does that one word make me feel so tiny? Maybe because it’s something my grams called me. I don’t want to be adorable. I want to be sexy, pined after, desired. Not adorable. “What’s wrong?” Carter asks, looking a little confused by my pause. What would a sexy woman do in a moment like this? Lick her lips? Thrust her breasts? Snap her thong? Snapping a thong sounds extreme. Thrusting breasts? Well he’s practically resting on my breasts, so that would be weird if I tried thrusting them. He would probably think I was trying to get him off me. Lick my lips. Hmm . . . I can do that. Squinting for sex appeal, I stare into Carter’s eyes and slowly make sure to wet every inch of my lips and the skin around them. I swipe my tongue around my mouth, making sure not only to go clockwise, but to go counter clockwise as well. Oh yeah, look at me go . . . sexy Daisy is on the loose— Wait, why is his brow furrowed? Why is he pulling farther away from me? Is he pulling away . . . oh yes, he must be giving me access to the penis. This is your moment, Daisy. Be the sexy woman you want to be. Don’t hold back. Continuing to lick my lips, my hand shoots out from my side, and with a deep breath, I dive in with such force, I surprise myself. And I surprise Carter because the man who was once hovering over me, content and happy to make out, is now ram-rod straight on his knees, hands gripping my wrist as my palm and fingers curl around his well-defined crotch. What I think is a pleasurable experience for Carter, my hand squeezing his penis, apparently is not a good time for him as he starts to swat at my hand and yell at me in a high-pitched lady voice. “Daisy, let the fuck go.” “What?” I ask, in between licking my lips and giving his penis mini palpitations with my palm. Penis Palm Palpitations. I shall search the Internet for such a phrase. Maybe I can copyright it. “Let go!” Anger spills from his lips just as he rips my hand away from him. “Hey, I was squeezing you.” Sitting back on the couch, his arm slung over his eyes, his chest heaving, he says, “I’m well aware of your squeezing. Christ, Daisy.” Was that a good Christ or a bad Christ? Needing to find out, I crawl over to him. With my approach, he flinches, his eyes opening and his hands

going in a protective position over his crotch. I’m guessing that was a bad Christ. “Was that not sexy?” “Do you find castrating me, sexy?” “I wasn’t castrating you,” I say, feeling smaller by the minute. “Snowflake, your hand was acting like a vise on my penis. What the hell were you trying to do?” This is not how my first chance at being sexy was supposed to go. Was the licking of the lips not right? I might have been a little aggressive with grabbing his penis, but once I had hold of it, I didn’t want to let go. It was like a baton in his pants, my hands being the participants in passing it around. Knowing I have to answer him, I say, “Um, I was being bold, you know, sexy Daisy.” “Sexy Daisy?” “Yeah.” Shying away, I sit on the couch next to him, facing the rest of his living room because I’m too shy—horrified—to look him in the eyes. “I wanted to step out of my comfort zone and try to be sexy. From the look of horror in your face, I failed tremendously.” “Snowflake, why are you trying to be sexy? You don’t need to be—” “I want to be.” I hate feeling as though I need to defend myself. “I’m so sick of you calling me adorable. That’s something a big brother would say about his little sister. I want to be so much more than adorable. I want to be wanted.” From the corner of my eye, I see his face soften. He approaches me with a warm embrace, pulling me into his chest so we rest back on the couch, the ceiling in my line of vision. Leaning forward, his breath tickles my ears as he speaks. “Snowflake, you think I don’t want you?” “I don’t know. I just . . .” How do I put this into words without sounding completely insecure? I don’t get a chance to answer because Carter is whispering in my ear, his voice so strong, so sexy that I feel my legs start to tremble from the way his baritone voice hits me with every stressed word. “You don’t think I want you? You couldn’t be more wrong, Daisy. This pull between us, this connection, it’s unmistakable. It’s in my blood that I need to be near you, that I want you. There is no denying it. I don’t need you to try to be sexy, because you’re already sexy to me. By being just you, you’re sexy to me.” He kisses the side of my neck, his hands working their way down my arms to my waistline. “Calling you adorable, now that’s never going to change.” “Carter.” I go to protest when his hands cross over my stomach and work their way to the button on my jeans. Immediately, my hearts starts to hammer in my chest, my stomach drops, and a dull ache takes place between my legs, causing them to fall apart. “Do you know why you’re adorable, my sweet sexy girl?” he asks, his lips dancing across my lobe. My mouth is watering. I’m afraid to speak, so I shake my head. Without even looking, his dexterous fingers undo the button of my jeans, a rush of heat flooding my body, yearning taking over every nerve ending that’s prickling with anticipation. Undoing my zipper—my heart’s in overdrive, my breathing erratic—he kisses my neck again and then says, “Because, with just my light, little movements of undoing your pants, you’ve become so sexually charged, so palpable with need that I’m about to lose all self-control and fuck you right here on this couch.” A gasp pops out of me, but the thought doesn’t deter me. “But it’s not going to go down like that,”

he say, his fingertips slowly working their way under my jeans, under the elastic of my thong. “Instead of me flipping you over, your stomach against the arm rest, my dick propped up behind you ready for entry, I’m going to take my time with you. Do you know why? Because you’re special, you’re one of a kind, and I would rather savor every inch of your virtuous and honest body, than have a few minutes of quick, dirty sex.” The tips of his fingers play with the top of my pubic bone, rendering me speechless. “Wha-what are you doing now?” I ask, not really sure what to say in this situation. Awkwardness starts to consume me, that’s until Carter moves his fingers down lower until they hit the top of my slit. “Oh,” I sigh in surprise, shifting my body closer against his where his erection is pressing against my back. I’m turning him on. How is that even possible? He’s so much cooler than me. So much more experienced, so much more . . . everything. “Can you do me a favor, Snowflake?” I nod, unsure of what he’s about to ask me. The feel of his lips press against the nook of my neck and shoulder, soothing me. “Strip off your jeans.” “T-take them off?” My voice wavers, my nerves on high alert. “Yes, take them off.” The way he says those four words, with such depth, such velvety smooth insistence, I do just what he says. With his hand under my thong, his middle finger casually smoothing over the top of my slit, I take my jeans off, kicking them to the side once they’re at my feet. It’s hard not to feel awkward, lying on Carter’s couch, his chest to my back, his dark to my soft, wearing nothing but a shirt and underwear. Does he find this sexy? “Fuck, Daisy,” he whispers, the faint feel of his scruff against my jaw. “Why did you hide those legs from me for so long? I want my face buried between them.” Even though I don’t know what that is like, I want it too. I simply want. I want Carter. “But I will save that for another day. This shirt though, we’re going to have to do something about it.” The hand not teasing me with delicious strokes, moves up my stomach, scooting my shirt up along with it. Carter’s head leans over my shoulder, watching with interest as he exposes inch after sinful inch of skin until he gets to my breasts. He leaves the shirt resting under my bra, never tempting to go any higher. I want to scream. I don’t want him to stop. “Take my shirt off,” I say. The brazenness in my demand actually catches me off guard. “No,” he responds, shooting me down. A wave of embarrassment washes over me right before his hand falls lower into my thong. “I have to touch you here first.” With ease, his finger slides along my slit, never pressing too deep, just skimming the surface, exploring. I’ve never been touched like this. Heck, I’ve never touched myself this intimately. The sensation is all new to me, as well as the slickness between my legs, the tingling waves undulating up my back, and the tightness in my stomach like any minute it’s going to bottom out in the most pleasurable way possible. “Christ, Daisy. You’re so damn wet. This is why you’re so fucking sexy to me. With just a finger passing over you, you’re soaking, ready for more.” “It’s the way you touch me, talk to me.” “Mmm,” he hums in my ear. “You like my voice, pretty girl?” “Yes.” I nod, my head resting on his shoulder as he continues to pass his finger over me, never going

deep. “I’ll remember that, especially when I’m balls deep inside you.” Where my shirt is bunched just below my breasts, he starts to slip his fingers underneath the fabric, his fingers playing with the lace on my bra. The movement stills me, my breath hitching with each pass. “Now that I have my hand where I want it, teasing you, I can’t wait much longer to see your breasts.” No answer needed when it comes to Carter because he takes charge and lifts the rest of my shirt up so it’s around my collarbone, my bra-covered breasts on display. The chilly air hits me and I can feel my nipples puckering under Carter’s heated touch, his hands exploring the cups of my bra. And with one yank of the fabric, he pulls the cup of my right breast down, letting everything hang out. “Fuck, yes,” he mumbles, his hand immediately going to my nipple where he takes no time squeezing it. It’s as if my nipple is connected to the junction between my legs because one little pinch of my nipple has me flying upward, seeking relief from his finger. “Oh my,” I voice, unsure if that’s sexy or not. “Do you like it when I squeeze your nipple, Daisy?” He rolls the nub in his fingers with precision, making my body convulse in ways I never thought were possible. Breathlessly, I answer, “Yes.” “Good.” He pinches my nipple this time just as his finger rubs along my bundle of nerves, breaking the surface and causing all sorts of sensations to course through me. “Oh, Carter.” My hand grabs the back of my neck as I arch into his touch. “Oh it feels . . .” My voice dies off as he continues to rub my clit, making little circles with his thumb. “How does it feel?” “Like I-can’t-breathe amazing.” “Then I’m doing my job,” he whispers and kisses my neck, his fingers playing me like an instrument. Just when I feel like he’s not able to make me feel anything else in this moment with his rumbling voice, his rough, scratchy jawline, and his skillful fingers, he curls his wrist and sends a finger inside me, curving upward. Instinctively, my legs spread apart and my body melts into him, fully giving myself over. “I want you to remember this,” he says into my ear, his lips kissing my lobe. While he speaks, his fingers pick up their pace, my body igniting into a ball of flame, sensations synapsing every which way. “When you’re not feeling sexy, or pretty, or wanted, remember this moment. Right now, Daisy, with your legs spread, your breathing eratic, your eyes deliciously closed from pleasure, this right here is why you’re so damn sexy to me. You give yourself wholeheartedly over to me without question, which is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Daisy Beauregard, partially naked, writhing in passion, no qualms about me exploring this perfect body. This is why you’re sexy. Don’t ever fucking forget that.” His pace is now relentless and for the first time, I have this deep burning sensation build in the pit of my stomach. My legs feel like noodles, my cheeks flush, my core contracts, and white-hot bliss pours through me, starting from my toes and shooting up my spine without any reservations, hitting every nerve ending on its way up. I can’t hold back the moan from the feeling taking over my body. I feel light, loose, free—incredible. The sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Me? I can barely move from the pulses of pleasure still running through me. His fingers are still inside me and I hope he doesn’t take them away anytime soon. Heavens.

Is this what an orgasm feels like? If so, I want to have one every hour of every day. I want to kiss him, touch him, explore his body. Will he let me though? “Fucking hell that was hot,” Carter says on a heavy breath. “Jesus, Daisy.” I’m motionless, as if my bones have melted with one pinch of the nipple. Everything in my body is tingling, set on fire, embers igniting my need for more. “That was . . . really good,” I say awkwardly. “That was more than just good, Snowflake. That was fucking magical.” He pushes my shirt down and sits me up so he can reach my pants on the ground and hand them to me. “Get dressed so I can take you home.” Get dressed? Take me home? He walks over to the entryway, holds on to the door handle, and waits for me to get dressed. That’s kind of abrupt. He can’t even look at me. Insecurity once again floods my heart, making me feel selfconscious. Did I do something wrong? Will I ever get it right? Will I ever be able to read this man? Quietly and sheepishly, I put on my clothes, feeling more embarrassed than ever now. Only a few seconds ago, Carter had his hands all over me and now he can’t get me out the door fast enough. I don’t get it. “I can call a cab so you don’t have to drive me,” I suggest, slinging my purse over my shoulder once I’m all dressed. “Yeah, that’s not happening.” We exchange glances and he looks almost pained. I’m so freaking lost. Not wanting to end this night on a bad note, I take a deep breath and say, “Carter, I don’t know what happened, but if I did or said something wrong, please let me know.” “You didn’t do anything wrong.” “Then why—” “If I don’t take you home now, I’m going to do something I’m going to regret. I’m going to fuck you ten times sideways until I feel a shred of the built-up tension that I’ve felt ever since I met you, ease. It’s dangerous for you to stay here with me. I’m not a good guy, but I’m trying to be one right now. So press those perfect lips against mine for a gentle kiss and then walk with me to my bike. You’re going home.” A small smile passes my lips. “You can’t control yourself around me?” He pulls on the strands of his hair and shakes his head. “I’m hanging on by a thread, Snowflake. So come fucking kiss me, and then get your adorable little ass downstairs. You’re going home.” I saunter over to him where he reaches behind me, presses his hand into my lower back, and pulls me in close, his other hand going to my cheek where he stares at me for a brief second and then kisses me passionately, his tongue wasting no time in meeting up with mine. A small moan escapes the back of his throat, and it’s one of the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard. When he gently pulls away, he smiles down at me, his hands holding me in place. “This is a pretty shitty world, but you’re a bright beacon amongst all the dark.” Does he know he’s my beacon? Because right now, I wouldn’t be able to see past my nose without his guiding light. Even if I told him, I don’t think he’d believe me. Looks like I’ll just have to show him. I just hope I will know how. CARTER “Fear is an emotional hindrance on your state of mind. It’s very often as humans we let this emotion

prevent us from moving forward, especially in our day-to-day life.” Marleen walks the room as she speaks, her short heels clicking along the concrete floor. “Fear can be debilitating, life altering, so intense and palpable that it paralyzes you. I know. I’ve seen this fear, I’ve faced it head-on.” She pauses, facing the wall and turns toward us. “I’m a recovering heroin addict.” Prior to her confession, her words were bouncing off the walls, never really sinking in, until she spoke of her past. Recovering heroin addict. Is that even possible? To recover from being an addict of such a destructive drug? In my experience with my parents, there is no recovering, only use after sickening use until you overdose, always chasing that first high, never ever able to obtain it. The air in the room stills as we all wait for Marleen, perfectly coiffed and pristine Marleen, talk about being a heroin addict. I never would have guessed that. “There were days that I would lie on my couch, my ex cooking the drug, and not able to move until I got my first hit. I was so dependent, so depressed, so consumed by chasing happiness that I truly never understood what happiness was to me. It got to the point that happiness was the drug for me. That if I didn’t shoot up every few hours, I was convinced I would fall into a deep depression, a depression so cataclysmic that I would want to commit suicide. So I continued to use.” Sounds about right. She could have been best friends with my parents. “But then, I got pregnant. On a bender, I was careless, didn’t use protection. The fear I faced the moment I saw the positive test in my hand, it was so consuming, I wasn’t sure if I could even walk out of the bathroom. I was pregnant. And the horrible thing was, I wasn’t scared about raising a baby, I was scared of giving up the only happiness I was aware of. Fear ate me alive, to the point that I kicked up my habit, shooting up more and more every day until I started miscarrying weeks later.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “As I sat there, on my bathroom floor, blood from my baby around me, I wasn’t sure if life could get any more difficult. Instead of accepting fate and pushing past the fear, I let it set the course of my life.” Walking to the front of the classroom, she says, “Until you face your fears, push through, you will never know what’s waiting for you on the other side. In my instance, I could have been a mother, but will never really know what that’s like now. Don’t let this unpleasant emotion set the timeline of your life, like I let it do to me.” Clapping her hands together, she scans the room, making eye contact with what it seems like everyone. “Our next journey, if you haven’t guessed already, is to step up and face your fears. Think about what’s holding you back, what’s setting you apart from leaping over that fence and seeing what’s on the other side for you. It’s not until you face your fears that you will finally be able to find acceptance.” Fear. My fear doesn’t hinder me, it spurs me on. Fear of not being successful, of making something of myself will do that to you. What’s hindering me is my uncle. How am I supposed to metaphorically and lamely hop the fence if I have no control over it? I need money, I had money, money was taken away, therefore, I need to work again to get more money. No fear in that, just pure hatred. The session breaks, giving attendees a chance to go to the bathroom before we separate into our groups. Hollyn stands, stretching right before she heads to the bathroom. Jace pauses his FaceTime, leaving me alone with Daisy. Since I fooled around with her on my couch, I’ve seen her a few times, doing simple things like baking,

cooking, and hitting up the local food trucks around the area. Nothing too intimate, nothing cutting close to where we went a week ago. I still can feel the imprint of her skin on my fingers and for some reason, it bothers me. I’m not stupid. I’m not one of those men who are blind to their feelings. I like Daisy, it’s as simple as that. But what I don’t get is why it bothers me. Maybe because whenever I’m around her, I can’t sulk and hate life like I want to. I can’t point a finger and tell Life to fuck off. When I’m with Daisy, I feel invigorated, even though everything else in my life sucks. Even though nothing else about my life has changed. I don’t want to rely on her for happiness but damn if I haven’t done just that. “Are you ignoring me?” Daisy asks, pulling me from my thoughts. Slouched in my chair, my hands folded in my lap, I take a sideways glance at Daisy. She’s wearing a pair of black leggings, a thick sweater that comes to her upper thigh, and her boots. Her hair is straight, falling over her shoulders, looking extra blonde, extra innocent. She’s so damn beautiful and she has no idea. “Nah, I’ve got better things to ignore than you,” I answer. “What does that mean?” Her nose twists in confusion. “That doesn’t seem like a very nice answer, Carter.” I rub my face while letting out a long breath. “Yeah, I can be a dick sometimes. You should know this by now.” “You’ve always been nice to me.” “Because it’s hard to be a dick to someone like you.” “Then why are you being one now?” she asks, her face looking really worried. Fuck, I don’t want to make her cry. I’m in a shitty mood thanks to Marleen’s revelation. It’s managed to dig up old feelings of my parents and Daisy is the lucky one who gets to deal with it. “Not in a good mood,” I answer curtly. “Oh.” She plays with the hem of her sweater. From the corner of my eye, I can see her lifting her head up on occasion to glance in my direction. The innocent look starts to drive me crazy. “What?” I snap. “Why are you looking at me?” Her startled expression easily hits me in the gut, tipping me over the edge of being a dick to being concerned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I did anything wrong.” Standing abruptly, she shoots across the room, other attendees blocking me from view. Good job, Carter. You’re a real fucking winner. Slowly, I get up, feeling the ache of my movement deep in my bones. I’m in my twenties but feel the burn of my forties in every joint. That’s what long nights of standing over a grill will do to you. Not seeing Daisy in the room, I head out the door where I immediately see her sitting on the cold stone steps of the church. Her arms crossed over her chest and leaning forward. Denver doesn’t get very cold in March like in the Northeast, but there is still a nip in the air. “Daisy.” Turning her head, she looks back at me but then focuses straight ahead again. Knowing I’m going to have to tread lightly with her, I sit down so our shoulders are touching.

Ways of apologizing flow through my head, but none of them sound right, so I go with the truth. “The reason I lived with my uncle was because my parents overdosed. Marleen’s story hit a little close to home for me. Instead of being an adult and addressing my feelings, I took them out on you. I’m sorry.” There, that wasn’t so hard, even though I can taste blood in my mouth from gnawing on my cheek. “You don’t have to explain, Carter.” “I don’t want you to be upset.” She shrugs her shoulders. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s not like we’re together.” Not together? Now why the fuck does that comment make me want to start punching the stone of the sanctuary we sit on? I don’t get a chance to answer her when she lets out a long breath. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” “What do you mean?” I don’t like how cryptic she’s being. “Nothing.” Standing, she brushes off her bottom and takes off toward the door, but I don’t let her get too far before yanking on her shoulder and spinning her around to face me. “Daisy, what the hell are you talking about?” “Don’t swear at me.” She points her finger, trying to lecture me. Rolling my eyes, I answer, “I said hell. It’s not like I told you to fuck off.” She tries to spin away again but I stop her, this time pinning her against the wall. “Tell me what’s going on?” Not happy, she reluctantly answers me. “I mustered up a lot of confidence to ask you a question today but you’re in such a bad mood, that I don’t even want to ask you now. I just want to forget the whole thing.” A question? Now I’m really intrigued. Shifting in place, a lightness to my voice and in ease in my features, I ask, “You want to ask me a question, Snowflake? Well, don’t hold out on me now. What is it?” “No, forget it. It was stupid.” “You’ll never know if it’s stupid until you ask me.” “Ugh, you’re not supposed to say that. You’re supposed to say nothing you could ask me is stupid.” “Come on.” I quirk my lips to the side. “I’m not going to lie. What if you asked me something like what are those jiggly milk sacs on your chest? That would be a stupid question because you and me both know they are your fantastic tits.” I move a little closer, capturing her with my strong, broad body. “I don’t like the term milk sacs.” Chuckling, I say, “Fair enough. Now tell me, what is your question?” She bites her lower lip, trying to decide if she’s going to ask me. Little does she know, she’s not going back inside until she asks. She won’t be able to get away that easily. “Come on, Snowflake. The longer you wait, the more of the meeting we’ll miss.” “Fine.” She takes a deep breath and says, “My sister is getting married in a few weeks. She said I could invite a guest so I was wondering if you wanted to go with me. You know, to the wedding.” She swallows hard and adds, “As my date.” Weddings. I would love to say I’m Vince Vaughn from Wedding Crashers when it comes to weddings, but I’m the exact opposite. I can’t stand them. They are an extreme waste of money that can be put toward buying a house, rather than a party most people won’t remember because they’ll be so damn twisted from

the open bar. My first instinct is to say no thanks, but when I meet Daisy’s eyes, when she gives me the most pathetic plea using just those blue irises, I feel myself cracking once again. She can get me to do anything, I’m convinced of it. “A wedding?” I ask, delaying the inevitable. “Yeah. It might be fun.” She fidgets in place. “There will be wedding cake. If anything, you can go to eat the cake.” “I can eat cake anytime. Give me a better reason.” I smirk, lacing our fingers together. From the tilt of my lips, her eyes light up and she smiles brightly at me. Accepting the challenge, she answers, “Um, open bar?” “Good answer, but getting drunk with a bunch of sweaty, pelvic-thrusting strangers is not my favorite thing to do on a Saturday night.” Looking to the side, she searches for another answer. “You get to slow dance with me.” Taking her hands, I place them around my waist and pull her in close. Moving her side to side, I say, “I’m slow dancing with you right now. Try again.” Moving back and forth, her eyes really studying me, intent on finding a reason, she answers, “I’ve got it.” “You don’t have it,” I tease. She shakes her head. “No, I’ve got it. If you come to the wedding you get to see me in one of the prettiest dresses ever.” “Prettiest dresses ever?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. “Is this the same dress you never sent me a picture of? The one you keep mentioning?” “The one and only,” she replies with a knowing smile. “How pretty are we talking?” She leans in closer, her lips pressing against my chin. “Very pretty.” “I don’t know . . .” I drag out. “Stop making this difficult for me,” she says, laughing nervously. “Talk about facing my fears. It’s not easy asking a guy like you out on a date. Let alone a guy in general.” “A guy like me?” “Yeah, a guy like you.” “Shall I ask you to elaborate?” “Best that you don’t.” I love how she can still tease me when feeling insecure. Just goes to show how strong she really is. “Okay, you got a date, Snowflake.” “Really?” She bounces in my arms. “You’ll go with me?” “I’ll go with you, on one condition.” “What’s that?” She snuggles into my chest, hugging me tightly. “You go home with me after the wedding.” “That’s presumptuous. I haven’t even met the groomsmen yet.” Little minx. “Don’t even start with me,” I warn. “You’re going home with me.” “Only if I can drive your bike,” she counters.

“How did this become a bargaining discussion? You’re supposed to be convincing me why I should be going. I don’t understand how this got switched around.” “It’s because—” “Is this what you’ve been doing at these meetings?” A deep, semi-slurring voice breaks my connection with Daisy, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. What the fuck? Turning, I see the one man I could go the rest of my life never laying eyes on again. Uncle Chuck. My eyes close tightly, wiling him to leave without another word. When I open them, I see him appear from around the darkly lit corner, his belly leading the way, his ever-ready scowl of indignation present. “What are you doing here?” I shift Daisy behind me, trying to shield her from whatever my deviant uncle is up to. “Came to check up on you, to make sure you’re actually going to these meetings and completing the tasks. From the look of it, instead of taking part of the class, you’re fucking around like usual.” “I’m not fucking around,” I grit out, tension rolling off me. “If I may,” Daisy says, holding up her finger and coming around from behind me, “we are on a break. Carter is very much a participator.” “Daisy,” I warn. “What?” She glances at me. “It’s true.” Turning back to my uncle, completely oblivious to the palpable hatred flowing between this ignorant man and myself, she says, “Carter is very active in the meetings. He’s always defending and supporting me.” Uncle Chuck shakes his head, his jowls jiggling in sarcastic laughter. “Sorry to say, but you’re blind there, sweetheart. The boy wants in your pants. It’s the only reason he’s paying attention to you. Believe me, I’ve seen the way he works.” A small gasp pops out of Daisy, and I hate the worry I see in her features. Calmly, I say, “Daisy, go back inside. I’ll be right there.” “But—” “Go back inside,” I snap at her, hating the rise in tone of my voice. She needs to fucking listen. “That kind of tone is never going to get her to spread her legs, son.” Uncle Chuck has his arms crossed, smugness in his stance. Bastard. Not for long. I charge after him, fisting his shirt and bringing his face close to mine. Daisy squeals from my abrupt actions. “Go ahead, say one more disgusting and derogatory word about her. I dare you, you piece of shit. I would love more than anything to smash your skull against this concrete.” “Carter, don’t hurt him,” Daisy cries out. “I told you to go back inside.” “Better do as he says,” Uncle Chuck says, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m sure he doesn’t want me airing his dirty laundry in front of you.” “Maybe we can all just be friends and talk about our differences,” Daisy offers, shifting in place nervously to the side. “Yeah, Carter, let’s all be friends and talk. Maybe your little friend wants to talk about Sasha, your girlfriend.”

“What?” Daisy asks on a gasp. “You motherfucker.” Not even thinking about the consequences, I shove my uncle backward, sending him a few feet into some bushes, holding out on the violent actions I really want to take. Leaving him behind, I press my hand on Daisy’s back and guide her back inside of the church hall. “You have a girlfriend?” she asks once we are inside. “No.” I don’t even bother going into everything. There is no need. It’s not true. I didn’t have a girlfriend the minute Sasha took off. “Then what is he talking about?” She stumbles as we walk down the hallway. I catch her with my hands wrapped around her waist before she falls forward, face first. “Careful,” I reprimand. Spinning around, she pokes her chest. “Don’t talk to me like that. Like I’m some juvenile. I may be inexperienced but I’m still a grown-up, I don’t need you treating me like a child.” “I’m not treating you like a child.” “You are. You’re trying to shield me. I could have handled that man.” Frustrated with everything, I run my hand over my face. I know Daisy could have handled my uncle. There is no doubt in my mind that she could have at least killed him with kindness; that’s the kind of woman she is. That wasn’t the issue. “I wasn’t shielding you from him, Daisy. I know you can handle yourself. I was shielding you from anything he might say about me. You’re already out of my league with your pure heart. I didn’t need him saying anything that might taint your view of me. And that’s exactly what happened.” “Maybe you should trust me rather than assuming the worst of me, Carter. I can and already have formed my own opinion of you, and I don’t need that man’s help. And right about now, my opinion of you is quite low, not because of what he said, but because of the way you don’t trust me.” She goes to leave but then turns around, determination in her eyes. “Weren’t you the one who said ‘own you’? Maybe try living by your own words, Carter, you might be surprised what you find.” Without another word, she heads off to the church hall to join the rest of the group, leaving me to chew on my own damn words. Own you. Yeah, fuck that. What is there to own? I’m a pathetic mess of a man with no future in sight. Who the hell would want to own that? *** Dear Life, Learn something new. That was the task this past session. At first, I thought maybe I let the program down, never really fixating on something to learn, something real. That was until I sat down in class today and listened to Marleen’s story. Learn something new. I didn’t learn a concrete task, something tangible that I could hold in my hand like how to throw pottery, or how to make the perfect chocolate soufflé. This was something internal, some serious soul-searching stuff. I learned something new about myself. There is a strength within me I didn’t know

existed. I took a step forward. It was the first time in the past year and a half I blacked out my past and lived in the present. I had no idea I could even do such a thing, to look past my demons, the heaviness of loss weighing over me, and enjoy the moment. And I did. The only problem? I feel guilty as hell, even though it felt so good. And I have no idea what my next step is. Sincerely, Hollyn Dear Life, One step forward, two steps back. I finally felt courageous and asked for something I wanted. I was so nervous and so unsure. He makes me feel that, and I don’t think that is how one should feel in a relationship. What is the definition of a relationship and what is the definition of what Carter and I share? Because frankly, I’m so confused. It was never this hard for ladies like Marilyn Monroe and Rosemary Clooney. They were able to easily fall in love, yes they had their blips in the road, but their relationships were well defined. How come mine isn’t? Is Carter still hung up on this ex-girlfriend? Does he really want to use me for a physical connection and that’s it? This whole program was supposed to be about changing me, about living, so why do I feel so stuck again? I’m checking off the boxes, I’m moving forward, but instead of a leisurely drive, I’m riding one heck of a roller coaster. Maybe this is what life is. One giant, nauseating, and confusing roller coaster. Funny, coming from the girl who was born and raised on a merry-go-round. Kind regards, Daisy Dear Life, Have you ever wrestled so much with your emotions that you feel almost paralyzed? That’s where I am. Paralyzed. Hollyn, hell, being with her was one of the most raw and carnal things I’ve ever experienced. As if we were meant to heal each other. I woke up that next morning feeling so damn alive that the plague of Hope’s future didn’t touch me immediately. But that didn’t last long, not when my lawyer called, informing me that Rebecca might actually have a valid case, and we might have to go to court. How is that even possible? That’s what I want to know. How on earth can someone change their mind about a baby? She signed the papers, and that should be binding. This isn’t elementary school where we can fight over “take-backsies.” This is a real human life. The only thing I have going for me right now, the knowledge that Rebecca’s living

arrangements, employment, and mental state don’t make her suitable enough to care for Hope. I just can’t comprehend her thinking in this entire mess. I don’t think I ever will. Jace Dear Life, Own you, yeah, fuck you. Carter

Step Six: Face Your Fears HOLLYN

“Pass the Cheez Whiz, you’ve been hogging it this entire time,” I say, reaching for the slowly diminishing can of processed goodness. “Don’t even think about it.” My hand is slapped away by Grams, Daisy’s grandma. “I’m old and wrinkly, therefore I get to bogart the Cheez Whiz.” I slouch down in the corner seat of the couch. “But I was the one who brought it.” Grams pats my leg and sprays a pile into her mouth. “And I already said thank you, dearie. Hasn’t anyone ever told you gloating doesn’t look good on you?” Shocked, I look to Daisy for help but she just shrugs her shoulders apologetically. “She likes the Whiz.” “You have to let the elderly get what they want,” Amanda says, licking a Tootsie Pop. Like, actually licking. “Don’t you know if you suck on the lollipop, you will get to the center faster?” I suggest, my tongue feeling her tongue’s pain with every scrape of her taste bud against the hard-coated candy. “Sometimes it’s not about instant gratification, but the road you take to get there,” Amanda says, licking again with a purpose. “I would rather have instant gratification. I’m a sucker.” I wink. Amanda smirks. “As long as you don’t swallow, then we’re good.” “Huh?” Daisy asks, looking between us at our interaction. Grams sprays cheese in her mouth and says, “They’re talking about sexual favors, dearie. It’s something we didn’t go over while we were living together. Would you like to talk about it now?” All three of us shout “No” at the same time. I like Grams, I think she’s a pretty cool lady, but by no means do I want to sit around Amanda’s couch and discuss sexual favors with her. “All right.” Grams shrugs. “But I’m here if you want to talk about pleasure without repercussions.” “Grams!” Daisy’s face is bright red and for the first time all night and since I saw her at the meeting last night, she doesn’t have a worried wrinkle in her brow. “Oh dearie, it’s good to educate yourself, especially with that beau of yours, Carter.” “He’s not my beau,” Daisy corrects her quickly. “He’s just a . . .” she searches for the right word, “he’s a guy I know.” Huh, not even a friend, I wonder what happened last night. “What do you mean a guy you know?” Grams asks. “You have been fawning over this man for weeks. What’s going on?” Sighing, Daisy sinks into the couch, her cloud pajama pants riding up her ankles. “I don’t think he sees me as a woman, but rather just a naïve girl. I’m trying to get away from that girl. I want to be the woman I saw in the mirror when I tried on my bridesmaid dress.”

“Then be her,” Amanda says with conviction. “Don’t let anyone dictate who you’re supposed to be. You and you alone can make that decision.” “She’s right,” Grams chimes in. “Don’t get so dependent on a man that you lose who you want to be. That’s what I did with your grandfather. And I loved that old coot, but it wasn’t until after he passed that I found who I really was, a closet smoker with a pension to solve every crossword that came my way.” “You smoke?” Daisy asks, shocked. “Closet smoker, dearie. Closet smoker.” “That’s still smoking.” “Yes, but I won’t necessarily die from the black lung.” “Something to look forward to.” Daisy rolls her eyes. “I just don’t get it. Will I always be some innocent to him?” “Maybe that’s what he likes about you,” Amanda suggests. “Well, I don’t like it about me.” Scanning the room, she sits up, knocking over the bowl of chips next to her. “Amanda, this can’t possibly be what you want for a bachelorette party. Matt is in New Orleans having a great time, and you’re having a slumber party, with an eighty-year-old woman.” “Hey,” Grams protests. “Sorry, Grams, but this is pathetic. We should be out drinking, throwing caution to the wind, making poor decisions that will result in great stories later on instead of sulking around a table of junk food with an elderly woman teasing us about pleasure without repercussions.” I couldn’t agree more. This “bachelorette party” is pathetic. When Amanda came to me about it, I held my tongue for many reasons. One, it’s a sad ladies party and no one wants to know about their sad ladies party. Two, wedding stuff has been very difficult for me, so I didn’t want to go too much into detail. It’s still too raw. Three, it’s what she wanted and who was I to tell her differently? Apparently Daisy has no problem in doing that. Wincing, I add, “She’s right, Amanda. The night is still young, why don’t we go out? I can see if there is one of those bike bars available you’ve always wanted to try. They might take last-minute reservations.” “A bike bar sounds fun,” Amanda says, perking up. “Grams, will you be able to pedal and drink?” Grams waves her hand in front of her face. “Oh no, I’m practically sleeping with my eyes open right now. You girls go have fun. I’m going to help myself up to Daisy’s room to sleep.” “You can be our bail money if we get in trouble,” I add. “Deal.” Grams squirts the bottle of cheese again, but nothing comes out, so she tosses it behind her and gets up slowly from the couch. “Have fun. Daisy, I hog the bed so it’s best you sleep on the couch. Plus, I get the toots at night.” Grams takes off for the stairs, cane in hand, while we all giggle at each other. I look at my watch and say, “All right, let’s take half an hour to get ready. I’m going to need some clothes so get out some of your sluttiest outfits for me.” Daisy and Amanda run upstairs and I’m left cleaning up our junk food. As I’m sealing up untouched Pop-Tarts, my phone rings. Jace. I need to answer. I haven’t talked to him much since my trip to Arizona, for obvious reasons. I don’t

know what to say and I sure as hell don’t know what I want. But my neglect is starting to become obvious so I answer. “Hey.” “Ah, you answered finally. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.” Nothing blows by him. “Never. Just been busy, you know.” “I don’t actually, since you haven’t talked to me lately.” Yeah, I deserve that one. Avoidance after sex is never the best thing. It can help someone develop a complex, not that Jace has to worry. Nope, he’s pretty much perfect when it comes to sex. I mean, mindblowing. And that’s what makes my stomach churn. With Eric, it was sexy, intimate, loving. We made love while looking each other in the eyes. But with Jace, it was an entirely different experience. It was so raw, so unfiltered, anything went. And the burning need, it turned me into ashes. I was a pile of dust by the end, being blown away by Jace’s powerful force. I never thought I could feel this way with another man, and yet, Jace almost makes me feel more. Terrifying. “I’m sorry.” It’s all I can say because I’m in the wrong. I wish I wasn’t. I wish I had an excuse to use, but I have nothing. “Are you regretting what we did?” Yes, so many regrets, but also, I’m so thankful it did happen. Conflicting thoughts are beginning to eat me alive. “No.” I sit down at the bar in the kitchen. “I’m just trying to process everything, that’s all.” “Well, process it with me, Hollyn. Shutting me out isn’t going to help anything.” “It’s the only way I know how to deal. I shut everything out and wish it to go away.” “Mature.” He chuckles. “Talk me through it. What has you tied in knots?” The clock in the kitchen is telling me I have twenty minutes to get ready and I know this conversation is going to be much longer than that. “I can’t right now. I’m going out with the girls for Amanda’s bachelorette party.” “Are you just saying that to avoid me?” “No, I swear, we’re going out.” “That’s inconvenient, because I’m flying in later tonight after a team meeting and was hoping to see you.” “Why are you flying in?” I avoid his request, not sure how I really want to handle it. “I have a meeting with my lawyers early in the morning. I fly out in the afternoon to make it back for a pre-season game.” “Oh, well good luck,” I answer awkwardly. “Hollyn—” “Listen, I have to get ready for tonight.” He exhales heavily on the other side of the phone. “Don’t push me away. Remember what we said from the very beginning? Be honest, Hollyn. This avoidance shit isn’t going to work for me.” Not sure what to say, I reply, “I really have to go.” “Yup, okay. Talk to you later.” He hangs up, his last sentence full of disdainful sarcasm.

This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to adult. This is why I should have never come out of my dark little cave, because now everything is so damn complicated. JACE Frustrated, I toss my phone in my locker, not caring if I break it. Right about now, I could use the caring Hollyn whose soft touch captures me and pulls me away from reality, if only for an hour. Instead, the woman is avoiding me. Again. And I know why, she’s scared. I just want her to admit to it. From the sound of our conversation, there is a good possibility she never will. Fuck. My towel draped around my waist, I lean back in the chair in front of my locker. My thoughts scatter from Hollyn, to Hope, to June and Alex, to practice, and how I couldn’t field a damn ball to save my life. Rookie of the Year can’t look past his current troubles and focus on the game. Coach and the front office are well aware of my situation, but they aren’t going to cut me a break for much longer. They are going to want to see results sooner than later. The rest of the team is milling about, waiting for Coach to address us, so I take the moment to eye Ethan who I have yet to talk to, despite his feeble attempts. What does he really have to say? Probably what he should have told me a month ago. He’s a little late now. From across the room, he sits in his chair and laces up his shoes. Is he going to see Rebecca after this? Will they be going over their plan of attack? Do they want to raise the baby together? That thought never crossed my mind until just now, which throws out my entire notion of slamming Rebecca for having unsuitable living arrangements. I know how much Ethan makes, and he would easily be able to provide for them. The new addition would be pocket change to him. Does he want to father Hope? Doesn’t he know he’s so far past breaking the bro-code that he should have his card revoked? My phone beeps with an incoming message. It’s from June. Attached is a picture of Hope, a bow on her head, a smile on her face. Holy shit, she looks so much like me with blonde hair and blue eyes. There is no doubt she’s my daughter. So delicate, so damn happy, that it physically pains me to receive the message. She’s happy, why does Rebecca want to disturb that? “Hey, can we talk?” Ethan says, pulling me from my thoughts. Slowly, I look up at him. Way to pick the wrong time, dickhead. “It might be in your best interest to turn around and walk the other way.” “Jace, don’t be like that. Man up and talk to me.” “Man up?” I stand, cinching my towel in place. “You’re telling me to man up? This coming from the guy who should have told me he was in a relationship with my daughter’s birth mom.” “I was going to tell you. There wasn’t a good time.” “Yeah, okay. Because we didn’t hang out all post-season.” I say with sarcasm. “What kind of a friend are you, man?” “If you still like her—” “Fuck Rebecca,” I shout, drawing the attention of the entire clubhouse. I guess we are doing this here.

“I don’t care what kind of intimate relationship you have with her. What I care about is how you knowingly listened to me talk about Rebecca’s plans and never said anything. You knew how I felt, how this was the biggest decision of my life and how it ate me alive, and as a friend, you devalued what we had by not being honest with me.” I pause and then run my hand through my hair. “Fuck, dude. Would it have killed you to say something?” “She didn’t want me to,” he replies. What the hell? “You’re going to throw away the years of friendship because she has a vagina?” “It’s not like that. She wants . . .” he looks down, unable to make eye contact with me, “she wants to have a big family and Hope is a part of that.” Now she wants a big family? The woman who only a few months ago couldn’t even consider being a mother? “The fuck she is.” I move closer to him. “Over my dead body will Rebecca get that baby back.” “She’s her mom, Jace. Get off your high horse and stop dividing a family up.” Wrong day, wrong fucking words. My fist finds his face faster than he can utter his next horrifying sentence. Caught off guard, he flies backward, trips on a bucket of baseballs in the middle of the floor, and then falls to the ground. “Rebecca is her birth mom, fuck head. The only family element shared between Rebecca and Hope is DNA. That little girl has a family. Two loving moms who’ve vowed to raise Hope in a loving, caring, selfless, and compassionate household.” Why the fuck would Ethan encourage Rebecca to take Hope away from June and Alex and parade my daughter, who I can’t raise, in front of me? My words don’t register because before I know it, Ethan is charging at me, going in for the tackle. My head slams into the locker behind me just as Ethan plows his fist to my eye. Searing pain hits my brain, rage pours out of me, and now with my towel on the ground, dick hanging out, I attack Ethan back. A roar from our teammates echoes through the locker room, men pulling at us to bring the fight to an end. Tyler, our first baseman, yanks on my shoulders, pulling me back just in time for Coach to walk through the doors. Given the way he’s staring us down, he’s angry. “Barnes, Utwood, my office now. The rest of you, go home, this boxing match, porn edition, is over.” Needing to cover up, I quickly slip on a pair of mesh shorts and follow Coach to his office. This little brawl will most likely cost me a fine, a long lecture, and a little less leniency. Fuck. DAISY “I’m going to fall off. Hold me, I feel myself teetering over. A car is going to run me over and my brains will spill out all over the road.” “They won’t actually,” Hollyn says with a knock of her knuckles to my helmet. “You’re the only one here wearing protective head gear.” I instinctively hold on to my helmet. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t. We are on a bike in the city, drinking beer. I’m already feeling tipsy. This was a bad idea. We are all going to die,” I shout, now gripping to the table in front of me. “We are going to die!” “Psycho,” Hollyn knocks me, “we are going fifteen miles per hour. Calm your tits and try to have some fun. Your constant worrying is a real downer.”

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Amanda sings by herself, swaying to and fro in her seat, defying drunk gravity. “Amanda, stop that swaying at once,” I demand, one hand on my helmet, the other gripping the table. “You’re going to fall off this human-powered vehicle.” “Pour me something tall and strong,” she sings some more, joining Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett, ignoring my warning. “Your friend seems to be very drunk,” the guy next to me says. He’s been trying to talk to me all night on this bike contraption but I’ve been too focused on not falling off to pay attention to him. “She’s going to die, before her wedding. She’s going to fall flat on the asphalt and get run over by a car. I just know it.” I grip my forehead in worry. “And then I’m going to have to tell Matt about how she fell off the bike-mobile while singing some drinking song and consuming what she thinks is cheap-from-thebutt beer. I think Matt will be horrified to know such a thing.” “Who’s Matt?” the guy asks. “Her fiancé.” I roll my eyes just as we go over a bump, sending all of us up in the air. I screech and reach for my phone. I’m all about living it up, but I would like to stay alive while doing it. Because I’m tipsy, on the verge of death, and looking to let someone know about my legacy before I’m buried six feet under, I send a text. Daisy: If I die tonight, please let the world know I make amazing German chocolate cake cookies. There, legacy sent. Oh wait . . . Daisy: And I’m really good at latch hook. Actually, there is a latch hook rug under my bed that I made for Grams, make sure she gets it. Okay. That should be good. Baking and latch hook legacy . . . But what about my newfound talent? Daisy: And also, if my grave can say ‘good at driving motorcycles’ I would appreciate it. Baking, latch hook, motorcycles. I think that just about covers it all. What a legacy . . . Daisy: And I can recite the entire Vitameatavegamin episode from I Love Lucy. I would show you, but I’m dying tonight. Just know, I can nail it. There. That’s all I have to say. My legacy will now live on forever. At least I can rest easy in my helmet, knowing people will not just say: Daisy who? She lived with her grandma for twenty-one years and had no friends, no job, and no life experiences. No, they will be able to say, Daisy Beauregaurd: German-chocolate-cake-cookie master baker, latch hook goddess, motorcycle mama, and Vitameatavegamin vixen. “Do you have a boyfriend?” man next to me leans in and asks. Pulling away, I attractively respond, “Eh?” “A boyfriend, do you have one?” “What?” I giggle like a child. “A boyfriend? Well I do have a friend that’s a boy. Does that count? His name is Carter, and he’s moody and mean sometimes but other times he’s really nice, especially when he kisses me or sticks his finger inside of me.” I slam my hand over my mouth. What would possess me to say such a thing? I eye the Solo cup in front of me. Stupid butthole beer. “Daisy, don’t talk to people about things like that,” Hollyn says next to me. Then she leans in closer and says, “Carter finger fucked you?”

“What?” My face burns bright red and my phone beeps in my hand with a message. “Gah, don’t tell him I said that. I don’t think we are talking about placement of our fingers with other people.” “Did you stick your finger anywhere?” Hollyn asks, eyebrows raised. “No! Where would I stick it? He doesn’t have a hole.” “Men like a good prostate rub,” the man says next to me, clearly eavesdropping on our conversation. “Ew!” Hollyn slaps the man in the arm from behind me, shooing him away. “Don’t whisper the word prostate in my friend’s ear.” “Just offering up suggestions.” He shrugs. With me in the middle, Hollyn gets in an argument with the man about not being a creep. I don’t listen because I’m too transfixed on seeing if my legacy will move on. I open the text and read it. Carter: What are you talking about? Are you drunk? Well, that wasn’t the confirmation I was looking for, so I text him back. Daisy: I’m on a bike booze thing with Amanda and Hollyn. It’s dangerous, I can see myself plummeting to my death. I need to know that you will let my legacy move on. Carter: You’re drunk. Is anyone taking care of you? Ugh, why? Why does he always feel like he has to watch over me? I wasn’t asking for him to white knight it and rescue me from this death trap. I was asking him to help my legacy live on. Daisy: I can take care of myself, thank you very much. I puff my chest as I press send. Yes, I can take care of myself. I might have been under the watchful eye of Grams my entire life but since I’ve been living with Amanda, I’ve really been able to— Beep Beep. Another text from Carter. Carter: Are you taking the LoDo route that passes by The Gin Mill? Stalker. Looking around, I see that in fact, we are passing The Gin Mill. How did he know? Daisy: Are you stalking me? Where are you? “Your friend likes me? Don’t you, sweetheart?” the man next to me asks. “What?” I missed the entire conversation between the two of them. “You like me,” he repeats. I look him up and down. “You seem like you could be a nice fella, but you—” “Ah, I am nice.” He runs his hand down my thigh. “And I can stick my fingers in places too, you know.” Oh my gosh. Before I can answer, as we are sitting at a red light, I’m pulled off my seat and my worst nightmare comes true. This is it. I’m meeting my death. The Chevy Malibu that’s been trailing behind us is finally going to run me over. Screeching like I’m about to drown, I flail my body as strong arms secure around my waist. “Settle down.” Carter’s deep voice fills my ear, sending chills up and down my spine. “What are you doing?” Hollyn calls out, not happy with Carter. “I suggest you turn back around and mind your own damn business, Hollyn,” Carter replies, menace now in his voice. “Daisy is my business. She’s at a bachelorette party.”

“Not anymore.” Without another word, he carries me past The Gin Mill, down a dark alley. And here I thought death by Chevy Malibu was going to be my ending. Nope, this alley that smells like homeless man pee is going to be it. “Where are we going? I don’t want to die in homeless man pee.” “If you keep fidgeting, you’re going to face plant into the piss. Stay still.” “You can’t just manhandle me like this.” “I can when you’re drinking without me,” he counters and then finally sets me down on a familiar seat. His motorcycle. Looking around, gaining my bearings, I finally make eye contact with him. He’s weary, unsure, but also determined. Wearing a white Henley, buttons undone, and a pair of black jeans, he exudes yumminess with his jet-black hair and penetrating eyes. Oye, I might be in trouble. Sitting tall, my hands crossed on my lap, I say, “I can drink without you. You don’t own me.” Stepping forward, his hand goes to the back of my neck, sifting through my long blonde hair. My head tilts up from his encouragement, forcing me to make eye contact. The intent in his movement is strong, and I melt into his touch. It’s been like that from the beginning with Carter. I haven’t been able to avoid the electric pull between us. It’s heavy, intoxicating, inescapable, with the way his head tilts to the side when he studies me, or how his hand sifts through his thick hair when he’s trying to understand me. There is something so male about him that has my heart fluttering uncontrollably. His voice reaching a deeper octave, he says, “I know I don’t own you, doesn’t mean I don’t want to.” “What is that supposed to mean?” He leans forward, like he’s about to kiss me. Oh no, he doesn’t. Lifting my foot, I place it on his chest and push him away. Thank you, flexibility. “What are you doing?” “I’m still mad at you. You can’t just remove me from a beer-bike thing and drag me to some back alley with one street lamp shining on us and try to kiss me on your motorcycle like some kind of modern-day knight-in-shining-armor thing. I do have morals, you know.” But now that I think about it, despite the homeless-man-pee smell, this whole setup is West Side Story kind of romantic with the dark streets, a light sheen of dew on them, and the brick surrounding us. Sigh. “Morals, huh? Well, I told you I can be a real dick most of the time.” “Is that supposed to be your excuse?” “Yeah.” He lowers my foot back to the ground and closes the distance between us again. “It’s always my excuse.” Irritated, I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, I don’t accept your excuse because it’s lame. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a beer bike to find.” My attempt to get up off the motorcycle is quickly washed away when Carter straddles the bike as well, his body pressing against mine so I’m forced to lean back. “Wh-what are you doing?” Inching closer, that sinister gaze of his splitting me in half, he runs his hands up my thighs until they are gripping my hips, his thumbs pressing inward, sending an immediate shock of pleasure through my nerve endings.

It really shouldn’t be that easy for him, but unfortunately, it is. “Like I said, I’m a dick, but I know when I’m being one. Therefore I can recognize when an apology is needed.” His thumbs start to stroke my inner thighs, the tips grazing the junction between my legs. Oh Lord, help me, my nipples are hardening. “I’m sorry, Snowflake, for being such an ass to you the other night when my uncle showed up. You caught me at a bad moment. I trust you.” Pressing forward a little more, he runs his nose along my jaw and places a kiss on the corner of my mouth. “Please don’t think I don’t trust you, because I do. I just don’t want you to see a shitty side of me.” Focus on his words. Don’t let his proximity make you brain dead. “I don’t know what this is, Carter, but if we’re going to be friends, I’m going to want to get to know all of you, not just the side you want me to know.” “Friends, huh?” His mouth moves back to my ear and he whispers seductively, “Do you let all of your friends touch you and kiss you like this?” Definitely not, nope, not a single one of them. Not that I have many. But Hollyn won’t be sticking her hand down my pants anytime soon. Although, I’m sure she would make a lovely mate for someone. “No,” I answer on a hitched breath. “You better not.” His lips trail down the column of my neck, the buzz I was feeling being quickly washed away by lust for this man. “Carter, we can’t do this.” “And why the hell not?” He kisses across my collarbone to the other side of my body. “For one, it smells like pee. Two, I’m still mad at you. And three, what about this whole girlfriend thing he was talking about? Are you seeing someone?” He stills, his lips halting right before they get to my ear. On a huff, he releases me and sits up on his motorcycle, his hand running through his hair. I wait for him to answer, feeling pride for standing up for myself. Yes, he’s sexy and he affects me in ways I don’t care to admit, but I still have my morals. Let’s get a fist pump for morals! “Fair enough.” Getting up from the bike, he pulls me up with him, my legs feeling weak from his touch. “It does smell like pee, so let’s go back to my place. I don’t like you being mad at me. And about what the guy said, my uncle, the girlfriend he speaks of, I have one.” A gasp escapes me. I ought to slap this man. “And she’s standing right in front of me.” She’s what—? Oh, he’s talking about me. Gah, he’s talking about me. My stomach turns upside down with excitement, my bones melting like a puddle right in front of me. “You called me your girlfriend,” I say like a giddy little school girl. “I did.” He smirks. Gosh, he’s so attractive. “Is that okay with you?” “I think so.” I smile back at him. “You think so?” His eyebrows lift in question. “Think you could be a little more excited?” “So full of yourself.” I shake my head. “I’ll be more excited when you make it up to me.” “Is that so?” His arms wrap around me, pulling me into his strong chest. “All right. Let’s get back to my place and I’ll show you just how sorry I am. Okay?” Tempting. So tempting

“Perfect.” He pinches my chin with his thumb and forefinger, bringing me up to his lips where he places a gentle kiss on my lips. When he pulls away, I ask, “We’re talking about more kisses, right? And not some weird making it up to me by offering me a pack of cigarettes and a Scooby Doo pencil you’ve had since the third grade.” His head flies back, a laugh flying out of him. “Oh, Snowflake. No pencils and cigarettes, just a lot of mouth work on my end. I want to taste this earth-shattering body of yours. I know your pussy tastes like candy.” Oh jeeze, why does saying the p-word make my legs clench with satisfaction? And why do I want him to do a lot more than just mouth work? Aren’t I still meant to be angry at him? JACE With a nice fine looming over my head from the club, I make my way out to my car so I can still make my flight back to Denver tonight. After my little phone call with Hollyn, I decided she doesn’t really get an option in this whole avoidance thing. She’s scared, unsure; I get that. But instead of hiding, I want her to talk to me because I can help her work through everything and also, I fucking need her. For my whole life, I have kept my problems and thoughts to myself, having had no family to lean on. But right now, I feel like my head is about to explode. But with her, with beautiful Hollyn, I don’t feel quite so alone. So much about her attracts me, soothes me . . . completes me. Her mind. It’s as though she’s become the balm my soul needs. Her vitality. I’ve seen the witty and amusing girl Carter once knew, and I want to be around that. Her touch. I want so badly to bury myself deep inside of her, take in her scent, her beauty, and feed off it. It would be just my luck that the one person I crave is a widow, scared of moving forward from her past. I find my keys and go to unlock my car when I see a shadow move from the corner of my eye, startling me slightly. Rebecca. Christ. “Getting into fights now? Do you think that’s going to help your court case?” she asks in a smug tone. I don’t answer her, instead, I say, “What are you doing here?” “Meeting Ethan. But thanks to you, I have to wait longer because he’s getting stitches.” Damn right he is. I have a black eye, but that fucker ended up with a cut above and below his eye. Another reason why Coach fined me so heavily, Ethan’s eye is swollen shut. “He might be there for a while, might want to take a seat.” Wanting to end this interaction with Rebecca, since the hairs on the back of my neck are already raised, I unlock my car and reach for my handle. However, she steps up behind me. I just want this night over. Her gone. “How could you do it?” It’s a simple question, but the weight of the answer is so incredibly heavy. “How could you give her to two strangers? She’s your daughter.” “Yeah, and she’s your fucking daughter too,” I snap, spinning on her. “You had no problem handing her over to me without a second thought.” “That’s not true. You have no idea the thought I put into this decision. I handed her over to you because

in my mind, I thought you were going to take care of her, give her the home she deserves with the slight possibility that when I got my shit together, I would be able to come back and be the mom she needs.” She never fucking said that. “These were your words, Rebecca. ‘I’m not keeping her. I thought I could do this on my own, but I can’t. I’m sorry, but when I give birth, she’s yours.’ Your words. You can’t just decide when you want to be a mom, Rebecca. It’s not a decision like whether you want to put makeup on for the day or not. When you have a child, you have the responsibility of being a parent. It’s not an on and off switch.” “And yet, you turned your switch off.” “For good fucking reason,” I say through my teeth, trying to tamp down my rage. “Yeah? So you can play baseball? Isn’t that a little selfish? Perusing your dreams rather than being the father you should be?” What the ever-living fuck? Where the hell is she coming from right now? Does this woman not realize that she made the same decision as me? “Are you hearing yourself?” I point to my ear. “You did the same thing, Rebecca. You gave up.” “I didn’t give up,” she shouts. “I depended on her father to take care of her, not hand her off because it was inconvenient.” “She wasn’t fucking inconvenient.” Fuck, I’m choking up, the roller-coaster emotions of making the hardest decision of my life coming to the forefront of my mind. “You don’t get it, Rebecca. I have no education, and no way of providing for her other than baseball. And there was no way in hell I was going to be an absent parent, traveling the country, playing late nights of baseball while a nanny I barely knew took care of her. I was a foster child. I have no family. No family to help out, no family to lean on. And I didn’t want Hope growing up with no one there to love on her like I experienced.” My voice cracks, my past hitting me with such force. “You abandoned her.” “No.” I take a deep breath and look Rebecca dead in the eyes. With a point of my finger, I say, “You abandoned her. I found her a loving and caring home.” I don’t want to hear what else she has to say, I get in my car just as Rebecca calls out. “This isn’t over, Jace. I’m getting her back.” Over my fucking dead and slowly breaking body. CARTER I’m shaking. Why the fuck am I shaking? This isn’t my first go at it. I’ve done this hundreds of times, but for some reason, with Daisy below me, her naked, milky white, and beautiful body, I’m fucking nervous. I didn’t expect to go caveman on her when I found out she was drinking without me, an activity I feel I get to stake claim on since she had her first drink with me. I didn’t expect to maul her in the back alley, on my bike, soaking in her innocence in that stupid bike helmet. I didn’t expect to want to own her so damn bad that I claimed her as my girlfriend. I didn’t expect to drive home and love the feeling of her arms wrapped tightly around me, her giggle floating in and out of my ear.

I didn’t expect Daisy to hold my hand and guide me to my bed, a saunter in her step I’ve never seen before. And fuck, I didn’t expect to have the purest beauty ever, spread beneath me, willing and waiting for me to explore her body. But here I am, Daisy’s eyes are filled with lust, her hair is fanned across one of my pillow, and the moonlight dances through my un-curtained windows. “Carter?” “Hmm?” I ask, my fingers digging into her skin, my tongue racing around her nipple. “Why am I naked and you’re fully clothed?” “Because.” I bite down on her nipple, her chest rising from the nibble. “I told you I was going to make it up to you. That means I need you naked.” “I’m feeling a little self-conscious.” “No need to. You’re fucking gorgeous.” “Not just about being naked.” Her voice wavers with nerves so I sit up, begrudgingly giving her nipple a rest. “What’s going on?” Looking away, she mumbles something I can’t quite hear. “You’re going to have to speak up, Snowflake. Didn’t quite catch that.” Still avoiding eye contact, this time her hands going over her eyes, she talks past her palms. “I was hoping to go all the way with you.” Even with her hands blocking her face, I can tell she’s embarrassed. Her request knocks me back a few pegs. Go all the way with her. That’s a giant responsibility, and I’m not sure I’m the right man for it. I know the difference between us; I’m not blind in thinking she’s on the same playing field as me. She’s not. She’s on an entirely different level of potential. I know there is someone better out there for her, someone who isn’t doomed to be a line cook the rest of his life. Someone who has a future, who doesn’t carry around a bottle of rage with him, who is one step up from living in the gutter. But hell, I don’t want her to be with anyone else. And I sure as shit don’t want anyone else touching her, being the one to take her virginity. The notion of that happening gives me blind rage. I wasn’t fucking around when I said she was my girlfriend. “You have to say something. I’m dying inside right now.” Those eyes, those lips, that heart. Fuck, I have to have it all. Own you. I’m going to do that. I’m a selfish prick wanting to fulfill my own agenda. I own up to that, and I’m taking what I want. Daisy. I want all of her. Sitting up, I keep my eyes fixed on her as I reach behind me and grab my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it to the side. Daisy’s reaction is priceless as she takes me in, from my multiple tattoos that mean nothing more than the trials and tribulations I’ve gone through, to my well-defined chest that I work hard to obtain, especially given my profession of having to taste food constantly. “That better?” She swallows hard, her throat constricting and releasing. “Uh, you still have your jeans on.” I settle between her legs. “Yeah, we’ll get to that, but first, I need to taste you.” I lower my head only for her legs to clamp my head in a viselike lock. With my index finger I tap her on the stomach, as if I’m

knocking for entrance. “You’ve got to unclench there, sweet cheeks.” “I’m nervous,” she responds, her voice shaky, knocking me back on my knees. Fuck, this is going to be hard. I want to devour her but I need to also take my time. Her body deserves to be worshipped. “No need to be nervous, Snowflake. It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.” She nods, tears welling in her eyes. “Hey.” Lining up our bodies, I move so I’m hovering just above her, my face next to hers. “Don’t cry. We don’t have to do this. I’m happy with just making out with you. Maybe a little boob grab.” I smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “I want to do this. I’m just nervous.” “That’s normal. I really don’t mind waiting, Daisy. I don’t want you to think we have to do this. Like I said, your lips on mine make me one happy man.” She shakes her head. “Thank you, but I want to move to the next step. Do you want to have sex with me?” She’s so vulnerable right now, so unsure. How could that be possible? I thought I’d made a pretty good point in showing her how much I want her. Guess I need to try harder. “Do I want to have sex with you?” My hand slides down her ribcage and back up again where it circles her nipple. Her breath hitches from the light touch of my finger pads. “Do I want to own this body as my own?” One circle, two, three, and then a pinch. Her chest rises. “Do I want to know what it feels like to have you connect with me in the most intimate way possible?” My lips trail kisses down her neck to her breasts where I run my tongue along her hardened nubs, squeezing her with every lap. “More than fucking anything. I want you more than anything. I crave you, like a piece of me is missing that only you can fill.” Pulling all my focus to her chest, I try to get her to relax, and with every kiss, every suck, every squeeze, she does just that. Her head rests into the pillow, her legs spread wide, her center casually riding against my jean-clad leg, and her hands find my head where her fingers tangle with my hair. I continue to pay attention to her nipples because, fuck, she has amazing tits. You would’ve never known in those quilted vests and turtlenecks. Feeling her body start to relax, I work my way back down her stomach, my hands still working her breasts to keep her distracted, my lips tasting her sweet skin. It’s so soft, so velvety. I get lost in the way she moves under me with each touch of my lips, the little faint sounds coming from her sweet mouth, and the way her hands rifle through my hair, as if she’s unsure how else to handle the thoughts and feelings rushing through her. There is no pause in my actions. I flow from her stomach, past her pubic bone, straight to her slick center. This woman—so perfect in my hands, so beautiful. I can’t keep myself from diving in. With my fingers, I spread her lips and dip my tongue. I catch her off guard because she leaps in place, her hands no longer in my hair. I don’t give her much time to think, though, because with my spare hand, I press down on her stomach, giving her no wiggle room while I lap her up and down. God, she tastes so sweet on my tongue. Yes, I knew she would taste so fucking good. I could tell she would have the sweetest damn pussy. Her taste spurs me on, along with her cries. I trade between long leisurely strokes to short quick flicks across her nub, that tight bundle of nerves.

“Oh my gosh. Oh God.” Her hips undulate. “Oh God!” She gets louder. Yes. Hearing her makes me so damn hard. Tasting her makes me want to come right here, pants on. I try not to think about what lies ahead because I will lose it. “Carter, oh my God. It feels so good. I . . . I, oh God.” Her scream echoes through my empty apartment. Her legs try to clamp around me again, and she squirms beneath me, her orgasm racing through her. Watching her fall apart—her mouth open, her eyes closed tight, her hands in fists—fuck, it’s unbelievable. An image I’ll never be able to erase from my mind. I don’t give her much time to recuperate, because I want her to feel as relaxed as possible for this next part. Standing from the bed, I undo my belt, my eyes intent on hers, and then shuck off my jeans, my erection stretching the crotch of my boxer briefs. Shock registers across Daisy’s face in the most adorable way. Fuck, it makes me want to forget about my underwear and kiss her some more. But there will be time for that; we are running on borrowed time. “You sure about this, Snowflake?” She nods slowly, staring at my erection. I’m going to take that as a hell yes. Giving her a show, I remove my boxer briefs and start stroking myself, only a few pulls though because I’m already on edge from feeling Daisy come on my tongue. In a box on the side of my bed, I find a condom that I quickly put on and then kneel on the bed in front of Daisy. Her skin is burned from my fiveo’clock shadow, her lips swollen from my kisses, and her eyes wide with anticipation. Taking the head of my cock, wanting to relax her a little bit more, I run it along her already wet slit, making sure to skim her nub. Like expected, her head melts once again into the mattress, her legs relax apart, giving me more access. I take advantage, using my cock as a tease against her sensitive clit. Even though I know this feels good for her, and it’s doing exactly what I want it to, it’s fucking torture. So close, but never quite hitting the mark. My dick wants to punch itself from the torture. Just a few more passes. That’s all. Just a few more until . . . The tip slides past her hole and I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck, so close. Deep breaths. Take it slow. Controlled, I ask, “Are you ready, Snowflake? It’s probably going to hurt at first. If it does too much, let me know and we’ll stop, okay?” “Okay,” she says, her voice growing nervous again. “Promise you will tell me to stop if you want me to.” “I promise.” I lean down and kiss her, moving my tongue against hers before saying, “Good girl. Now relax, I got you.” She takes a deep breath and nods, giving me permission. Gritting down on my teeth, knowing this is going to be torturously good, I draw a few circles around her with the tip of my cock until I enter, one small inch at a time. “Oh.” She shifts on the bed. “Deep breaths, Snowflake,” I say tensely, her pussy already squeezing the head of my cock. Slowly, I move inside her, a wince with each press forward. “Are you okay?” With her lips pressed tightly together, she nods. Yeah, she doesn’t seem okay. She needs to relax a little bit more, especially if I’m going to go any deeper.

Knowing how to get her to calm down, I press my lips against hers seductively, leisurely, opening my mouth and allowing my tongue to do most of the work, never letting her come up for breath. I get lost in her kiss, in the way she isn’t shy about matching the movements of my tongue. I could make out with this woman all day long. All night long. It’s so damn contradicting, knowing her innocent little smile belongs to these sinful lips. And fuck if I don’t feel like the luckiest bastard on earth right now. She’s mine. Her tension eases, allowing me more access, my cock slipping farther into her. With one last push, wanting to get it over with, I enter her fully. A gasp pops out of her mouth followed by a wince. Her eyes water and I instantly regret my move. “Shit, are you okay?” “Yes.” She breathes heavily. “It hurt for a second. I just,” she pauses, “I feel so full.” Damn if that doesn’t make me beam with pride. “The best kind of full, Snowflake. I’m going to take this slow, okay?” She nods. With all the fucking willpower in the world, I move my hips slowly in and out. It’s unbearable, she’s so damn tight, so fucking sexy, and I’m going to come much faster than I want. “Oh my gosh, Carter,” she moans. Yup, just that little moan has my balls tightening. Not fucking yet. Christ, man. I stop moving my hips, my cock throbbing inside her, so I can kiss her some more, which seemed like a good idea until her tongue seeks out mine, tangling and mating like tomorrow’s the end of the world. Fuck me. Involuntarily, my hips start moving again, the pace slightly faster than before. Shit, I try to slow myself down, but my dick has taken over, my brain losing the battle of wills. “Yes, this feels so good.” Okay, I’ve got to kick her up to speed with me because in about twenty seconds, I will be coming so fucking hard. I move my hand between us and start massaging that perfect little clit of hers, her orgasm from before providing lubrication. “What? Oh my God!” Her upper body shoots up off the bed in surprise, only to fall back down. The pillow behind her covers her face, pleasure ripping through her as she screams, my finger doing most of the work, my cock going along for the ride. I know when she comes because her walls clench me so damn tight, I feel like I can’t move in and out of her anymore. That’s it. My balls leap up inside me, pure euphoria races through me, causing all limbs to go numb, my sole focus on the pleasure ripping through my cock. Blackness encompasses me, the silent moans of Daisy barely registering as I continue to pump over and over again, coming so damn hard I think my dick is going to break off. I don’t moan or scream or really say anything vocal during sex, but with Daisy, I find her name rolling off my tongue as if it’s the most natural thing. Still connected, I press my bare chest against hers and cup her face, concerned that in my moment of obscurity, I lost control and hurt her. “Are you okay?” I kiss her nose, really hoping I didn’t hurt her. Her heady, lustful smile stretches across her beautiful face. “I’m perfect.” “You sure?”

She nods, easing my heart. And then she says, “Um, can we do that tongue thing again?” Her face burns red. So endearing. I chuckle and kiss her again, my thumbs rubbing her cheeks. “We can do that tongue thing anytime you want. Do you know why?” She shakes her head, her eyes bright, waiting for an answer. “Because, you taste like sweet honey, Snowflake, and I’m fucking addicted.” So. Fucking. Addicted. HOLLYN Shots were not a good idea. Thankfully I didn’t do them, but Amanda, yikes! It took me an hour to get her up to her bedroom and changed, only to have her puke on her clothes. I changed her again, gave her lots of water, made her pee, and then tucked her in bed. The only reason I feel comfortable leaving her alone right now and going back to my place is because we ran into her friend Lindsay at the bar who joined us in celebration. The plan was for Daisy to stay with her, but that idea was nixed when Carter swept in out of nowhere and stole her away. Amanda is a hopeless romantic like Daisy, so she didn’t care. I also think Amanda had no idea what was going on, because when we were at the bar she kept talking about how Daisy was in the bathroom for so long and maybe we should check on her intestines. Somehow she got in her head that Daisy was having some intestinal issue. I let it ride. I was too tired to correct her. Either way, I’m dragging my dead body up the stairs of my apartment, digging through my purse for my keys. “Hey.” “Jesus.” I jump from the sound of a familiar male voice. Gripping my heart, I take in Jace, who’s sitting on the steps in front of my apartment. “What are you doing here?” Not saying a word, he stands and pulls me up to the landing where he cups the back of my neck and pulls me in for a searing, mind-blowing kiss, a kiss so powerful, I drop the keys from my hand and mold my body into his. Just as I’m getting settled into this new comfort, forgetting everything I previously said to him, he steps back from me, leaving me feeling empty, lost. Touching my lips, I look up at his strong features hidden under his baseball hat. By the determination in his eyes, I can tell he isn’t going to make it easy on me to keep denying him. “I needed that,” he huffs, lifting his hat quickly to run his hand through his hair. When his hat is settled again, he says, “Mind telling me what’s going on?” “I was at a bachelorette party.” “Hollyn, I swear to God, do not fucking lie to me right now. I’m not in the mood.” He lifts his hat again and that’s when I catch a glimpse of the bruising under his eye. “Do you have a black eye?” I step closer to examine his face. “Yeah, doesn’t matter. I want to know what’s running through that pretty, yet frustrating head of yours.” I step even closer and stand on my toes to reach his eye. My thumb strokes the bruising and he winces from the soft touch. “What happened, Jace?”

Sensing my determination to change the subject, he capitulates with a sigh. “Ethan got in my face today in the locker room, said some stuff I didn’t appreciate, and we got into it. Coach fined me, Ethan got stitches, and it’s over. Now tell me why you’re ignoring me.” “What did he say to you?” “Christ, Hollyn.” Frustration rolls through him with every clench of his jaw. “I don’t care what happened earlier, what I care about is you. Let me ask you something, do you care about me?” “Of course,” I say, acutely aware of my pinched brow. How could I not care about him? “Then stop avoiding the question; what is going on? Are you scared? Are you regretting what we did? Are you thinking I’m not the kind of guy you want to hang out with? Because excuse me for being fucking paranoid, but it seemed like we were really clicking, we were able to lean on each other, until we had sex.” He looks around my hallway and notices the close proximity of my neighbors’ doors. “Can we do this inside please?” Inside. He’s never been inside my place. He’s come here to pick me up a time or two, but never inside. Inviting him inside, into my world, now that’s terrifying. Beyond the threshold is a world of haunting memories from the pictures on the wall, to the clothes in the closet, to the sports memorabilia placed appropriately around the apartment. It’s a deep reminder of everything Eric, and I don’t know if I want Jace to see it. I’m not quite ready. “Actually, want to grab a drink? There is a bar right around the corner we can go to. Do you mind driving?” “Don’t want me to see your place yet?” he asks, seeing right through me. “That’s okay, we can just talk in my car. This won’t take long.” This won’t take long? What does that mean? I don’t get much time to think about it as Jace guides me down the stairs and straight to his vehicle. Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for me, and while I wait for him to walk around to his side, I fidget in my seat, a quiver in my stomach of what’s to come. The door slams shut behind him and instead of turning to me, he rests his elbow on the side of his door and looks out the front window. “Last year was one of the best years of my life,” he starts, his voice low, gruff. “I finally made it to the majors. I had no one to share it with, but hell, I was damn proud of myself. Not just because I killed the season, but because I’d faced adversity to get to where I was. I overcame challenge after challenge. As a foster kid, despite being placed with fairly decent families, I didn’t have parents to buy me the latest and greatest equipment, nor did I have a dad to practice with me in the backyard. I had a brick wall, a glove from the thrift store, and one baseball. But it was my life, my dream. I didn’t give up because I wanted something better for myself. I wanted to pull myself out of the dark, and make something for my life.” He turns to me, the scruff on his jaw making him look menacing in the moonlight. “Don’t you want that, Hollyn? Don’t you want something better for yourself?” Tears well up in my eyes. I really do want something better. I want to be able to walk down the street and not be reminded of all the times Eric and I took strolls late at night. I want to be able to watch a sports game without needing to crawl into a fetal position, and I want to be able to fall asleep without having to listen to Eric’s voice. But I don’t know how to get there. I feel like I’ve made leaps toward living, but there is still a roadblock in my way, stopping me from finally making that last push.

Fear. I’m terrified to let go and not have memories of Eric in my mind anymore. I don’t want to forget him because he’s a part of me. “I want more, Jace. But losing him, it was so heartbreaking.” I take a deep breath. “You would have liked him. You would have been friends. He was my life: vivacious, instilled confidence in me, and one of the most selfless men I’ve ever known. He became my best friend overnight, but we fit as if we’d known each other our whole lives. I’m terrified I’ll forget all of that, that I’ll forget the memories of what we shared. That I’ll forget him. I’m so scared I’ll forget him. “And that night, our night, you and me,” I sigh, reaching deep down to find a way to communicate my feelings, “that night was perfect. From the way you caressed me, to the raw need we had for each other, to the way you held me after. It was everything I could have ever asked for, and yet, I left feeling so damn guilty. Do I have the right to feel like that with another man?” Tears stream down my face. “My life has been silent for so long and then you came along and brought music, lightness, and a brief glimpse of happiness into it.” His hand links with mine, his broad body now turned toward me. “It’s going to take time, Hollyn. It’s understandable to feel guilty. It’s not like you chose to end your relationship with Eric, it was taken away from you. But the memories you have with and of him are his legacy, his gift to you. It’s not an easy task to move on from such a loss. But you are allowed to be happy again. You are allowed to move on.” “I want to move on.” From the corner of my eye, I see him nod. “Then move on with me, Hollyn. Fast or slow, I don’t care. Just don’t cut me out. Let me be there for you. With you.” Finally giving him my attention, I see the compassion, the sincerity in his face and I wonder, is Jace a gift from Eric? Did he send Jace along to help me move on? From that viewpoint, it seems that way. Or am I just reaching for some type of justification to pursue something with Jace? I don’t want to be alone forever. He is the only one who has somehow breached my wall of grief, the only one who has reached me. I do want him, more than I ever thought possible. “I want you there for me, Jace. I do.” “Good.” He squeezes my hand. “We have a game coming up, a preseason game. Do you think you would want to fly down and watch it? I could hook you up with some good tickets.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “It would mean a lot to me if you were there, especially with all this Rebecca bullshit.” A game. The last time I went to a baseball game was with Eric. Beer, pretzels, cheesy singing to classic ballpark songs, it was one of our favorite pastimes. Going to a game without him, can I do that? “Hollyn, where did you go?” Pulling me from my reverie, I wipe my tears. “I’m sorry, going to sporting events was something Eric and I cherished. I haven’t been to one since.” “Oh, I didn’t know.” He pauses and then says, “I know it won’t be easy, but maybe you could take a chapter out of Dear Life. Face your fears. Make the leap, Hollyn. One more steppingstone toward proving your existence.” There’s that word again; fear. It’s always clogging up our lives, putting us at a standstill until we’re able to finally push through and prevail. Maybe this is the time for me to push. Taking a deep breath, my stomach doing nervous somersaults, I say, “Okay, I’ll go.”

A bit shocked, Jace sits up. “You’ll go? Seriously?” I nod my head, a small smile gracing my lips. “Well, fuck, babe. I wasn’t expecting that.” He chuckles. “Shit, I’m proud of you.” I’m proud of you. Four little words coming from a strong and loving man carry so much weight. The nerves rushing through me settle with those four little words. He’s proud of me. Hell, I’m proud of myself. Please God, please let me be able to handle it. I so desperately want to make the most of this opportunity. One step closer. DAISY “Tell me about your childhood,” I say, running my hand along Carter’s stomach. My head is resting on his shoulder, his arm is wrapped around me, and his hand rests on my hip. It’s an intimate cuddle. Naked and snuggling, I love everything about it. “Nah, you don’t want to hear about that,” he answers, his thumb rubbing against my skin. “If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t have asked. Come on, I want to know more about you.” After inhaling a long breath, he says, “There’s not much to say, Snowflake. My parents died of an overdose. Not the best examples, and since Uncle Chuck was my only living relative, he became my guardian. He didn’t hold back showing how much he hated being stuck with me, which made for a disturbing living arrangement. We fought often and when we weren’t fighting, we didn’t speak to each other. I got my GED and then went to culinary school. Unfortunately, I had to depend on my uncle to pay, which is why I’m indebted to him now. You’re with a real fucking winner, Snowflake.” I can be naïve, but I know sarcasm when I hear it. “Why are you so hard on yourself? You have so much going for you.” “Yeah.” He lets out a harsh laugh. “How so? What do I have going for me?” “Well, you have your own place. You know right from wrong. You are a protector even though it seems like you didn’t have the best parents in the world to teach you. You have aspirations and dreams. You know what you want to be. That’s all very important.” “You see the good in things so easily. Do you ever notice the bad?” “I didn’t,” I admit. “Living with my grams, in our own little world, I wasn’t just sheltered from the outside world, but also from everything bad. I’ve spent almost my entire life knowing nothing other than happily ever afters. But then my grams had a stroke and everything changed. My rose-colored glasses turned clear, and I saw the world for what it is: a tumultuous community full of rights and wrongs. I just choose to notice the rights more than the wrongs.” “A glass-half-full kind of girl.” I kiss his chest. “I’m just grateful there is a glass to partake in.” “A lifelong optimist, too bad you’re with a pessimist.” “It’s a good balance.” Thinking back to what he said about his uncle, I ask, “Are you liking the Dear Life program?” His chest rumbles beneath me with a silent chuckle. “Does it seem like I would be someone who would enjoy the program? I go because I have to, not because I want to.”

“So if you have to go, why not take advantage of it?” “Because I’m not that kind of person. I’m not one to passively follow directions, I never have been. Apart from culinary school. Everything about the program makes me itch. Talking about feelings, writing shit down, airing my dirty laundry. I hate every aspect of that. I’m a private man. I haven’t been blessed with an easy life. I have a lot of battle wounds, a lot of deep-set scars, and it’s hard for me to look at life like you do. I’ve been burned way too many times.” “You never know until you try,” I suggest, wishing Carter could get something out of the program. He kisses the top of my head and squeezes me. “I know, Daisy. I’m meant to struggle my entire life, nothing will come easy and no program is going to fix that unfortunately.” My heart hurts for him, to know he’s set on struggling day in and day out. To know that no matter what he accomplishes, he doesn’t have someone next to him cheering him on. To know the person who is supposed to show him love and support made him feel like an inconvenience at a young age. It just kills me. “Let’s talk about something else,” he suggests. “What do you want to talk about?” His hand continues to stroke over my skin as he takes the time to think about our next conversation. “Hmm . . . am I your type?” “What?” I giggle. “Your dream guy, do I fit the bill? Am I what you pictured in your mind?” “Do you want the truth?” “Lay it on me.” Drawing circles on his stomach, I tell him about my perfect man. “I grew up watching musicals with my grams and old shows like I love Lucy and The Dick Van Dyke Show. I was enamored with men who could sing and dance. I thought it was fancy to expertly match your suede shoes with cuffed Dockers. I envisioned my perfect man to be one with slicked-back hair, a voice like Bing Crosby, and the dancing charm of Fred Astaire, with a little mixture of Gene Kelly’s swagger. I thought the perfect man was going to tap dance his way into my heart, sing me a melody, and then whisk me off to some show on Broadway.” “So you were looking for an old soul with the talent of a lost art.” “Pretty much,” I answer. “And here, I ended up meeting a brooding man with a motorcycle, the whisking talent of a god, and the ability to protect me at all costs.” Leaning closer to my ear, he whispers, “You’re forgetting something.” “Um, your killer dark eyes?” “Try killer penis.” “Carter!” Once again I’m blushing, which I’m sure was his intention. Even though the word penis embarrasses me, especially when it refers to what we did tonight, he’s right. It was killer. Never in my mind would I have thought sex felt that good. I’m not going to make it all butterflies and roses, because when he first entered me, that wasn’t the best moment of my life. But afterward, once I relaxed, everything following was . . . just magical. It’s the only way I can describe it. Flat-out magical. “What? It’s the truth, isn’t it? Did these tap-dancing men have the same kind of killer cock as me?” “Oh my gosh.” My blush deepens, if that’s possible. “I never thought about that area before.” “Never?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Hey.” He shifts me so I have to look him in the eye. “Is my penis the first penis you’ve ever seen?” I bite my lip. “I’ve seen one in the anatomy book my grams has, but that was an illustration. So, I guess, yeah. You’re the first penis for everything.” Smiling widely, he scoops me back up, this time so I’m lying on top of him, looking down into his playful eyes. “I like being your first penis. Just so you know, not all penises are this nice. Some have warts.” “Warts?” I cringe. “Yeah, and an abundant amount of hair. Penises vary, especially with the southern friend, the scrotum. I’ve got a good set, Snowflake; you lucked out. There are some pretty sick dicks out there.” “How do you know? Where do you look at penises? Do you do it often to compare?” “Not so much.” He chuckles. “I frequent the gym, and men let it hang out like it’s their job, especially the old guys. Wrinkly old-man balls, not the best thing.” I don’t want to talk about old-man balls, as it makes me want to gag. I like Carter a lot, but even looking at his balls, which seemed nice, make me shy. I focus on something else. “You go to the gym? Is that why your arms are buff?” He raises an eyebrow at me in question. “You think I’m buff?” How could I not? His biceps are toned, defined in his tight-fitting shirts. His chest is broad and thick, so powerful that he can pick me up with ease. He has a body I never expected to see under his leather jacket, but it’s a body I could die happy seeing every day. If that makes any sense. If not, how’s this? Yum! “You know you’re buff, so stop fishing for compliments.” “Wouldn’t hurt to hear you say it, Snowflake. A guy needs his ego stroked every once in a while.” I roll my eyes. “Oh Carter, you’re so buff. You have muscles for days, all bulgy and brawny, like Mr. Clean.” “The bald cleaning guy?” he asks, distaste in his question. “Yeah, he can be sexy.” “You want to rub that slick head of his? Pull on his earring?” “He has an earring?” This is news to me. I can’t picture it. “Yeah, tough guys have earrings.” Leaning from side to side, I examine his ears: not pierced. “You don’t have an earring,” I point out. “Nah, I’m more of the broody type than tough. But, I am able to step up to tough if you ever need someone to get hijacked in the face. I’m not opposed to fighting.” “Well, I am.” I search his eyes. “Have you ever punched someone? Has anyone ever punched you?” His eyes soften, his hand pushing my hair behind my ear. “You want the truth?” I nod. “Okay, yeah, a lot. I can’t even count the amount of times, especially growing up. I’ve been punched by schoolmates, friends, my dad, my uncle, random assholes. I learned to defend myself pretty quickly.” “Your uncle and dad punched you?” He just shrugs as a response, causing my heart to split in two. I don’t understand how an adult can raise a hand to a child. It makes no sense to me. Is that why he is often so distant, aggressive? Cupping his face, I gently kiss his lips. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that.” “Like I said, my life has been a struggle. I’m used to it. No use in fretting over it.” Before I can say

another word, he flips me over in bed, pinning me to the mattress. “Now, enough of this sad shit, I can’t wait to taste you again.” “Again?” I ask in disbelief. “Yeah, Snowflake. You’re not a one-and-done girl. You’re the forever kind.” Smiling down at me, I take everything in about this man. He’s so genuine, so honest, the perfect combination of sweet and masculine. Joining Dear Life has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I feel as though the blinders have been removed and I can see more shape to the future of my life. I now have a sister I adore, have made new friends, and of course, right now, in Carter’s arms, I feel alive. Never saw that coming. Never saw him coming. He wasn’t what my mind had conjured up as the perfect man for me, yet we seem to . . . fit. Day by day, the little steps I make toward being that woman in the mirror, it’s all about proving my existence, one small gesture at a time. CARTER Standing in my boxer briefs, flipping my signature French toast, I think about last night. Hell, I’ll be thinking about last night for a damn long time. Daisy was everything. Innocent, yet invested. Pure, yet sinful. Shy, yet explorative. The way her hands moved across my muscles, it was sensual as hell, her fingertips not quite sure what to do, but her lust egging her on. Then there was the look in her eyes, the pout to her lips, the way her hair fanned out against my pillow. Fucking hell, so damn beautiful. It was hard to keep my hands to myself, to give her a break knowing she was going to be really sore, but I wanted her over and over again. By letting me inside her, she claimed me. I was a goner. I’m still a goner. Looking at my bed, I love my view: her naked body spread across the mattress, the sheets covering just enough to have me wanting to rip that damn fabric away, and her little feet poking out the bottom. God, I want to wake her up. I want to dive in between her legs and wake her up in the best way possible, with my tongue to her amazingly sweet pussy. Talk about a heavy craving. Hell, I fucked her with my tongue three times last night because I couldn’t keep away. And then there was her “blow job” which consisted of her kissing the tip of my dick because she was scared of “getting shot in the eye” and moving her hand up and down my length so loosely that it was more of a tease than anything. After five minutes of her featherlight touches and dick-hole kissing, I took her hand, gripped my cock hard, and showed her how to do it. She was scared to hurt me after our first encounter where she thought my dick was a dangling doo-dad she could grab with a death grip. I can understand the hesitation, so I showed her the proper pressure and grip to apply, and once she got the hang of it, sweet Jesus, I came hard. She was so determined, so set on getting me off, and her persistence paid off. As for when I came, she squealed so damn loud, my neighbors most likely heard her. Her reasoning, she never thought it could “spray like that.” Not going to lie, her little handy got me some record height. What it boils down to is her innocence. It turns me on so damn much. It’s one of my favorite things about her.

A few feet away, rustling fabric draws my attention. Peeking past the bundled-up sheets, Daisy looks out into the open space of the apartment, her hair mussed from last night and early this morning. “What smells good?” she croaks out in a sexy morning voice. “French toast. You interested?” Like a bolt of lightning, she sits up in bed, the sheets pooling at her waist, giving me a monumental view that will have me hard all damn morning. Her arms above her head, she stretches from side to side, enjoying the morning sun. I turn away because if I don’t, the French toast will burn, breakfast will be ruined, and I never ruin a meal. A quick glance in Daisy’s direction has me reconsidering, but before I can make a move, she’s putting on my shirt from last night and pushing up the sleeves that ride long on her arms. When she steps out of bed, I’m awarded with the vision of the hem of my shirt hitting her on the upper side of her thighs. Waves of blonde float around her with each step in my direction. So beautiful, it hurts. She pads her way toward me, a little sway to her hips. “You’re staring.” Giving her a once-over, I nod and then turn back to the French toast. “Hard not to where you’re concerned.” I pat the counter next to the stove. “Have a seat, beautiful. Keep me company while I finish making breakfast.” She hops up and then squeals. “The counter is cold.” “That will happen to you when you’re prancing around like some sexed-up hussy.” “Hey,” she playfully slaps my bare arm, “I’m not a sexed-up hussy. You’re naked too.” I glance down at my boxer-clad crotch and quirk my lips to the side. “Sorry. I’m not naked, and neither are you, but I can make us naked if that’s what you want.” “No way. I’m too sore.” Sore? Shit. Turning the burner down, I position myself between Daisy’s legs and put my hands on her thighs, gently rubbing them up and down. “Did I hurt you last night, Daisy?” “Oh, no. I didn’t mean it like that.” She smiles bashfully. “I mean sore as in I’ve never had foreign objects inside me like that before.” “My dick is not a foreign object.” I chuckle. “It is to my vagina,” she says. “From the way you moaned last night, I would say your vagina doesn’t consider my dick a foreign object anymore.” Her hands go to her cheeks, her face reddening. Whispering, she asks, “Did I really moan?” I lean in and match her whisper. “You really did, and it was sexy as fuck.” Relieved, she drapes her hands over my shoulders and clasps them around my neck, her legs circling my waist as well. I’m surrounded by her body, her scent, her purity. It takes my breath away, that this woman with so much potential—a world of possibilities ahead of her—wants to be with me. Needing to feel her skin, I slip my hands under her shirt and roam them up her stomach and until my fingers skim her breasts. My mouth goes to her neck where I press long, languid kisses along her skin, loving the way I can smell myself on her as well. “I can’t get enough—” My words are cut off by the jingle of keys in my front door and the presence of someone right outside

the apartment. What the fuck? I turn my head just in time to see Sasha walk through, suitcase in hand, long dark hair tied in a knot on top of her head, skinny jeans eating up her long legs, and her classic white T-shirt hanging low to show off her perfectly set cleavage. What the hell is she doing here? “Oh?” Taking in the scene in front of her, her cheeks start to blush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I would be interrupting something.” “What the hell are you doing here, Sasha?” I ask. I notice Daisy go rigid in my arms. “I . . .” She looks around, her hands fidgeting in front of her. This is not the Sasha I know. She was confident, sure of herself, would never fidget like she is right now. “I, um, came back.” Shielding Daisy now, I ask, “Why would I want you to come back here?” Pulling an envelope from her back pocket, she walks it over to the kitchen island where I get a better view of her. She’s not wearing a lot of makeup, so judging by the absence of dark circles under her eyes, she’s finally started sleeping again. “Here.” She places the envelope on the counter, eyeing my chest for a brief second. “Here’s your money along with the rent for the months I was gone.” Is she fucking serious right now? I’m not sure what I should be feeling. I never wanted to see her again, but I can’t deny that the menacing dark cloud of pessimism—that’s hovered over me ever since she left— is parting and I feel a small ray of hope. I open the envelope and there is a lot of cash inside. I don’t bother counting it, as I somehow know it’s there. “Is this a joke?” I ask. Her hands rest in her back pockets, her breasts sticking out even farther from her stance. From behind me, I hear Daisy hop down from the counter and walk toward the bedroom, hopefully giving me a little privacy with Sasha, so I don’t have to explain all this shit to her. She shakes her head. “It’s not a joke. The money is yours. I told you I was hoping I could pay you back one day. I just wasn’t expecting it to be this soon.” Looking over my shoulder, she eyes Daisy, who’s shuffling around the room. “I came back, Carter, because I never stopped loving you.” What the hell? She’s kind of blowing up my mind right now. Completely out of it, I remove the French toast from the stove so I don’t burn down the apartment while I try to wrap my head around what’s going on. First things first. “Why did you take the money, Sasha?” Leaning against the counter, her eyes cast down. “My dad needed it. He got into trouble with some pretty bad people, and they were going to take everything from him if he didn’t pay up. He was short ten thousand dollars, and he had to pay up the day I left. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you trying to help. I was afraid if your name was mentioned, they would hurt you too. I couldn’t bear that, so I kept my note plain, evasive, and left. My dad was able to get the money back quickly by selling some tied-up stock that became available. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I was so scared. My dad was already at risk, I didn’t want you to be at risk too.” Moving forward, she places her hand on my chest, those dark green eyes peering up at me. “I love you, Carter. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before, but I’m saying it now.” Those three words. Never once have they ever been uttered to me. Not from my parents, my uncle, or a girlfriend. But from Sasha, they flow freely and for some reason, it feels bittersweet. Unwanted. My attention is pulled away from Sasha when I see movement by the door. The flash of blonde hair

escaping the apartment. Daisy. Fuck! Daisy. How could I forget Daisy was here? Scooting by Sasha, in my boxer briefs, I take off toward the door, and down my apartment stairs as I chase after her. She’s moving fast but I’m able to catch her before she exits the building. Thankfully, for my barely covered body. “Daisy, where are you going?” I catch her by the arm, halting her in her tracks. When I turn her to face me, the tears falling down her face hit me like a ton of bricks. I can’t stand to see those beautiful eyes clouded. “Let me go, Carter.” “No. We haven’t had breakfast.” We haven’t had breakfast? That’s the best you got? I blame it on being shucked sideways by Sasha. With her delicate, little fingers, she wipes away her tears, and when she attempts to put on a brave face, my heart starts hammering in my chest. “I’m not going back up there to eat breakfast with you.” “Daisy—” “No, Carter. I don’t compare. I don’t even have a chance, and I’m not going to pretend that I do. She’s everything I’m not, and you have history, history that has developed a love between you two. I’m not about to step in between that. And even if I did try to step in,” she hiccups, “I would never win against her.” “It’s not a competition, Daisy.” It’s no competition, because Daisy has become my everything. She shakes her head. “No, it isn’t, because I’m not in the running.” She turns to walk away again but I stop her. “Don’t walk away from me; this isn’t over, Daisy.” “It was the minute she walked back into your life. I’m not stupid, Carter. I saw the way you looked at her, the way your eyes lit up when she touched you. There is something between you two, and I’m not going to sit around and watch you figure it out.” She pulls on the strands of her hair and looks up at the ceiling while tears fall down her face. “Ugh, I should never have gotten involved with you.” I’m able to take everything she says until that. I don’t agree, but I can take it. But saying she should never have gotten involved with me? That’s a fucking blow to my gut. I had thought that too, but now I desperately want her to not believe that. I want her to be mine. “I took an opportunity because I met a boy I couldn’t keep my eyes off.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “And look at me, wearing yesterday’s clothing, hair matted, holding my shoes in my hand, and watching my boyfriend reconnect with his old girlfriend.” Pausing, she sifts angrily through her thick, blonde hair. “Was it even real, Carter? Was any of it real? Or were you just using me like your uncle said?” Is she fucking kidding me? Was it real? I’ve never felt more damn alive than when she’s in my arms. Everything about our entire relationship has been real. How can she not see that? Maybe because I’m the dickhead, with a girl waiting upstairs and a tied-up tongue. She nods, her lips pressed tightly together. “That’s what I thought.” What? No. “See you later, Carter.” “Daisy.” “No,” she shouts, her word coming out as a sob. “I’m feeling broken, Carter. I had just started accepting myself, trying to believe I was the woman you saw. Someone acceptable. With potential. Now I

just feel stupid. I gave my heart away too soon, only to be sucker-punched.” More tears, each drop causing a crack in my heart. “And last night, gosh, last night was just . . .” She pauses. “It was so real for me, Carter. It was so real that I thought maybe, just maybe, you were the man I was supposed to be with.” She emits a small, sad laugh. “I guess you live and you learn.” Sniffing, she tightens her hold on her items and turns toward the door, looking over her shoulder, she says, “It was so real to me, I’m just sorry it wasn’t for you.” As if I’m set in stone, I stand in place, watching her retreating back slowly drift away and yet, I can’t move. Why am I not moving? Why am I not stopping her? Why am I not shouting at the top of my lungs that it was so fucking real for me too? Because for the first time in my life, I’m terrified. The most pure and authentic beauty I’ve ever come across gave me her heart and I just annihilated it. I hadn’t meant to. I’d been blindsided. Facing my fears. I thought my fear was never making something of myself, when in fact, my actual fear is learning to let love in. And the love I wanted just left the building. JACE “As we come to the end of our program in the next few weeks, I really want you to reflect on your accomplishments, on the thoughts and feelings you’ve experienced, testing new waters and exploring new realms of your normal routine. Did you learn something about yourself you never knew? Did you find strength within your body you didn’t know existed? Did your soul connect with another’s in a way you weren’t expecting? Reflect. Today, you shall do nothing but reflect and evaluate your progress.” Marleen sits on her desk like always and looks out over the room. “These last few weeks should have tested your limits, they should have helped you grieve, and they should have helped you grow. Even at your own pace, you should be feeling a difference in your everyday approach to life. Take that in, observe and evaluate, because the next task you’ll face is acceptance. What do I mean by that?” A few people raise their hands, but she motions them to go down. “I don’t want you to answer, I want you to think about it. What is acceptance to you?” I hate questions like that. What is acceptance? Well, according to Webster’s Dictionary . . . Honestly, what are we supposed to say? “I see a lot of blank stares. Let me guide you.” Marleen stands and circles the room as she continues. “As a group, we’ve woven through this program taking on tasks and trying to make the most of them, ticking off the checklist, waiting for the next challenge. But have any of you sat back and really assessed where you’ve come from, how far you’ve traveled down this new journey, the new depths you’ve reached? I’m sure some of you have, but I would guess eighty percent of you haven’t. And that’s okay, you’ve been caught up in the moment, but now we must slow down.” Thankfully, in the corner of my view on the iPad, I can see Hollyn. She’s wearing yoga pants and a tight-fitting, long-sleeve T-shirt. All I want to do is jump through the screen, scoop her up, and cuddle the fuck out of her. I hate that I’m so far away right now. Once again, everything is out of my control. “I want you to reflect on who you were before you came to the program and who you are now. It’s time to accept the past, what it’s brought you, the lessons you’ve learned, and start accepting the new you.”

Breaking into our groups, we section off, and it’s the first time I notice Carter isn’t sitting next to Daisy. And Daisy, I’ve never seen her looking so dejected. What the hell did that asshole do? “Where’s Carter?” I ask. Daisy looks down at her feet, so Hollyn answers. “Not sure. He didn’t show up tonight.” “Daisy.” I don’t continue until she looks in my direction. Once I have her eyes, I say, “Are you okay?” A trembling lip meets my question as she shakes her head, no. Shit. “What’s going on?” Hollyn answers for her. “Uh, Carter’s ex came back into town. It wasn’t a very good encounter for Daisy.” “Shit.” I rub my face. “I’m sorry, Daisy.” She shrugs and in a meek voice, says, “I didn’t put up a fight. It was obvious there was something between them.” A long exhale escapes her. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” “Fair enough.” I glance at Hollyn to read her expression and take it upon myself to say, “Let’s just write our letters and reflect like Marleen said. Daisy, we are here for you if you need to talk. Don’t let this be a setback but rather motivation in the direction you’ve been traveling. You know how to reach me.” “Thank you, Jace.” She wipes a quick tear away and takes out her stationery. She pulls her feet up close to her and starts writing her letter, tears streaming down her face. It just about kills me. “Hollyn, could you call me?” “Sure.” It takes no time for her to hang up the iPad and call me on her iPhone. When I answer, I say, “I’m going to fucking kill him.” “Get in line.” “What the hell happened?” “I still don’t know all the details. But what I do know is Daisy stayed the night at Carter’s and when she woke up, Sasha walked back in the apartment, gave Carter some money she took from him, and then told him she loved him and wanted him back.” “Oh, come on. What did Carter do?” “When she left, he at least chased after her, but when she asked if what they had was real to him, he didn’t answer.” “Yup, I’m going to fucking kill him.” “I just don’t get it,” Hollyn comments. “I’ve known Carter for some time now and whenever he’s around Daisy, I see awe in his eyes. He’s a different person with her next to him. Like happiness has finally found him. I don’t get why he wouldn’t answer her.” “Maybe he still has feelings for Sasha.” “Maybe.” Hollyn sighs. “I feel so bad for her. Amanda said Daisy has been moping around the house, not even touching her craft table, an obvious cause for concern.” “She needs to get out. Do you think she would want to come to the game too? I can fly you both down. Has she ever been out of the state? Might be just what she needs.” “You would do that?” “Of course. She’s a friend, Hollyn. I take care of my people. Set up the details with her, and I’ll get the tickets.”

“You’re amazing.” She pauses. “Hey, how did your meeting with the lawyers go? You haven’t mentioned it.” Does she mean the nightmare meeting? The one where my lawyers told me there is a fifty-percent chance this adoption can be reversed? The one where it felt like walls were closing in on me while I gasped for air, air I still haven’t found. “Not the best meeting. Basically, Rebecca has a good case. I’m at loss as to what to do.” “And talking to her isn’t working?” “Not so much. Even if I wanted to give it one more go, to rationalize with her, I seem to blow up every time she’s around. It’s impossible for me to keep my cool.” “That’s understandable. I wish there was something I could do for you.” “Just be there, babe. That’s all I ask.” “I can do that. Hey, Marleen is starting to collect letters, I should probably go write mine. Call me later tonight to hash out details. I’ll be sure to talk to Daisy before I leave.” “Okay, sounds good.” The phone goes silent, my empty apartment feeling very lonely all of a sudden. I’ve traveled a bit for baseball, always being a loner when it came to my personal life. But I’ve craved a family, and that’s part of the pain in losing Hope. I’ve felt relief for her to have the family she deserves, but desolated I wasn’t able to keep her to fill that emptiness in my soul. Then Hollyn entered my life, and hell, everything changed. I started to see what it would be like to have someone special in my life, someone I could cherish. Will she be the one I can finally call my own? I sure as hell hope so because I’ve fallen for her. I’ve fallen for her so damn hard. *** Dear Life, I’ve put on a brave face, I’ve tried to exude positivity, but I can’t help but feel sick to my stomach over the idea of going to Jace’s game. I’m terrified. So many memories and emotions; so much guilt. Can Eric see me now? What would he really think of Jace? Would he approve? Would he want me to find comfort in someone else? If roles were reversed, I don’t know if I would be too keen on Eric moving on, but then again, I’ve always been a very jealous person. Why can’t I be one of those people who skate through life, never having to really face adversity? Or perhaps, why am I not someone who copes with adversity? You’ve presented me with a challenge I’m not sure I’m strong enough to overcome. Where do I find my strength? Help me, Life. Help me find the acceptance in my loss. Please, please help me find acceptance. I just want this aching feeling to finally dissipate. Please. Sincerely, Hollyn

Dear Life, Have you ever had a girl crush? I haven’t, that was until Sasha came along. Have you ever heard that song, “Girl Crush” by Little Big Town? I’m sure you have. I heard it on the radio and haven’t been able to think of anything else. Just like the song says, I want to drown myself in her perfume. I want her long black hair. I want so desperately to know what it’s like to be her, because she has everything. She has Carter. I know I chose to leave, it seemed like the logical decision given their history, but I wasn’t expecting to feel so pathetically desperate to be someone else. And I hate that about me. I shouldn’t want to be another human being. I should want to be myself. This life I’m trying to live, trying to develop, it shouldn’t be focused on one man and his heart. It should be focused on me and the beating organ in my chest. This whole program I’ve spent with Carter, experiencing life through him. Well, I’m done. I want to experience life for myself. I want to know what it’s like to watch a movie alone in the theater. I want to see what it’s like to stand on top of a mountain, the wind being my only friend. I want to start a career. I want my own place. I want to be able to walk around naked in my apartment just because I can. And I want to be able to revolve my life around my passion, rather than a man I’m passionate about. That girl in the mirror, she’s not fading yet. She still has a little more fight left in her. Kind regards, Daisy Dear Life, My best friend and I aren’t talking. I’m barely hanging on to the girl I’ve fallen for. My baseball career is subpar at best right now. The ability to breathe is getting tougher and tougher with each passing day. And I have one responsibility, to give Hope the best opportunity at having a family, and from the look of it, I’m failing miserably. Accepting my past and accepting my future, they both read like a melting pot of human crap. Can I get a pass, accept neither and start all over? Might be my best option right about now. Jace Carter Crawford: Not present for the meeting. Called in sick, provided Doctor’s note. Hope for a return soon. Quickly discussed the materials and offered him assistance in acceptance. He hung up before I could say goodbye. I see no change in him. Not sure if he will ever change. Marleen

Step Seven: Acceptance CARTER

Cool glass presses into my fingertips, the bottle I’ve been drinking from for the past few hours about to join its friends in a scattered collection of “fuck yous” on the floor. In the other hand, pieces of highly overrated paper with Benjamin Franklin’s filthy mug on the front. Money. That’s what this world revolves around. Greedy, soiled money. Such a burnable, rip-able, steal-able object can either make or break your life. And here I sit, twenty thousand dollars on my lap, my lucky ticket in my hand, and a pure hatred for myself. I bet it all. Every last cent Sasha gave me, I bet it all with the hopes of losing. I wanted everything to be taken away from me, because that’s what has already happened, might as well tack it on with the rest of my bullshit life. I let her walk away, without even trying to get her back. I let her listen to Sasha claim her love for me and not dismiss it. I let her watch Sasha touch me, invade my space, the space she was just snuggling up to. And then I just let her walk out of my life because I’m a fucking coward. Kicking Sasha out of my apartment was pretty simple after that. Despite how I felt about her in the past, that’s exactly where those feelings stayed: in the past. Nothing compares to the way I feel when I’m with Daisy. She’s changed me, morphed me into a different man who actually cares about something other than my pursuit to be free of my uncle. With Daisy, it was like my life was playing out in front of me in a Technicolor musical dream, with fucking dancing quilted vests and hideous turtlenecks as the chorus line. Now, the world is dull and dreary, a plethora of greys barely distinct from one shade to the next. And there is an ache, deep in my chest, an ache so debilitating that I’ve surrendered all attempts at moving forward with my goals. And Dear Life? Yeah, fuck that program. Getting Fitzy’s friend to write me a doctor’s note was easy, listening to Marleen trying to coach me over the phone, pure torture. That bitch has some tits to think she can save everyone. Newsflash, Marleen: some people aren’t worth saving. And you know what, some people don’t want to be saved. Can’t. Be. What I can’t seem to get over is that I sit here, bottle of whiskey in hand, the key to my freedom in the other and yet, I haven’t broken through the glass ceiling of my proverbial imprisonment. I haven’t been to work in a few days, blowing my uncle off every time he calls to find out why I’m not slaving away behind the grill. His voice messages are full of threats that hold no weight to me now, because I hold the key to my freedom. Money. Amber liquid drips down my throat, my body feeling numb with each swallow. I welcome the burn, loving the way it briefly dilutes the constant ache ricocheting through my body. What a dump. This apartment, such a shithole. But there was one person who actually liked it, because she could see the good in everything. She saw it as a place of freedom. I see it as a prison of solitude, a

place I’m trapped with my demons. She saw my bed as one of the most comfortable sleeps she’s ever had. I see it as a rectangle of regret. My kitchen, she saw as a showcase to watch me in my element. To me, it’s an embarrassing temple where I shattered the heart of the only person I’ve ever cared for. The glass bottle touches my lips again and I tilt back just as a battle of fists rams against my front door, startling the hell out of me so whiskey gets all over my shirt. “Fuck,” I mutter, setting the bottle on the coffee table in front of me and looking toward the front door. Someone is about to regret disturbing me. On wobbly legs, I make my way to the door and when I open it, I’m greeted with a meaty fist to my face which sends me stumbling backward until I fall flat on my ass. Disoriented, I try to make sense of what just happened and that’s when I see my uncle, hovering above me, shaking his fist out. “Get up.” “Fuck you,” I spit out, the taste of blood filling my mouth. Shaking his head, he shuts the door behind him and stares down at me. “It’s funny how sometimes I can be so wrong about people.” “What is that supposed to mean?” I move my jaw around with the assistance of my hand. Nope, not broken, just sore as hell. If I wasn’t so shaky on my own legs, I would fight back, show my uncle he can’t rule me anymore. “When you came to my house with one pathetic suitcase in hand, but hope for a change in your eyes, I thought you would actually make something of yourself.” Motioning around with his hand, he continues, “I guess I was wrong. You’re just ending up like your sorry excuse of a father, no future, no aspirations.” “Fuck you. I have aspirations.” I stand up, stumbling into the wall as I catch my footing. I take a moment to right myself before continuing. “I want so much more than this dump of a life but you’ve been holding me back, making me pay off my servitude.” “No, son, you’ve been holding yourself back.” “Don’t call me, son. You haven’t earned that right.” “Like hell I haven’t. I fed you, gave you somewhere to sleep, gave you opportunities to pursue your interests. I gave you a hell of a lot more than your father ever did.” “Yeah, with a side of fucking guilt and a handful of IOUs.” “Nothing is ever free in life, Carter. You have to work for it. I may not have known what I was doing, raising a kid that wasn’t mine, but I did my damnedest to instill the value of a strong work ethic. And do you know why? Because I didn’t want you to end up like my brother; a loser druggie with nothing but a needle in his hand and a bounty over his head. Did I mess up along the way? Of course. Did I blame you for the lack of freedom I had? Often. But I won’t apologize for making you work hard, for never giving you anything for free, because you now know the value of your efforts. You know what it takes to keep your head above water.” Looking around again, he says, “At least I thought you did.” Mentally knocked over, I find my way to the couch and try to gather my thoughts. My entire life I’ve thought of this man as a retched human being, out to make my life miserable in return for ruining his. And yes, there may have been some subconscious payback on his part, but from what he’s saying, his intent was to make something of me, and fuck if that doesn’t mess with my liquor-soaked brain. “You couldn’t have shown a little compassion? A little understanding for a little boy who lost his parents?” I ask.

“I don’t know compassion, Carter. My father was an abusive alcoholic and my mother was nowhere to be found. Compassion doesn’t hold a bone in my body.” “I was scared,” I say meekly. “I lost everything I knew and had to live with a terrifying man who wanted nothing to do with me. I went to bed every night, hiding in my closet, afraid you were going to do something to me with your volatile temper. And when I was old enough, tall enough to hold my own, you turned me into a bitter man. You speak of value and ethics but where’s the value in showing humanity?” I point at him, throwing emphasis behind my words. “You could have stepped up, and not just by taking me in, but by showing an ounce of kindness, interest, love.” His hand propped on the counter, he nods his head, his eyes cast down. “I could have,” he says softly. “But I’m not that big of a man, and I’m not afraid to admit it.” He meets my gaze. “But you are. That girl you were with, she means a lot to you, doesn’t she?” “She did,” I admit, a bitterness left on my tongue. “Did.” His lips press tightly together. “Because of me? Because of what I said?” I want to say yes, but I know it’s not the truth. “No, it’s because of me.” Then I pause. “And maybe a little of you. I crushed her. I’m incapable of letting anyone in because I’m too bitter.” I’m the bitter man you created. “Like you.” “You are who you want to be, Carter. I choose to be bitter, to live my life in solitude, running my restaurant, and never stepping outside of my element. But you shouldn’t. You have potential. Why do you think I pushed the Dear Life program?” “Because you wanted me to be a fucking line cook for the rest of my life. Wanted the money you’d spent on me back.” “No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t care about the money. I was never going to take it from you, but I wanted you to work for it, to learn how to save. As for the job, you needed to know what it was like to work for someone else, to know that you’re not a know-it-all punk who is God’s gift to the whisk. A little humility goes a long way, Carter.” Mind-fucking-blown, life around me crumbling into a million pieces of the unknown. “I enrolled you into the program because I saw a darkness in your eyes, the kind of darkness I saw in your father’s. It scared me. You were teetering on the edge of giving in to that darkness and throwing away the potential I see in you. I couldn’t bear to witness that, so I took action.” “I can’t . . .” My fingers sift through my unkempt hair. “Why the fuck didn’t you just say something?” “Because, you’re a know-it-all punk who wouldn’t take a word I say to heart. Like I said, I’ve never parented before, and I sure as shit didn’t have a good example. I didn’t know what I was doing. You’re lucky you were fed and clothed growing up. But I cared, Carter, I still do.” “That’s why you came to my apartment and knocked the fuck out of my jaw?” “It’s called knocking some sense into you. I take that term literally.” There is a small smirk on his face, and it’s the first time I can remember my uncle ever joking with me. It’s weird. “So what now?” I ask, confused by the entire conversation. “Do we shake hands and become best friends?” “Not if I can help it.” He chuckles this time and eyes the money on my couch. “Your loot?” “Yeah. I was planning on paying you back once I got my ass off the couch.” He nods. “Looks like I don’t have to feel guilty about firing you then.”

“You’re firing me?” I ask, not really too surprised. “Yeah, I don’t put up with no calls, no-shows at my restaurant, and I sure as hell don’t partake in nepotism. Your shit is outside your apartment door in a brown box along with your last paycheck.” Like a crushing blow to my chest, I sit on the couch and try to think about what the hell I’m going to do now. Yeah, I have twenty thousand dollars sitting on my couch but that isn’t all mine. “Listen. This is your defining moment, a crossroads where you can decide to follow in your father’s footsteps, or finally take what I’ve instilled in you and make something of yourself. That money you owe me, it’s a wash. You owe me nothing but a chance for me to see you actually do something with your life. I don’t know if I’ve earned this, but I want you to make me proud. Take that money and create your freedom.” I rub my forehead, not quite sure I can comprehend everything. Find my freedom. I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I picked up a kitchen knife, but I’ve felt stifled by the man who’s now setting me free. And now that I have it, I have no clue which way to go because the one thing I desperately want is no longer in the picture. HOLLYN “Wow, look at that cactus.” Daisy’s face is plastered to the Uber car window while the driver shoots off facts about Arizona. Did you know the official state necklace of Arizona is the bolo tie? Yeah, neither did I. But I do now. Things I also learned while on this trip: Daisy lost her virginity to Carter the night before they broke up. Carter is the epitome of every male with commitment-phobia. And I don’t want to be here. Spending time with someone who’s never traveled outside the city they live in can put a new perspective on how you see things. And no matter how many times I tell myself I’m going to have fun today, waves of nausea continue to hit me hard. “Thanks for inviting me, Hollyn. Getting away was just what I needed.” I can’t help but ask. “No word from him?” She shakes her head, her once semi-happy mood vanished by one simple question. Good job, Hollyn. I guess misery loves company. “No one has seen him at the restaurant. He hasn’t come in.” “And he didn’t show up at the meeting. Do you think he’s okay?” Now she’s worried. I’m a really good friend. “If I know Carter like I think I do, I would put a very large bet on him drowning his sorrows.” “I don’t like that,” Daisy states and then looks out the window some more. “I don’t like that at all. It seems like a giant waste of time and extremely pointless. What does that kind of drinking do for anyone?” “It helps them forget,” I say absentmindedly. “Sometimes, as humans, we don’t know how to handle the loops of the roller coaster life takes us on, so we silently turn to our vices for support; drinking, drugs, binge eating. There is no physical reason to do so, no actual justification for our actions, besides wanting to temporarily dull the ache within our bruised and brittle souls.” “Is that what you did when you lost Eric? Did you drink?”

A sardonic laugh pops out of me, my eyes transfixed on the stadium up ahead. “Yeah, I drank. I drank a lot, Daisy. I drank so much that I had to get my stomach pumped one night. My mom and Amanda spent months taking care of me, making sure I went to work and then picking me up after, watching my every move so I didn’t drop everything and let my life disappear from my weak grasp.” Damn it. Why do I always feel so ill when I talk about this? “Pain comes in all shapes and sizes and affects us differently.” “Do you want to be dropped off at the front? Or is there a special entrance you need to be brought to since you’re Mr. Barnes’s friends?” Sandy, the Uber driver asks. Somberly, I answer, “The front is fine. Thank you, Sandy.” I gather my purse and wait for the car to come to a stop. After we thank Sandy and step out of her Ford Explorer, I’m hit with sounds and smells of a sporting event. Rowdy fans, food vendors, excited children, and stadium staff milling about, all gearing up for the nine innings waiting behind the brick and stone walls. Silently and stiffly, I make my way toward “Will Call” hoping Daisy is following closely behind. I go through the motions of getting our tickets, going through the gates, and finding our seats on field level, right next to the dugout. On the field, the grounds crew meticulously line the grass and dirt, players carefully stretch and warm up, and the fans beg and plead for an autograph. Not far from the dugout, Jace is talking with one of his coaches, holding his glove at his hip and pulling on the brim of his hat. Until this moment, it’s never really soaked in that Jace plays baseball professionally. I know Jace outside the ballpark and now, seeing him dressed in his uniform, looking confident and in his element, it reminds me of someone else. Eric. The way he holds himself. The way his hat sits low on his brow. The way he jokes around while tossing a ball. I’m transported, my senses on overload, my memory blackening everything around me. There is it, Eric’s smirk, the first thing that captured me about the man. Standing across from me, tossing a football. His swagger so sexy. His smell so intoxicating. That deep voice of his calling my name. Hollyn. Hollyn. Hollyn. “Hey, Hollyn. Are you okay?” Daisy shakes my arm. “I’m sorry if I was rude back in the Uber. Is everything all right? You look like a ghost right now.” My eyes are trained on Jace’s, his eyes now fixated on mine, a concerned look on his face. Right now, I can choose two options, fight or flight. With memories clogging my throat, I only have one option. I’m not ready. I can’t do this. It’s too soon. “Hollyn, where are you going?” Daisy calls out. I don’t stop. I flee. Even when I bump into someone holding a tray of nachos, I keep retreating to the past, leaving my future in my tumultuous wake. JACE

“Three errors and two strike outs. Not your best showing tonight, Jace.” Reporters hover around my locker, microphones crowding me, camera lights brightly flashing in my face, my coach walking by, giving me a knowing look. Fuck, yeah, I would say it wasn’t my best showing at all. “Just working out the kinks, I’ll be ready by the season opener.” I give them the generic response. I’m not about to spill my guts to these media leeches that the woman I wanted sitting in the stands, supporting me, took off before the first pitch was even thrown. I’m not about to tell them that deep in my soul, I know I’ve fallen for a woman I won’t ever be able to have because she will forever be undeniably in love with her late husband. No matter how hard I try, how much I support her, there will be no action, no words that will cause her to change. Even if your heart rests in their hands, there’s no use trying to help someone move on when they don’t want to. And fuck did she just grab it without warning. “Can we count on another rookie-of-the-year-type season from you?” one of the reporters asks. I towel off my head and hang the terrycloth over my shoulders as I answer. “I can’t make any predictions about what’s to come this season. All I know is my training regimen, my connection with my team, and my mental game has all stepped up this year.” The mental game part is a drastic lie, but they don’t have to know that. “You say your mental game is intact,” a reporter says off to the side. Of course they would pick up on that. “Could you tell us if giving your baby up for adoption is going to affect that?” The fuck? Searching the crowd for the person who asked the question, I say, “Where the fuck did you get that information?” A man off to the right looks around, nervous from the venom spitting out of me. “Uh, I have sources.” Plowing through the reporters, I grip the man by the collar of his shirt and seethe at him. “What fucking sources?” “Jace.” Coach comes running toward me and pulls me away from the reporter who adjusts his tie and smirks at me. “I’m going to take that as a yes,” the reporter assumes. “Get him the fuck out of here,” I shout, being carried off by my coach and a few players now. “Barnes, shut your damn mouth and get in my office now.” Not my best day, my best showing, or my best temperament. Another fine from the front office, a threat of sending me back down to the minors, and two hours later, I’m pulling my duffel bag out of my car and walking up to my apartment. If I wasn’t going through a living nightmare, the threats my coach sent my way would most likely take action. He doesn’t put up with much. This entire day wasn’t how I planned it. I wasn’t expecting to play like shit, almost plow a member of the press through the locker room wall, and go home alone. And yet, all those things happened tonight. The walkway to my apartment is dark, but when I reach my front door, a familiar figure sits at my door. Hollyn. Curled up, her legs tucked under, and her hair draping around her face, she looks defeated. She can’t stick around for the game but she can come to my temporary apartment after. I want to be the man she needs, the one who’s going to hug her and be understanding, but that man is nowhere to be found right

now. Instead, I’m a volatile and angry man with the need to get drunk. “What are you doing here?” I ask, looking for my house key. “Where’s Daisy?” From my voice, she stands abruptly. Carefully, she tucks her hair behind her ear and shifts in place. “She’s taken care of, don’t worry.” She takes a deep breath. “I want to apologize.” “For what, Hollyn? For giving me the feeling that you actually might want to move on? That maybe, there is a shred of hope for a relationship between us, that maybe, just maybe you might be falling for me like I’ve fallen so fucking hard for you?” “Jace . . .” Her trembling chin briefly pulls my attention away from being mad, but only briefly. “Why did you leave, Hollyn?” Watery eyes meet mine. “It was too much.” “Yeah, well, that’s life for you, Hollyn.” Frustrated, I grab the back of my neck and look down at her. “Life isn’t some walk in the park where you can make wishes on dandelions. Life is work. Life is a journey of triumphs and sorrows. Of successes and failures. Of learning experiences and growing opportunities. You can’t sit back and expect different results when you’re not doing anything to change.” “I’m trying,” she cries. “You say you’re trying, Hollyn. But those are just empty words now.” Closing the distance between us, I point to her chest and say, “In order to grow, you have to try from here.” I touch her heart and then her head. “And here. You can’t just outwardly try, you have to dig deep inside of you and actually want to try. You have to want to make a change. You have to want to let go. From where I stand, I don’t see you actually wanting to let go. And hey, it’s my fault for trying to push you when you weren’t ready. I take the blame. But I can’t journey on this ride anymore. If today isn’t an example of that, I don’t know what is.” “You aren’t exactly letting go either, Jace,” she counters, her chin lifting as she speaks. “You speak of change, of making a difference in our lives, but you still haven’t gone to visit Hope despite the open invitations from June and Alex. You can’t even talk about her. You can’t talk to me about changing your life when you’re just as stagnant as me.” “Don’t.” I shake my head. “Don’t turn this on me.” “Why the hell not? We’ve been in this together since the very beginning. Be honest, right, Jace? Isn’t that the motto our relationship was based upon? Well, this is me being honest. You’re not growing either. Every day, you dive farther and farther into a sorrowful, self-pitying hole. If you were truly interested in making a difference, you would.” “Not to be a dick, Hollyn, but I just recently gave up my baby. You’ve been grieving for almost two years.” Stepping back, she folds her arms over her chest. “Not to be a dick? Well, newsflash, that’s a dick thing to say. Fuck you for judging me on my grieving process. You chose to give up your daughter, I had no choice in the matter when Eric was taken away from me.” “I didn’t want to give her up,” I shout, probably waking every single one of my neighbors. “You don’t think that was the hardest decision of my life?” Sighing, she relaxes her arms, her face turning sincere. “I know it was hard, Jace. I’m sorry.” “Christ.” Defeated, I sink down on the ground, my back to the wall. Hollyn joins me. “And here we’re supposed to be working on our acceptance. Pretty sure we’re both still back at step one. Grieving.” I take her hand in mine and kiss the back of it before placing it back on her lap. “We can’t do this together

anymore.” “What?” Her head whips toward mine. “Jace, this is just a little fight. We’re each other’s support system.” Are we? Or perhaps that’s actually all we will ever be. She’s in love with someone else and probably won’t ever love me. I had wanted more, but I can’t keep sustaining this level of pain from so many directions. I’m better off alone. “And I will be cheering for you from the sidelines, but we can’t be involved anymore. We’re tearing each other down more than lifting each other up. I’m looking for a relationship you’re not ready for, and your reluctance is shredding me each and every day. We’re toxic for each other right now, Hollyn. It’s not healthy.” “You can’t leave me, Jace. I can’t do this.” Turning toward her, I cup her cheek in my large palm and run my thumb under her eye, catching a tear. “You’re stronger than you think, Hollyn. This is on you. You control the outcome of your future, no one else. Take the strength you’ve harvested over the last few months, gather the fire you’ve been burned by, and turn it into something more. Prove your existence, Hollyn.” Standing, I pull her up with me. Leaning forward, I press a kiss against her cheek, take in her scent one last time and then pull away. “Know I’m your biggest fucking cheerleader right now, but from a distance. Find acceptance for your past, keep Eric close by, but don’t let him hold you back from your future.” Looking her in the eyes, I soak her in one last moment, knowing we will probably never speak again. “God, I love you, Hollyn. I’m just sorry our timing was off.” A sad smile passes my lips. “Maybe in another lifetime.” One last time I press my lips against hers, vowing this is the moment that will change the course of the rest of my life. She’s right. I’m stagnant. I’m scared. I’m making no movements to change. But that’s over. Fuck, yes, losing her has affected my game. It’s affected every part of my life. But I need to be Hope’s guardian angel. I need to make sure she gets what’s best for her, because she deserves the best life. She deserves the best of me, and that’s what she is going to get. It’s time to move forward. It’s time to prove my existence. DAISY “More tea?” “Sure.” With shaky, weathered hands, Grams pours me another cup and then hands me the milk and sugar. “Thanks, Grams.” “Of course.” She bites into another one of the snickerdoodle cookies I made. “You really have become such a good baker. These are delightful.” “I learned from the best.” “Oh, dearie.” She waves a hand in front of her face. “You flatter me.” Taking another bite, she finally says, “What brought you over here in such a sour mood? You’re usually smiling and talking me up about the latest fabric you found in the discount bin.” “Hasn’t been the best week.” That is perhaps an understatement. I feel like the new relationships I was forming have all crumbled. I called Hollyn several times after she ran from the stadium, but she didn’t answer my calls until later, letting me know she was okay. The look of disappointment and hurt on Jace’s face was one I hope I never see again. He looked even more broken than the first day we met.

I do have to admit, flying back to Denver by myself was a tad scary, but I was able to navigate my way through the airport . . .with an airline worker’s help. “Does this have to do with Carter?” And then there is Carter. Carter, someone I thought I could love. How stupid and naïve I had been there. “Yeah.” I slouch into my seat. “I don’t really want to get into it. Let’s just say things didn’t work out.” Patting my hand, she says, “I’m so sorry to hear that, dearie. You know, I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.” “I know.” Taking pause, I gather some courage to talk to her about the real reason I came to visit her today. “Can I ask you a question, Grams?” I stir my tea, feeling jittery about asking my next question. “You can ask me anything. Do you want to talk about pleasure without repercussions?” “Never.” I chuckle. “No offense, Grams, but I never want to talk about pleasure without repercussions with you. Just never.” “Fair enough.” She holds up her hands. “But I’m putting it out there if you ever do want to. I’m quite versed on the topic.” “That’s something a granddaughter should never know.” We both get in a good laugh, Grams coughing at the tail end of her laughter. “Are you okay?” “Yes, dearie. Now go on with your question before I start growing cobwebs from your procrastination.” “Okay, just know, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings if I do.” “Oh, I know you never would do that on purpose. Now go on.” “I’m just wondering why you kept me sheltered my entire life. Why didn’t we ever venture out past our city limits? Why did you keep me so isolated that I didn’t have any friends?” I wince, hating the way I sound so ungrateful. This woman gave me everything and here I am questioning her parenting methods, but in order for me to move on, I need to know why. Staring out the window, she sips her tea, the deep-set wrinkles in her cheeks reminding me of just how old she really is. “Did I ever tell you about the day your grandfather left me?” “Um, not that I recall. Just that he was mentally ill and had to be hospitalized.” “That’s correct, but what I didn’t tell you was that he was suffering from PTSD. He was a soldier, a brave one during the Vietnam War. He left for deployment, a happy, proud, loving man. When he came home, he was a completely different person. He wasn’t the Harold I married. His eyes read like a tortured novel, his reactions were scattered, his mind never fully immersed in the here and now. His mood continued to become unstable with each passing day, to the point where I had to lock myself in the bathroom because he treated the house like a war zone, never fully cognizant of his surroundings. Finally, I had to seek help and that’s when he hospitalized himself . . . for a day.” “For a day?” I ask. She nods. “He checked himself out the next day and hung himself in our house. I came home to find him there, dead, with a note saying the world was a bitter and grim place full of hatred, a place he didn’t want to live in anymore.” “Oh my gosh, Grams. I had no idea.” “Not a lot of people did. I was so distraught, so physically and emotionally impacted by his choice that I fell into a deep depression. I buried myself in a hole of solitude, never wanting to face the world that

took my Harold away.” With glossy eyes, she looks up at me. “And then you came along. You were this little droplet of sunshine in my life I didn’t know I needed. Your bright, cheery self brought me back, and I didn’t want to lose that. So I kept you to myself. Was I wrong? Secluding you from the outside world? Yes, but would I do it again? Of course. You see, if I lost you to the same world, I would have lost myself. It was selfish of me, but it was the only way I knew how to hang on to the joy you brought me.” “Grams.” Tears flood my eyes. “What’s changed now?” She wipes under her eyes with shaky hands. “You’re a grown-up now. You handled my stroke with grace and maturity, and I knew at that moment I had to let you go to live your life the way you want to, not the way I want.” Cupping my cheek, she adds, “And look at you, my beautiful girl. You’re doing it. You’re putting yourself out there and experiencing everything this world has to offer: the good, the bad, and the ugly.” “I’m proving my existence,” I murmur in awe. “Yes, dearie, you are.” Reflecting back on the last few months, I consider everything I’ve accomplished so far: I’ve made friends. I’ve changed from the inside out, daring myself to complete certain challenges and learning new things, even if they are of the smallest variety. And most of all, I experienced the one emotion everyone in the world can connect with: love. Maybe it was short-lived, but I captured a moment with it, and for that, I should be proud of myself. But I still think there is more to come for me, there has to be. A little unsure, I ask, “Do you think I’m capable of great things, Grams?” “I think you’re capable of grand things, my dear. I think you’ve stuck your toe into the pool and have barely tested the waters. There is so much waiting for you outside these doors, and I can’t wait to see what you do with your untapped potential.” Grams isn’t the first one to think I have potential. Carter said the same thing. Maybe it’s time I start believing it as well. “Thank you.” Standing up, I take my empty teacup to the sink and give it a rinse. “What’s your plan?” Grams calls out to me. “My plan?” “Yes, what’s your plan for life after the Dear Life program?” Turning toward Grams, I dry my teacup and shrug my shoulders. “I’m not sure, but I’m ready to find out.” *** Dear Life, His words keep ringing in my head over and over again. He loves me. And when he said those three beautiful words, at that very moment, all I could think about was how much I loved him, too. But I couldn’t say it. Something was stopping me. At first, I thought it was my guilt for loving another man, but after spending many sleepless nights with his face in my mind, his voice echoing through my head, I realized it’s not my guilt holding me back, it’s me. How can I fully give myself over to someone, a man who has given me every last inch of his soul, when I still live in my past? I can’t.

I can’t move forward when I’m surrounded by my past. Accepting my past is more than just stating it, it’s about action. I wake up every morning and get ready in a bathroom that still has Eric’s toothbrush in the holder. I get dressed in a closet surrounded by his clothes. I walk through an apartment filled with shrines to the man I lost. The man who will never come back and love me again. What is supposed to be a comfortable sanctuary is a depressing reminder of what I used to have. No more. From this point on, I’m moving forward. I can’t stand for my life to be dormant anymore. I already lost Eric, and I don’t want to lose Jace as well. Sincerely, Hollyn Dear Life, With the world at my fingertips, where does one even begin? School? Job? Traveling? There are so many options, so many avenues to travel down. What if I pick the wrong thing and miss this opportunity for starting something new? After talking to Grams, I’ve been able to put to rest her reasoning for sheltering me from the world, and now I’m ready to take the next step in my life. What it’s going to be, I’m not quite sure, but what I do know is I’m excited about it. If only I could experience whatever it is with Carter. That will take me some time to get over, but scars heal and make you stronger. Chalk it up to a life experience. Weirdly, I’m excited to have a life experience under my belt. Look at me adulting! Kind regards, Daisy Dear Life, If you’re trying to make me crack, you’re doing one hell of a job. Too bad for you, I’m stronger than you might think. I don’t want to tempt you, but you’re going to have to try a little harder. Yeah, I might have shown some weak spots, but with a little motivation and reassurance, I’m coming back stronger than ever before. It’s time to stand up for what’s right, to truly face my fear, accept my past, and move the fuck on to happiness. It’s time to take what’s been broken and make it right. Jace Dear Life, You are one confusing motherfucker. Carter

Step Eight: Live DAISY

“Want a bite?” The chipmunk next to me skittishly looks at my half-eaten Snickers bar, back at me, then back at the bar, and when I think he’s about to claw my eyes out to take the whole thing, he backs away and takes off into the shrubbery below. “Careful, friend,” I call out, “that water is still cold.” Peeking over the ledge, I don’t spot the chipmunk, only the crystal-clear mountain water I earlier mistakenly dipped my toe in—thinking a little splash would be nice, not realizing the water was still very cold. Duh, Daisy, altitude and everything. Eh, you live and you learn. And boy, am I living. With my hands behind me, I lean into the rock I’m sitting cross-legged on and enjoy the wind blowing through my hair, my head bent back, taking in the crisp mountain air. This is my second hike with the small hiking group I joined, and even though it’s challenging, it’s rewarding. Thankfully all those years of going for brisk walks with Grams has kept me relatively fit. Even better? The small group I walk with also enjoys solitude, so as much as we walk in a group for safety, I can spend moments like these quietly appreciating the beauty without having to make conversation. The mountains have become my new addiction. It’s so calm and peaceful and there’s nothing more exhilarating than reaching your destination only to look out into the vast wilderness and appreciate this beautifully imperfect world. The best part of hiking, I can clear my mind and really focus on the here and now. My brain settles into a happy place, like meditation, only fixating on one thing: my destination and the strenuous journey I make to get there. Breathing in deeply, I exhale, shut my eyes and let the wilderness speak around me. Silence. HOLLYN Anxiety high, throat clamped tight, fingers taking in the feel of his fabric one last time, I sit cross-legged in my closet, Eric’s clothes surrounding me, the feel of sorrow once again eating me whole. Dress shirts, slacks, shoes, sweatpants, firefighter T-shirts. They envelope me on the floor, his scent encompassing me. In my hands, I grip one of my favorite shirts, his John Elway jersey. So many memories were made in this jersey. So many Sundays he spent wearing this jersey, drinking beer with his buddies, pulling me onto his lap, his hand clasped on my waist, whispering into my ear during the game, telling me how beautiful I am, how he was going to celebrate with me after the Broncs won. Waking up on Mondays, his jersey

covering me while I made coffee for the both of us, only to have him walk out shirtless, a devilish look on his face, like he was going to eat me up, right there in the kitchen, coffee in hand. And most mornings, with this jersey still covering my body, he did. And his purple dress shirt, the one his friends gave him crap about, the one Eric said only real men wear violet. It was the same shirt he wore when he proposed to me. The same shirt he ripped all the buttons off in a silly heat of passion when we came home. Acting like some sexed-up version of Tarzan, I can still see him hopping on the couch, tearing his shirt apart, and yelling that I said yes for everyone to hear. The shirt was useless after that, but he kept it because to him, it was something he wore on one of the best days of his life. And there goes one more tear down my cheek. And his trainee shirt, the one he wore with pride, because being a civil servant was important to him. Generations of policemen and firemen ran in his family, and he wanted to carry the torch of serving the people. And he did, beautifully. It was vital to him. Even before he had a chance to finish training, he was always helping out the community, whether it was buying out the lemonade stand at the local park and serving drinks with children to thirsty park-goers, or lending a hand to someone on the side of the highway whose tire was flat. He was always serving graciously and with the will to emulate the men before him. Lying back into the pile, I surround myself in Eric, aching for his touch, his deep, rich voice, that mindaltering smirk of his. Just one more hug, one more kiss, one more I love you. If I knew it was the last, I would have made it the best, never letting go. “Unchained Melody” by The Righteous Brothers plays on repeat, Eric’s favorite song to sing to me when he was feeling playful. Kneeling on the ground, hands clasped in front of him, singing, “I need your love,” like a scene out of Top Gun but instead of singing “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling,” he would serenade me with his horribly off-key voice, making me giggle when he would grab me by the waist and force me to sway with him around the apartment until the song was over. It was no wonder I loved this man so deeply. “I’ve hungered for your touch.” The lyrics echo through my head. They ring so true. How I’ve hungered, practically starved for one more touch, to feel his rough jaw against mine, his strong arms wrapped around me. “I miss you,” I cry into his jersey, my head now resting against his suit jackets. This. Hurts. This is going to be much harder than I thought. A sobbing mess, tears streaming down my face, shaky hands doing all the work, I open my first trash bag and start stuffing Eric’s clothes inside, a sob wracking my bones with each and every garment I sniff and say goodbye to. Drowning in Eric, despite the pain that rips through me each moment, I attempt to move forward. You’re moving forward, you’re working toward your new future. I repeat those words over and over in my head, convincing myself I’m doing the right thing. JACE “Why didn’t you come talk to me?” I ask Ethan who’s sitting in an ice bath from the waist down reading on his phone. Despite his young age, his knees are strained every day from squatting and standing, so an ice bath is a necessity in his world. He doesn’t look at me when he answers, “I couldn’t. I just fucking couldn’t.” “Why not? Did you think you were just going to get away with not saying anything and go on your merry

way?” Putting his phone down to the side, he pinches his brow. “I don’t know what I was thinking, man. I fucked up. I was thinking with my dick. I’m sorry. Despite what Rebecca decided, I should have told you.” “You’re damn right you should have told me. Shit, man. I sat there, crying to you about what she planned to do and you said nothing.” The last thing I want to do right now after a long game is talk to Ethan about all this bullshit again but the first step to healing is forgiving. I need to find it deep within me to forgive him, because dammit, I want to move on. I have to move on. “She asked me not to say anything.” “You’ve known her for a few months, you’ve known me for years, so how does she trump me? You’re the only brother I’ve ever had.” “Fuck.” He rubs both his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, Jace. I don’t know what else to say. If I had another chance, I would suck it up and tell you instead of cowering in the corner, hoping you never found out.” His sorry doesn’t truly hit me like I wanted it to, but it’s not because it isn’t sincere, it’s because forgiving is a lot harder than I expected it to be. It’s not like he says I’m sorry and all is forgiven. I’m still bitter and upset. “Ethan, do you still believe she should have the right to take back the baby she gave away? This is not about me, and it’s not about you. This is about a little girl who has been placed in a warm, loving home. And yes, she is little, but do you think it is right to rip her from that home, give her to her birth mother, who might change her mind in the future and give her up again? Whether it be emotionally or physically? It’s got to be about Hope. Do you think I have a shot here of changing her mind?” Looking me dead in the eyes, Ethan nods. “Yeah, I think you have a shot, man. I haven’t liked the woman she’s become since she first came after Hope. Bro-code, and all. You just have to approach it properly.” So he’s taken off his lust-covered glasses now? “Will you help me?” I ask, hope billowing within me. Is my friend back? With kind eyes, he nods. “Yeah, I’ll help you.” CARTER “Hand me a pen. I don’t have all day.” “Hold on.” I turn to the man assisting us. “Can you give us a minute?” Standing from his desk, he nods. “Take your time.” “What’s this about?” Uncle Chuck asks once Jimmy leaves. “You better not be second-guessing yourself.” “I’m not.” Not sure how to approach the topic, I just come out with it. “You’re not going to hold this over my head, are you? Like everything else? You’re not going to try to barter with me later on?” Sitting back in his chair, Uncle Chuck twirls the pen in his hand and looks me up and down. “Getting cold feet?” “No.” Yes, but no way in hell I’m going to tell him that. This new dynamic still feels weird, a little uncomfortable, and mostly unreal given the drama that’s existed between us for so long.

“Don’t screw with me, boy. I know fear when I see it and that right there,” he points to my eyes with his pen, “that is fear.” Leaning forward, he asks, “What’s holding you back? Failure?” I don’t answer him, not wanting to admit that he’s got me pegged. “Failure is a part of life. Without failure you never learn, and without trying, you’re never given the chance to fail. So what? If this doesn’t work out, you move on to the next idea. Don’t shortchange yourself because you’re afraid you won’t be able to bring this idea to fruition.” For the first time in my life, someone besides Daisy, actually believes in me. I can see it in his eyes. He’s determined to make this work for me. For so long, I’ve sat on the sidelines, waiting for my chance, begging for this opportunity, and when it’s finally here, I need reassurance from the one man who’s brought me back down to reality to tell me to dream big. And in his own words, that’s what he’s doing right now. He’s telling me to dream big. Fuck . . . he’s telling me, no, he’s encouraging me to prove my existence. If that isn’t a slap to the testicles, I don’t know what is. DAISY “I think that’s the last of it.” Matt stands tall and wipes his brow. “Not to be a dick, Daisy, but I don’t think one single person should have that many boxes of craft supplies.” Taking in the small living room, I smile to myself. “You never know what kind of spark of creativity you’ll have on any given day. You have to be prepared, Matt.” “You have one entire box labeled felt fabric.” “Yes, and when I make you a genuine, from-the-heart“Life isn’t some walk in the park where you can make wishes on dandelions. Life is work. Life is a journey of triumphs and sorrows. Of successes and failures. Of learning experiences and growing opportunities. You can’t sit back and expect different results when you’re not doing anything to change.” Broncos pennant for Christmas, you’re going to be thankful you carried that box up here.” “I’m holding you to that.” He points at me with a smile and then wraps his arm around Amanda. “Are you sure about this, Daisy?” I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life. “Yes. It’s time we put our threesome to rest.” “Words every man hates to hear,” Matt teases, garnering a playful swat from Amanda. “Seriously, are you going to be okay?” “There is only one way to find out.” Picking up a crocheted throw pillow, I toss it at Amanda and say, “Now, help me unpack, I can’t possibly live in this squalor.” “Um, pretty sure we were promised pizza,” she says, a hand to her hip. “Yeah, I remember that being part of the deal,” Matt chimes in. “And after all that heavy lifting, I’m feeling weak. I need to be fed and watered.” Rolling my eyes, I set down the box I was going to start unpacking and get my phone. “Sausage and pepper good for everyone?” “And mushrooms,” Matt adds. “And some breadsticks,” Amanda says. “Hey,” I point my phone at her, “breadsticks weren’t part of the deal.” “Neither were three flights of stairs. Get the breadsticks.” She’s playful, but stern.

“Fine.” “Oh.” Matt flops on my grams’s couch we brought out from storage. “Order from one of the Papa Johns Peyton Manning franchises.” “Why?” My brow furrows in question “Makes it more special, knowing I’m dining from a Peyton Manning approved pizzeria.” “That’s ridiculous.” I pause. “But I respect it.” “That’s my girl.” Matt laughs. “I taught you well.” Calling out to Amanda who started unpacking now that the pizza is being ordered, he says, “Honey, we can send her off into the real world now. She’s armed with all the tools she’ll need.” Sarcastically, Amanda responds, “By using Peyton Manning as a scale of acceptable things? Yeah, she’s ready for the real world.” “Damn right she is.” Darn right, I am. HOLLYN Just a few more rocks, a few more moments. I count down the minutes until the clock hits four thirty. They were supposed to be here, but they’re late. All I need is just a little bit longer to soak in every last moment with him. Rocking back and forth, I hold my head in my hands, letting my body sink into his. Four thirty-two. Two extra minutes with his scent, with his essence. Two more minutes than I thought I had. Two more minutes that make me second-guess my decision. I can’t do this. I can’t give this up. There is a brisk knock at the door. No. Nausea rolls through my stomach, my mouth starts to water, and tears form in my eyes. It’s time. Lifting my chin and pushing back my shoulders, I take one last rock, one last smell, and then go to open the door with a shaky, unsure hand. “Hollyn?” the kind gentleman asks, who’s accompanied by his husband. Greg and Jeremy. They messaged me yesterday, wanting to come look at Eric’s chair. They were just married and are trying to fill their apartment. Eric’s recliner is exactly what they were looking for in their living room, and according to them, it will fit perfectly with the rest of their furniture. When I put Eric’s recliner on Craigslist yesterday, I wasn’t expecting it to sell so soon. I was hoping for a few more nights in it, a few more days where I can picture him drinking a beer, watching a game, and reclining. But soon, that memory will be stripped from me like all the others. Deep breaths. One step at a time. “Yes. You must be Jeremy and Greg. Please come in.” With a wave of my hand, I welcome the two men into my home. “Jer, it’s perfect,” Greg says, eyeing the recliner. “We are going to have a hard time fighting over it.” “Nu-uh.” Jeremy waves his finger adoringly at his husband. “This is my chair. You promised me a recliner when we got that paisley couch from the elderly woman down the street. This is my chair.” Shaking his head, Greg turns to me with a smile. “As you can tell, the chair will be well loved.”

Lips pressed together, eyes burning, I try to hold it together but there is no use, my emotions get the best of me. “I’m sorry.” I dab at my eyes. “Are you okay?” Jeremy asks, pressing his hand against my arm tenderly. “Yeah, just a tough day for me. The chair belonged to my late husband.” “Oh my gosh, I don’t think we can take it from you.” Greg saddles up to me. “No.” I shake my head. “You have to. I’m trying to move forward. This is one of the steps. Please take the chair and love it like my husband did. Make sure to only cheer for the Broncos while sitting in it,” I joke despite the falling tears. “I wouldn’t dare root for any other team,” Jeremy reassures me with a hug, easing my breaking heart. CARTER “Dude, you’re kidding me with this sandwich, right?” Fitzy talks with his mouth full, sauce dripping from the side of his lips. “What do you mean?” I’m wiping off my hands and waiting for the verdict. “I’m about to explode from taste testing, but I can’t stop eating this. Who knew meatloaf could be so damn good.” He takes another bite and moans as he chews. “This is my favorite.” “More than the Black Friday meatloaf sandwich?” Personally, that one is a close favorite since it’s made with ground turkey, apples, celery, and stuffing with a cranberry sauce and fried green beans on top. “Oh fuck, I forgot about the Black Friday.” Staring down at his Mama Will Burn Your Ass Meatloaf Sandwich, he wavers between his favorite. “I don’t know, man. This one has jalapenos in it and bacon jam. But the Black Friday, that’s just Thanksgiving between two toasted brioche buns.” Throwing his hands up in the air, he says, “I can’t decide. They’re all good.” There’s still one I haven’t shown him yet because once I tell him what it is, he’ll call me a cheese dick, and I’m not ready for that. But it tops the Black Friday, easily. Reminiscent of the Breaking Bad drink at Prohibition, it’s a cranberry meatloaf, topped with an orange marmalade and an oatmeal base. I’ve spent countless hours perfecting the recipe until I thought it would do her justice. “I’m in,” Fitzy says, mouth full again. “I’m so fucking in.” “Really?” I ask. Could this really be happening? “Yeah, dude. Even before this taste testing I would have been in. I just wanted some free food. I believe in you, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to invest in your future.” “So you made me make all these sandwiches for you for nothing?” “Not for nothing. I don’t have to worry about dinner now.” With a shake of my head, I say, “You’re a dick.” Eyebrows raised, he pats his mouth. “And here I was just about to give you five thousand dollars.” “You can still be a dick and give me the money.” I smirk. “I don’t know if I like this new side of you.” Fitzy motions at my body with his finger. “What side of me?” “The non-depressed, there’s-hope-for-my-future side. He smiles too damn much. It can’t just be from your new adventure. Did you finally get the girl back and not tell me?” “No.” I turn toward the sink and start washing my dishes. I’m determined, though. “Not yet, but soon.”

JACE I rub my hands on my thighs for the hundredth time, the polyester of my baseball pants starting to chafe my skin. The locker room is cleared, the rest of the team is out at batting practice, and since I took some balls in the cages next to the dugout earlier, Coach is cutting me a break to get my shit together, as he so eloquently put it. He’s been understanding through this entire journey, but I’m sure he’s ready to have his shortstop back, and I’m sure as hell ready to get back to normal play again as well. I want to be able to breathe easy again. But in order to do that, I need to do a couple things, and one of them is seeing her today. Dread eats me alive as I sit in a hunched posture in the cubby of my locker. There is an ache in the back of my throat. Footsteps sound in the hallway; Earl, our clubhouse manager’s voice echoing off the walls as they near. This is it. I have my speech prepared, and I’ve gathered all the damn courage I can muster. Standing as the door opens, I take my hat off when I see June walk through, Alex follwing closely behind her with a stroller. My stomach drops to the floor, my heartbeat picks up a few notches, and my mouth immediately goes dry. Yep, all the moisture in my body has gone straight to my eyes. “Jace, it’s so great to see you.” June doesn’t bother shaking my hand; she goes straight for a hug. Her arms wrap around me tightly, her head to my chest, and I’m transported into a realm of comfort. This is the kind of a hug a mom would give. “Hey, June. It’s good to see you as well. You’re looking well.” “Thank you, Hope has been sleeping better at night. It’s been very nice for the bags under our eyes,” she jokes. “I bet.” Looking at Alex, I reach for her and she quickly gives me a hug, not as affectionate as June, but loving nonetheless. “Alex, you’re looking good as well.” “Thank you.” Eyeing my uniform, she asks, “Ready for the game? That batting average needs a little lift.” She winks at me, and I soak in her playful charm. “Yeah, got some good hits in already this morning. I’m ready.” Eyeing the stroller, I ask, “How’s she doing?” “Great. Would you like to hold her?” This is why they’re here, so I can better adapt to this empty hole in my soul, so I can face the decision I made and accept it. Swallowing hard, I nod, wiping my hands on my pants one more time. Rounding the stroller, June starts unbuckling her and then reaches down. When she lifts up, a tiny little girl comes with her, wearing a bright red bow in her hair and . . . Fuck, my heart stops beating. A tingling wave of numbness rides up my legs, and the tears I was holding back instantly fall. In June’s arms is Hope, perfectly little, wearing a Jace Barnes T-shirt jersey. “Christ,” I mutter, stepping forward, a wobble in my legs. “She’s so beautiful.” “Here.” June hands her over, carefully placing her head in the crook of my arm, my unsteady hands framing her little body. Moving to one of the couches in the clubhouse, I sit down, my eyes fixed on Hope, her eyes trained on

mine, tears of mine falling on her shirt. “Hi, pretty lady.” She smiles up at me and coos the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. “You got some amazing moms, you know that?” I glance up at June and Alex who are both crying, while June takes pictures on her phone. I move my finger into her tiny hand and she grips it tightly, the squeeze like a bolt of lightning straight to my heart. “You got quite the grip there, sweet pea.” “Maybe she’ll be a ballplayer, too,” Alex suggests. “She has the genes.” “Maybe.” I smile. “She’s so full of life, so happy.” Hope smiles some more, her eyes focusing on my hat. “You want to wear my hat?” I take it off and place it gently over her head and the bow. It’s entirely too big on her but she still looks like the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen. “This is such a special moment to us,” June says between wiping happy tears off her cheeks. “We want you to have a relationship with her Jace, Rebecca too. We’re a family.” A family. My chest tightens from the thought of being included in this beautiful little trio. A family—what I craved most growing up. Sleeping in my cold bed, wondering if the next day would be the day someone would come and adopt me, hoping and praying that one day, I would have a set of parents who loved me. I’ve craved this, and they’re handing it to me on a silver platter. “You really want me to be a part of your life? Isn’t that going to be confusing for Hope?” “Not unless we make it confusing.” Alex steps in and squats down to my level. “Jace, you’re her birth father, if you want to have a relationship with Hope, then we want you to have one as well. Same with Rebecca. You both did the most selfless thing possible, you brought joy to our lives, you gave us Hope.” I can’t help but see the double meaning in that sentence. You gave us Hope. Little do they know, they’re the ones who actually gave me hope. DAISY “Done!” I raise my hands in the air and bounce on my toes, eyeing my creation. Nailed it. I so nailed it. “This wasn’t timed,” Mary Fran says as she leans over the counter to check out my Banana Split Bundt Cake. The last few days have been spent in my very own—rented—kitchen, working on the perfect recipe to showcase at my interview with local baker, Mary Fran, the goddess who owns Squeeze Bundt, which is next to the Colorado Miners stadium. Matt was telling me the team is always ordering from Mary Fran, and they’re actually thinking about putting a mini kiosk of Squeeze Bundt in the stadium during games. When I talked to Mary Fran, who said she was looking for help, I had no problem dropping Matt’s name. I wanted to do this on my own, but I’m not so prideful that I wouldn’t give myself an edge. My dad’s money is only going to last for so long and getting a job is the final step of becoming that confident, self-sufficient woman in the mirror. “Tell me what you made me.” Gladly. Moving the plate closer to her, I spin it around so she can see all sides and tell her exactly what’s inside. “This is my Banana Split Bundt Cake. It has a banana cake base, chocolate chips and strawberries inside, with a vanilla and chocolate fudge icing, topped with chopped nuts, rosettes of whip cream, and

cherries.” I hand her a fork. “Enjoy.” “I’m impressed, Daisy. Did you come up with this recipe on your own?” “My grams and I loved making Bundt cakes. We tried every recipe we came across and then started coming up with our own. This was one of my favorites.” She nods and dips her fork into the moist—yes, I said moist—cake. I wait on bated breath for her reaction, an adrenaline rush pumping through my veins. She has to like it; there’s no doubt in my mind she’ll like it. The question is, will she like it enough to hire me? As she chews, her eyes close briefly, and I take that as a good sign. Practically bouncing off the walls, I clasp my hands in front of my chest. “What do you think?” She set the fork down and gives me a smile. “When can you start?” “Really?” I squeal and launch myself into Mary Fran’s arms. “Are you serious?” I shake the poor woman up and down as I hug her. Stilling my shoulders, she gives us some space and laughs. “I’m serious. You have exactly what I’m looking for. We might have to work on our personal space, but I think you’re going to be the perfect addition.” “Oh gosh, this is so exciting. Grams is going to drop dead from elation when I tell her. When can I start?” “I asked you that same question.” The humor in Mary Fran’s voice reassures me that we’re going to get along just fine. “Anytime. I’m free whenever.” I’m way too eager right now, but I don’t care, as this is my first job. My first ever job. Gah, someone is going to pay me to bake all day. How did I get so lucky? If this isn’t proving my existence, then I don’t know what is. It’s moments like these that I wish I still had my friend. I wish I could share it with Carter. HOLLYN Wine in one hand, my phone in the other, my mind telling me to do one thing, my heart telling me to do another. With my legs propped up on my newly purchased nursing books for the classes I start this summer, my finger hits the button it’s been hovering over, his voice filling my dark, and semi-empty apartment. “Hey, Twigs, picking up pizza now. I’ll be home in ten. You better be naked, you promised me a naked pizza party. Love you.” Tears. I rest my head on the back of the couch. “Remember the day I found a German Shepherd in a cornfield and you wanted to keep it? You named him Cob. I kind of wish we did keep him. Cob would have been a fine addition to our little family, even if his farts were deathly.” The deep timber of his voice . . .that voice, I miss it so much. It used to lull me to sleep when I wasn’t feeling good, or excite me about something new in my life. In the bedroom, or anywhere for that matter, just a whisper from those beautifully handsome lips would turn me on.

“Twigs, can you make dinner tonight? I’m going to be late. Grilled cheese and soup sounds amazing. P.S. I’m going to need some serious snuggle time with you. I miss you hard.” Eyes to the ceiling. More tears. I try to catch my breath. I miss you hard. “I miss you hard, too, Eric.” My lip trembles as I scroll down to his very last message, the one message that has broken my heart time and time again. “I’m sorry about our fight, Twigs. Please don’t be mad at me. When I get home, I want to talk some more. Until then, know I love you with all my heart.” It’s so hard to breathe. “I will always love you with all of my heart, Eric,” I say between sobs. “But I have to live.” Thinking about Jace, I continue, “You always said you want me to be happy, no matter what. Well, for a brief moment, Jace made me happy. I was just too scared to fully let him in. I think I’m ready to let that happen now.” I exit out of the app and press down on it. Each app on my phone starts to dance with little “Xs” in the top right corner. “A part of me believes you brought Jace to me, to help me finally get over this last hump. The fact that you did it in baseball form will not go unnoticed.” Taking a deep breath, I glance up at his urn that rests on my mantel. Garnering strength from him, I say, “I’m ready to live again, but please, Eric, please know that you will forever be in my heart. And when my time comes, you better be waiting for me, tossing a football and wearing that sexy smirk of yours.” Choking on a sob, I look at my phone. “I love you so hard, Eric. Always.” And with one last exhale, I press the X on my Voxer app, deleting his voice forever. Everything around me fades as my actions sink in. His clothes have been donated, besides three items I couldn’t get rid of, his jersey being one of them. His cherished items around the house, all donated to people on Craigslist looking for a new start. His voice recordings, now a distant memory. My heart is broken and battered, but a weight is lifting off my shoulders. It’s time. Time to embrace the new beginning in front of me. Wiping my tears, I put my plan into action. The phone rings twice before he picks up. “Hollyn, what’s up?” Taking a deep breath, I say, “Matt, I need a favor.” CARTER I’ve been through a lot in my life. My parents were heroin addicts, overdosing and killing themselves from their own stupidity. Having to move in with my uncle who I thought resented me my entire life. Facing his unconventional way of parenting and emerging from that. All that seems like a cakewalk compared to what I’m about to do next. I straighten my leather jacket and stop dicking around. I knock on the door in front of me, hoping and praying she isn’t home. I wait a few seconds before Amanda opens the door to me, and yeah, not surprised to see that scowl. “Daisy doesn’t live here anymore and even if she did, I wouldn’t let you in.” That welcome I expected. What I wasn’t expecting was Daisy living somewhere else. I can’t help but feel a little proud. She’s doing it. She’s living. Damn, I wish I’d been there to see her when she moved into her first place.

“That’s fair,” I answer a seething Amanda. “Can we talk?” “Why on earth would I want to talk to you? Do you know what you did to that girl? You broke her heart . . . you, you jerk face.” And yes, they are definitely related. But even with the insult, the meaning of it all is what burns me. I broke her heart. Breaking my Snowflake’s heart, fuck, it destroys me because she deserves so much better than that, especially by me. “Listen, Amanda. I know I’m not your favorite person—” “You got that right.” Sighing, I continue, “I’m not my favorite person either.” “Well.” She leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. “At least we have something in common.” “I think we have a lot more in common than you think.” Taking a deep breath, I get on with it. “I love her, Amanda. It took me a little bit to actually realize it, because as you put it so eloquently, I’m a jerk face, but I know it now and want to do something about it.” Need. To. “What about that other girl with the long legs? Where does she stand?” “Far away from me as possible. Nothing happened with her once I met Daisy. She’s done.” “How can I believe you?” I knew she was going to ask something like that, so I reach into my back pocket and pull out a menu. I hold it out to her and point to the top sandwich. “That’s how.” Amanda takes a few minutes to read it and when she’s done, she plays it cool. I know this by the way her lip slightly quivers but everything else stays still. “Okay, what do you want from me?” Just what I was hoping for. “I need to be re-invited to your wedding.” Lips pressed together, she takes a moment to decide, then she nods her head. “I think we can make that happen.” JACE “Is she in there?” I ask Ethan who just popped out of a corporate suite, freshly showered after the game we just won. Going three for four and hitting a homerun has lifted my spirits and hope for the next phase in this plan. I just hope it goes as well as the game did. “She is.” Ethan looks toward the door and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know, man. I don’t know if this is going to work.” “It has to.” I lean in to Ethan so June and Alex, who are a few feet behind, can’t hear me. “It’s our only chance of making sure June and Alex are protected.” “Okay. Good luck.” He pats me on the shoulder in a brotherly manner and steps aside, giving me access to the room. Stay calm, don’t yell, and whatever she says, speak rationally. Yelling is going to get you nowhere. Palms clenched, I pad across the floor. Opening the door to the suite, I’m greeted by a grand view of the stadium, a well-manicured dining space, and a lonesome Rebecca sitting in one of the high-top seats. When she turns to see who walked in, her face falls flat. Looking around, she asks, “What are you doing here?”

This is it, Jace. You can handle this. Speaking calmly, I ask, “May I sit down?” “Sure . . .” She sounds skeptical. “Can I ask you a question?” “I guess so.” I prop my folded hands on the table and speak in calming tones. “When you came to my apartment to tell me you were pregnant and that you weren’t going to keep the baby, what was going through your mind?” “What do you mean?” She shifts in her chair, leaning back and crossing her arms. She’s already on the defensive. “What brought you to the point that you knew I was your only option?” She shrugs and looks down at the ground. “I don’t know. I guess I was in a bad place. I wasn’t really sure how I would be able to provide for the baby. I wasn’t really ready to be a mom. I want to go back to school at some point, not just be a bartender for the rest of my life. It just seemed like too much.” I nod. “I can understand that. Having a kid is a great responsibility, and if you’re not fully invested in raising that child, you’re only doing it a disservice. People should only be allowed to have children when they’re truly mentally ready, because being mentally healthy for your child is one of the best gifts you can give them besides love.” “I agree. That’s why I went to you, because I knew I wasn’t all the way there.” “That was very brave of you,” I add. “Can I ask you another question?” “Sure.” She sits up a little more now, engaged in our conversation—less defensive. “What’s changed since then? Have you started school? Have you found a new place? Were you able to seek therapy to mentally prepare yourself for Hope?” “Well . . ., no, but,” she pauses and thinks about it, “I have Ethan now.” Gritting my teeth, I rein in the outburst that wants out with the mention of my best friend’s name. “He’s a good guy.” “He is.” “Ethan has the same job as I do, though. Right now it’s nice because we’re still in Arizona for our spring training games, but our season opener in Colorado is in a few days. If you get Hope back, how are you going to take care of her if you still have to go back to work? Are you ready to take care of an infant all by yourself, while Ethan is away?” “We can get a nanny to help,” Rebecca points out. Keep calm. Keep the fuck calm. “I had the same idea,” I say. “If I was going to keep Hope, I’d hire a full-time nanny who would stay with her while I was away, while I was playing, training, doing media interviews. It would be perfect, right?” I pause, as I really want her to think about what I’m saying. “But, I wouldn’t be raising her. I would be a stranger walking in and out of her nursery at night, which doesn’t feel perfect to me. I grew up without parents, Rebecca, so I know what it’s like to not have anyone around. I didn’t want that for our baby, I still don’t want that for her. Do you? Do you want her to have absent parents?” Looking out to the field, her eyes begin to water. One single tear rolls down her cheek and she quickly wipes it away. We used to be friends. It’s hard to see that now. “No, of course I don’t want that, Jace. I

wasn’t ready, and even though I still don’t feel ready, I feel so guilty. I carried her for nine months, and was terrified, almost resentful, and for that I felt guilty. Don’t all women want their babies? What was wrong with me that I didn’t want her?” She looks away from me then, and I feel for her struggling with the weight of guilt. Been there. And I don’t know the answer to her question. I never didn’t want Hope, though. Even after only having two and a half months to work through the shock, I just knew I wasn’t her best option. After taking another deep breath, she turns back and says, “When I told you about her, I hoped I would still have a chance to see her, and that when I got my shit together, I could participate in her life. I didn’t think you were going to ship her off to someone else.” “I didn’t ship her off, Rebecca. I spent weeks researching, hours upon hours looking through profiles, searching for the right home. The perfect home. I placed her with a loving couple. June and Alex are wonderful women with hearts of gold, and were born to be mothers. They have taken in this tiny baby and given her a home. They’ve spent sleepless nights rocking her, feeding her, caring for her. They’ve fallen in love with her, and if you follow through with this lawsuit, you are going to crush them. They’ve already had a few failed adoptions, and this is their last shot. They have nothing left in them if Hope is taken away.” “But she’s my daughter.” “That she is, and as her mother, you should see the value in the gift we’re giving her. We’re giving her the chance to thrive in the most positive and loving environment we could ever give. Know what the best part is?” “What?” She wipes away another tear. “Alex and June want us in her life.” “What?” Rebecca sits up, her hands on the table now. “Yes, they dearly want an open-adoption which can include visitation rights.” “With me, too?” I nod. Rebecca is changing her attitude. Just a little more. “With you, too. They understand the sacrifice we’ve both made and even though June and Alex will be Hope’s parents, we can be right there next to them, cheering, and helping in any way possible. They want us all to be a family. A family by heart, rather than blood.” “A family by heart,” she whispers. “They’d be willing to do that?” “Why don’t you ask them for yourself?” Not wanting to lose momentum, I open the door to the suite and motion for June and Alex to come in with Hope. Immediately Rebecca’s hands go to her mouth in shock, her limbs trembling as she stands to greet June and Alex. “Hi, Rebecca, my name is June.” She steps close and without notice, wraps Rebecca in one of her classic June hugs. “I want to say thank you so much for the bravery you’ve shown over the last few months. You’ve given us more than we could ever ask for.” Hesitant at first, Rebecca hugs June back. “Do you really want me to be involved?” June pulls Rebecca away and holds her at arm’s length. “We want you both involved as much as possible. It takes a community to raise a child. Why not have a tight-knit one?” The next hour is spent fawning over Hope, talking about the first few months of her life, and her little emerging personality traits. Our little band of June, Alex, Rebecca, Ethan, and me is an eclectic group of

individuals with one common interest—giving Hope the best life possible. From the promises on everyone’s faces in this room, I know that’s exactly what’s going to happen. A family, finally. HOLLYN “I need Cracker Jacks. I can’t do this without Cracker Jacks.” “You do not want Cracker Jacks,” Amanda says, not letting me up from my seat. “They’re going to get stuck in your teeth, and it won’t be pretty.” “Beer, then. Get me a beer.” “No beer.” She shoves a water bottle in my direction. “Beer will lead to beer breath, which is just ripe and nasty, and no one wants that.” “How is water supposed to calm my nerves?” “Pretend it’s vodka. A little imagination can go a long way.” Amanda looks to the field and taps her foot. “God, what’s taking them so damn long? This is torture.” “Torture? You’re not the one putting yourself out there. You’re just here for the ride.” “True, but I have to watch it, and that’s just as nerve-wracking.” “That’s not even close to being true.” I’m about to lecture her about the difference when the crowd erupts into cheers and the Miners start trickling out of the dugout. “Oh my God, they’re coming, they’re coming,” Amanda shouts, lifting me out of my seat by the arm and jumping up and down. “Can you not say they’re coming? It sounds like you’re saying the whole team is ejaculating together.” “Gah, get your mind out of the gutter. Oh look, there he is.” She points at Jace who is using a rubber band to stretch his hamstrings on the outfield turf. “Look at those strong arms just holding the giant rubber band. Yowza. And you had sex with those arms.” “Shut up.” I swat at Amanda. “Can you not say that out loud? I don’t need the entire stadium hearing about my sexual encounters.” “Don’t call it sexual encounters.” Lifting her arm, she squeals, “Yoo-hoo, Jace.” I quickly slap my hand over her mouth. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Prying my hand off her face, she answers, “Getting things going. Honestly, what did you think was going to happen when you brought me with you?” “I don’t know, sit quietly and just offer moral support?” She shakes her head at me and pats my cheek. “Oh, sweet Hollyn, when has that ever been my style? I’m a meddler.” With one more pat to the cheek, she shouts, “Hey, Jace. Look over here.” We are sitting at field level, right along the low wall that borders the edge of the outfield and the infield on the first-base line. Seats are courtesy of Matt since it would have been impossible to score such seats for the season opener. One of the perks of being Amanda’s best friend. Probably the only perk right about now. “Will you stop that?” “Never. Jace! Jace Barnes. Yoo-hoo. Stop stretching and look over here.” “Oh my God.” A rapid burn hits my cheeks while my stomach flutters and rolls with each catcall she lets out. “This is so humiliating.”

“God, what does a girl have to do to get a guy to turn around? Take off my top? Matt would not be happy about that.” She snaps her finger. “I got it.” Why do I feel like I’m not going to like what she says next? “Jace! Jace Barnes, Hollyn is here to talk to you.” With my hand clasped over my face, now sitting in my seat, I peek through my eyes to see Jace snap his head around from the mention of my name. When he sees me, he drops the rubber band and stands abruptly. His trainer asks him something but Jace shakes him off and pats him on the shoulder as he walks toward us. “Stand up, stand up.” Amanda aggressively yanks on me, trying to pull me out of my chair. Reluctantly I stand, wishing this was on my own terms, but it seems like Amanda has different plans. I should have known better. Although, I am loving the sight in front of me: Jace walking toward me, his broad and tall body of perfection swaggering my way, power in each and every one of his steps. His hat is tipped low, just how he likes it. A light scruff caresses his jaw, framing its strength. And that uniform . . . It’s tailored perfectly to his body, showing off the narrow V of his waist and the muscular shape of his legs in all the right places. God, he is so sexy. Yanking on his bill, he smiles at me, filling in the last of the space between us. The crowd goes crazy with how close he is, but I block it all out, only focusing on him. “Hey.” He smirks, a new smile stealing my heart. “What are you doing here?” I’ve practiced this moment, I’ve rehearsed it, but now that I’m in the actual moment, I’m tongue-tied, unsure of what to say. “Ugh, you’re so infuriating,” Amanda says next to me as I fiddle with my hands. “She came to announce her love for you.” Okay, so not how this was supposed to go. Jace raises an eyebrow at me in question and I turn to Amanda who is beaming with pride. With a gentle nudge, I push her back down in her seat so she can no longer be a part of this conversation. “Care to explain what she means by that?” The smile on Jace’s face is so damn infectious. How do I even begin to tell him what I’ve done, what I’ve accomplished? Why did I think this was a good idea to do here? Well . . . grand gestures are always nice. “Hollyn, we’re on borrowed time.” “Yeah, okay.” Reaching out to him, I link our hands together, hoping only the people around us notice. “Remember when you said we were toxic for each other?” He nods. “I don’t think that’s true. I actually think we were brought together for a reason, like it was kismet. I needed someone to help push me through the dark hole I was burying myself in, and you needed a shoulder to lean on. I was blind at first, not truly accepting what we had because I was scared, guilty, and truly unsure if I was allowed to love again. But when you walked away, I knew at that moment, I was losing another love of my life, but that time, I was making the decision to let you go.” His hands squeeze mine, reassuring me to continue. “That was a pivotal moment for me, Jace, because I knew I wanted you, I needed you, but I had to move on from my past first in order to fully be with you. To live. If I was going to let my heart fall for another man, I was not going to half-ass it. I wanted to be all in.” Looking down at me from under his bill, he asks, “And are you, are you all in?” Matching his bright smile, I nod. “I’m all in, Jace.” My hands reach up to his face, while his wrap around my waist and pull me into his body. “I love you, Jace, with everything in me. I love you.”

“Music to my fucking ears.” Pressing his lips against mine, we kiss. Naturally, the crowd around us cheers, and a few groupies boo, but I’ll take that as a compliment. When he pulls away, he asks, “You know what you just did, right? You just made us the news for the next few weeks.” Shrugging, I say, “Let them talk. I go in for another kiss, but Jace stops me, forcing my eyes to his. “I have to know, Hollyn, are you going to stay for the whole game?” “I’m staying for everything, Jace.” And I mean that . . .everything. His smile touches me deep in my soul, awakening things I thought I’d lost forever: passion, love, yearning. They are all for this man who has renewed my spirit and helped me find love once again. “Good.” Searching my eyes, he says, “I love you, Hollyn, so damn much. Looks like our timelines were only a little off.” “Sometimes we all need a little more time to prove our existence.” “I guess so, but damn, was it worth it.” Sweeping me in closer to him again, he takes my lips with his, ignoring the catcalls from his teammates, his coach yelling from the dugout, and the fans around us chanting Jace’s name. In this moment, it’s just him and me, and the new life we’re about to embark on. DAISY “Just the sisters, please,” the photographer says, motioning with her camera. “That’s us.” Amanda links her arm through mine and moves our bodies in front of the beautiful mountain backdrop behind us. The entire wedding has been something out of a fairy tale. Amanda looks so beautiful, it’s hard not to stare at her. The look on Matt’s face when he saw her walk down the aisle—priceless. His expression was the epitome of the happiest man on the planet, so genuine, so joyful. It is a moment I’ll never forget. Makes my little romantic heart go pitter-patter. “Careful, I don’t want to step on your dress,” I say to Amanda who is yanking on me. “Oh, who cares? Matt has stepped on it at least ten times already. Now get close and smile, this is a treasured moment I want to keep forever.” With our bouquets in front of us, we pose together, our heads connecting, our arms wrapped around each other’s waists. When Grams initially moved into the senior community center, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to me, or how I was going to handle being out in the world by myself, but Amanda came along and has been my guardian angel, guiding me in all the right directions, making sure I had a chance to see the world. Feeling emotional, I say, “Thank you for everything, Amanda. You don’t know how much being your sister has meant to me.” “Are you trying to make me cry?” “No.” I laugh. “I just want you to know you mean a lot to me.” “You mean a lot to me, too, Daisy. I’m so grateful you’re able to celebrate this day with me.” Her eyes cast to something behind me, her expression changing for a second before she focuses back on me. Pulling me into a hug, she says, “I love you, remember that when you turn around.”

“What?” I ask, confused. But before I can get answers, she spins me around so I’m facing Carter. Carter! Carter in a black suit, white dress shirt, and black skinny tie. His clothes are practically painted on his skin. His hair is stylishly combed to the side, a light beard now gracing his jaw. And those dark eyes, eating me alive with their intensity. The feelings I thought I’d recovered from a while ago come flying back full force with one sighting. Leaning over my shoulder, Amanda speaks into my ear, “Just hear him out.” “What?” I turn to Amanda to ask more, but it’s too late, Carter is now standing directly in front of me. “Hey, Snowflake.” Caught off guard, I don’t know what else to say, so I just blurt something out, “Why are you here? You were uninvited.” “Amanda re-invited me.” “No, she didn’t, she wouldn’t do that.” Turning back to Amanda, who is trying to listen in, I say, “You wouldn’t do that, would you?” “I kind of did.” Guilt is written all over her face. “Why? Why—” “Daisy, can we go somewhere else to talk?” Facing Carter, I shake my head. “No, we can’t go somewhere to talk. Why on earth would I want to talk to you?” “Yes, she can talk,” Amanda cuts in. “She’s all done with pictures.” “Amanda.” “Don’t Amanda me. This is my wedding day. If I tell you to go talk with Carter so he can tell you he was an idiot, then go talk to him. Don’t make me tell you twice.” The bride has spoken. Looks like I have no other choice than to listen to Carter. “Fine.” Lifting up my dress so it doesn’t drag on the earthy terrain, I start walking toward the venue when Carter gently pulls on my arm. “This way, actually. I have something to say to you and show you.” Irritated, I huff my way next to him while mumbling, “This is so inappropriate. The last thing I want to do right now is talk to you. I’m only doing this because Amanda said to. If it was my option, you would be sitting on a bus back to Denver, gnawing on your own shoe because I would refuse you any and all food from the venue despite the long trip you might have taken to get here.” “Are you done?” he asks when we stop by a bunch of bushes. “Hey, are you being mean to me?” “No.” He holds up his hands. “Never.” “Good.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I lift my chin and avoid all eye contact. “Go on, say what you need to say so I can go back to the party and get my drink on.” Exhaling loudly, he turns me so I’m facing him and then with a gentle touch, he forces me to look at him. “Daisy, that morning when Sasha turned up, it was the worst thing I could have ever done. Not stopping you from leaving. The minute you walked out that door, you took my heart with you, but I was just too damn scared to admit it.” Why am I listening intently? Maybe because I still love him and I wish he loved me back.

“God.” He wipes his hand over his face. “It’s impossible for me to get my words straight with you in that dress. You’re just . . . you’re so damn beautiful, Daisy.” Darn him and his stupid flattering words. Shyly, I thank him. From the minute I put this dress on, I wanted him to see me in it. And from his reaction right now, I’m glad he had the chance, because it’s worth this awkward conversation. “Nothing happened with Sasha, nothing could, not when I’m so desperately in love with you.” My heart starts pounding like a drum, my pulse skyrocketing, and the smile on my face brightens—there is no stopping it. Carter’s in love with me? “You took me by surprise, Snowflake. When I showed up at Dear Life, I wasn’t expecting to meet someone so unconventional who took my breath away, who had such an addicting thirst for life. But I did, and you stole my heart with every quirky turtleneck and conversation about crafts. You brought light into my dull and aching life. You gave me a purpose, you gave me love, the one emotion I’ve never felt with anyone else.” Taking my hands, he brings me in closer. “I love you, Daisy. I don’t want to keep walking on this earth without you by my side. Please tell me I don’t have to.” Darn it, he’s ruining my makeup. Gently, his hand cups my face and wipes away my tears. “Do you need more convincing?” he asks. Not waiting for me to answer, he brings us around the bushes where a food truck is parked by the sidewalk. It’s bright red with a large comment bubble coming from the ordering window. Inside, it reads, “Ma, the meatloaf!” “What is this? And what does Ma, the meatloaf mean?” Chuckling, he pulls me in front of his chest and wraps his arms around my waist. “This, Snowflake, is my food truck. I specialize in making different types of meatloaf sandwiches. And Ma, the meatloaf is from Wedding Crashers, the movie.” “You have your own food truck?” I ask in awe. “What about your uncle?” “He helped co-sign so I could get it. We worked out our differences and he told me what a dickhead I was for letting you go, because even he saw the changes you made in me.” Gripping me tighter, he leans down into my ear and says, “You make me a better man, Daisy.” Pointing to the sandwich at the very top, he reads it out loud to me. “My number one sandwich is for you. I called it Daisy Owns My Heart. It’s a play on the first drink we ever had together with cranberries and oranges. I chose meatloaf because hell, I couldn’t think of anything else that would make me happy to cook. Everything about this truck is about you. You’ve influenced my life in such a short period of time that I had to have you be a part of it, if anything, just so I could hold on to what was left between us.” “I can’t believe you have a food truck.” “Is that a good thing?” Turning around, I let him embrace me. “It’s a great thing, Carter. I’m so proud of you.” His face breaks out in a large smile and everything inside me melts. I might have been mad at him, but I can’t stay mad forever. I love him. I went to Dear Life to experience life and I found a warm, loving man with so much love to give, but he didn’t know it at the time. It doesn’t seem like he has that problem anymore. “You really love me?” I ask him, needing to hear it one more time. “I really love you, Daisy.” “Would it be okay if I said, I love you, too?” Laughing, he answers, “It would be completely fine.”

“Good.” Standing on my tiptoes, I kiss his jaw. “I love you, Carter. I guess this means the groomsmen I had lined up to take me home are going to be disappointed,” I joke. “Not funny, Snowflake. You’re only going home with one man, and that’s me.” “Are we going to ride into the sunset in your meatloaf wagon?” “Hey, meatloaf is what brought us together at first, so it only seems fitting.” “So romantic,” I sigh, right before Carter tilts my chin up and presses his lips to mine. This right here, this is what experiencing life is all about: living, learning, and loving each moment. I’m one lucky girl to be able to spend it with this man who swept me off my feet with one broody glance. *** Dear Life, I once blamed you for making me a widow at such a young age. I tore you apart for tearing me apart. I swore at you every day, hating what you did to me, giving me such heartache. But as I write this letter, my shoulder pressing against Jace’s, I get it. Life isn’t always about the good; it’s about the trials and tribulations and how you come back from them. I thought I lost everything when Eric passed. I cowered away from what you had to offer because I was too scared to put myself out there again. Now I’m glad I did because the joy I feel being in Jace’s life eclipses the pain I once felt from losing Eric. I will always remember, love, and reminisce about him, but he’s my past, and I’m now focusing on my future. I’m proving my existence. Sincerely, Hollyn. Dear Life, Singin’ in the Rain is one of my favorite musicals of all time, not just because the tap dancing is mesmerizing and the vocals are exquisite, but because the backstory of the making of the movie resonates with me. Debbie Reynolds was the underdog coming in when it came to dancing. Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor were magicians when it came to tapping, leaving Debbie behind, having to practice over and over again until her feet were bleeding. Everyone knew she was the underdog, and even Gene Kelly made a comment saying her dancing wasn’t up to par. But then a white knight came along. Fred Astaire guided her, helped her, and gave her the confidence and opportunity to succeed. Carter is my Fred Astaire. Without him, I don’t think I would have succeeded in this program. I don’t know if I would have been able to continue to step out of my comfort zone and become that woman in the mirror. But I have. I’m her. I’m vivacious, outgoing, assertive, and able to live, truly, from the depths of my body, live. It’s never too late to learn how to live, and I’m just glad I started now. Sincerely,

Daisy Dear Life, You gave me a daughter when I couldn’t take care of her. You gave me a love when she wasn’t ready. You gave me an indecisive baby mama who put me through hell and back. You gave me a lying best friend who would do just about anything to protect the woman he loves. You gave me two strangers with kind and warm hearts. Weirdly if you add it all up, what you really gave me is a family, and for that, I will forever be grateful. Jace Dear Life, Thank you. Carter Dear Life, January 11, 2016, was a pivotal day for me. At the time, I was blind to the meaning of it all, not sure why you would throw me for such a loop when my wife and I were trying to adopt a baby. Why you would take away something so meaningful to me, something I enjoyed and took pride in. I didn’t get it. January 11, 2016, I was let go from my job, for reasons I still don’t understand. Probably for reasons I will never understand. Driving home that day, a box full of my belongings in the back of my car, all I could do was cry and think about how ashamed, embarrassed, angry, and upset I felt. I experienced every bitter emotion you could conjure up. I curled up on my couch and waited for my wife to get home, only to cry onto her shoulder while she held me, never letting go until I was ready. Unsure of our future, our adoption chances, with a few adoption misses already under our belt, I dove head first into becoming a full-time author, hoping and praying it worked out for me, but with the worry in the back of my mind that losing my job would affect any chance we had at adopting a baby. Ten days later, ten short days later, in the midst of the release of a book, I got a phone call that would alter my world forever. It was from our adoption advisor. A birth mom in Florida picked our profile. We were expecting a baby boy in May. Those were the hardest five months of my life. I wasn’t the same person. The normally jovial, sarcastic, crazy person I am was nowhere to be found and in her place was a worrisome, numb, shell of a woman. I didn’t want to become emotionally invested, knowing there was a chance the birth mom could change her mind and we would lose everything. I will never forget that day, in the hospital, when I watched my birth mom say goodbye to her son and hand him over to me. I will never forget it. The sterile smell of the room, the

small, quiet sobs from the birth mom, the nearly silent clicking of photos, and the precious coos coming from the little boy I soon would call my son. It’s branded in my memory, forever reminding me that in this crazy, upturned world, there are still selfless people out there, making decisions that don’t necessarily benefit themselves, but instead benefit others. When I was at my lowest, I didn’t know there was a grander scheme out there for me, a bigger picture I was unable to formulate in my mind. You see, Life, I thought you took away my job just to put a fork in my road, but instead, you took away my job so I could prepare myself to be a stay-at-home, working mom. You took away my job so I can spend my days watching my little boy grow, laugh, smile, and look at me with those deep-chocolate eyes with such love that I don’t think I will ever feel more fulfilled in my life. I thought you were trying to ruin me, when in fact, you were preparing me for the next chapter in my life. You took away my job and in return made me a mommy. It’s the best job replacement I could ever ask for. So, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you. I’m forever indebted to you. Much love and boob squeezes, B>> Meghan Be kind. Be Courageous. Do good. Own you. And Prove your existence. THE END Thank you for reading DEAR LIFE. I hope you enjoyed it! You can find the rest of my books on KINDLE UNLIMITED. See below for a list. Keep flipping the pages for a SNEAK PEEK of the first chapter of my ROMANTIC COMEDY, The Mother Road. Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail list at http://www.authormeghanquinn.com/newsletter.html and receive ONE FREE KINDLE EBOOK per person. · You can also follow me on twitter at @authormegquinn, or like my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor/ Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all of my readers’ reviews. This book is lendable through Amazon’s lending program. Feel free to share it with a friend!

The Romance Novelist Series (Hilarious, laugh out loud romantic comedies) The Virgin Romance Novelist The Randy Romance Novelist Romantic Comedy Standalones (Full of heart, humor, and heat. Both heroes are sweet, yet demanding) The Mother Road Newly Exposed The Stroked Series (HOT sports romance with plenty of humor) STROKED STROKED LONG STROKED HARD The Bourbon Series (Sassy, erotic romance with a gorgeous, protective alpha male) Becoming a Jett Girl Being a Jett Girl Forever a Jett Girl Repentance The Love and Sports Series (New Adult, college football forms into professional football careers. Love triangles.) Fair Catch Double Coverage Three and Out The Hot-Lanta Series (My first series ever. Baseball sports romance with lots of drama!) Caught Looking Playing the Field Warning Track Hit and Run The Addiction Series (Rock star romance, minor cheating and love triangles. Book three still to come, Rehab.) Toxic Fame

The Warblers Point Series (Three Irish brothers, their younger sister, and the drama they get into. Love triangles. Book three still to come.) Beers, Hens and Irishmen Beers, Lies and Alibis

The Mother Road Prologue

“Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands extended, as if he wants to help. “You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me. “Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.” Let’s pause for a second; do you see those three men standing to the side, fear in their eyes, sweat at their temples, with their hands clutched at their waists and their asses tight enough to pop open a bottle of beer? Yeah, those three, they’re the reason why I’m foaming at the mouth, gripping an axe three sizes too big for my body with my heels dug deep into the wet and muddy ground. That’s me, Marley McMann, the brunette in the “rustic” orange bridesmaid dress with a bouquet sticking out of my hair and a pile of multi-colored poly-blend barf rags resting in front of me, waiting to be minced into my very own personal hamster shit shavings. I’m not usually threatening to slice the buttons off of men’s clothing with a lead shiv big enough to cut down a knotty vagina-looking sycamore tree. But I’ve had my limit. There comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to reach deep down into her soul, clear the pathways of her inner goddess, and let out her nuclear Satan. You know what I’m talking about. The crazy. Don’t try to act like you don’t have it; every woman does. Let me paint you a picture. It’s that time of the month; its shark week, as some may say. The civil war is being reenacted by your ovaries and death is scatted over your fallopian tubes. You’re crippled over in pain on your couch, half a Snickers bar hanging out of your mouth, a heating pad pressed against your innards, and a blanket wrapped around you as if you’re a cocktail wiener in a Pillsbury croissant. The Hallmark Channel is airing that Mario Lopez movie you’ve been dying to see and not because the plot looks good, but because you want to reminisce on your Saved by the Bell days. Mario is the only thing getting you through this time of need, that and the chocolate drool slowly dripping into the back of your throat. You’re content, minus the battlefield in your uterus, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, the mister in your life flops on the couch, causing a ripple within your cocoon. Your heating pad shifts and your Snickers bar falls to the ground, a travesty in itself. The swoon-worthy shot of Mario with his shirt off gets rudely switched to some stupid sporting game just as the mister lifts his ass in your direction and

blasts two large farts. Can you feel the monster start to awaken? You try to remain calm; you tell yourself it’s going to be alright, you’re life isn’t spiraling out of control into the depths of hell…until one simple crack of his knuckles rings through the room. One single pop. You lose it. Your eyelids flip inside out, fire shoots out of your vagina, and your toenails grow to exponential pterodactyl lengths. You’re at his throat, scratching his jugular with your toes until you’re satisfied enough with the human carnage you’ve turned him into. That moment right there, that’s where I’m at. In all honesty, I’m a pleasant human. I have my own beauty blog and live in sunny Los Angeles, where I pay an ass ton of money to live in a two-bedroom apartment the size of a walk-in closet, but I make it work. You know those hidden Murphy beds? I have one; be jealous. I get to work from home, test out different cosmetics, and write about them. I’ve got a pretty easygoing life, or at least I did. It all started when Paul, my older brother, decided to get married. No, this isn’t one of those stories where I talk about the evil soon to be sister-in-law and how she’s ruined my life. I actually adore Savannah; she’s perfect for my brother, minus the big eyes. I swear she blinks three times less than the average human. This is about the week leading up to my brother’s wedding…the week that I now refer to on my blog as the journey of three beards and a mascara brush. Confused? Don’t be; you will understand very quickly where I’m coming from.

Chapter One MARLEY

“Your foot is your root and your arms are your limbs. With conviction in your hearts and purpose in your spirit, plant your root, sink it into the soil of your life, and let your limbs blossom to the sky, where your spirit will soak them in tranquility. That’s right…breathe in two three and out two three. Feel the rhythm of your heart beat with the rhythm of Mother Nature.” “Why do I let you drag me to these things?” Marisa grunts from the side of her mouth. My roots are planted and my limbs are blowing in the breeze, and I’m paying no attention to Marisa grumbling next to me. “And how am I supposed to let my heart beat with Mother Nature when that bitch ruined my new suede pumps during her pissing match yesterday? When does she ever let it rain here?” “It’s called the Weather Channel,” I breathe, letting the negative vibes Marisa is shooting in my direction to roll off my body. “Try watching it.” In a calming voice, the instructor says, “In two breaths, I want you to swan dive into a front fold. On your count.” I take in two deep breaths, extend my arms out, and then dive forward until my chest is pressing against my knees. I grab the backs of my calves and feel the stretch deep within my hamstrings. I try to channel Mother Nature, speak to her mossy-like soul, but can’t seem to get on the same wave length as her. “The people in here are weird,” Marisa shout whispers, drawing attention to us. The instructor hovers near us, her magenta leggings coming into view. “Ladies, let us clear our minds. We are here to feel our auras open like a lotus flower to the power of breathing.” “The only lotus flower opening that will be happening for me is if Johnny stops by tonight. Did you see his latest Instagram picture? The boy is trying to kill me.” Every Tuesday I bring Marisa to my yoga class with me, and every Tuesday she complains about the instructor, the LuLu Lemon wrapped attendees, and then spends the rest of the class talking about Johnny, her pleasure pal. Johnny has a six pack, did you know that? Johnny is an underwear model and doesn’t stuff his briefs—believe me, I know. Johnny can munch you out like he’s a ravenous pot head seeing a box of SnackWells for the first time. Every freaking Tuesday, I am forced to hear the homage to Johnny. I get to listen about his curly cat-like tongue – sandpaper and all – his veiny penis and giant nut sac, and I mean giant, I saw a picture. Think of a three week old cantaloupe, shriveled up with a carrot poking out the top, that would be Johnny’s nut sac. He has some giant baby making balls, waiting to squirt on any lady egg that floats in his direction. “On your next breath, step your right foot back and then your left, positioning yourself into downward dog.”

Like clockwork, my body does what the instructor asks on demand. Soft dripping water and birds chime over the speakers while my mind tries to drift off, compartmentalizing Marisa’s comments to the back of my brain. “What’s that smell?” It almost feels like Marisa is sharing my mat with me, she’s so close. I peek over to see her inching closer to me, finger walking inch by inch. “Get back to your mat,” I chastise. “It smells over there, like someone ate a year old burrito and secreted it out their lady business.” “Marisa…,” my lecture is cut off by the low rumble of someone’s loins. Hanging upside down, Marisa’s eyes bug out. “See.” Lifting my head, I look around to see which yoga pant clad ass is offering the offensive odor. Being the girl that I am, I want to blame it on the petite blonde whose downward dog is so on point I want to drop kick her in the tail bone, but I know it’s not her; life isn’t that lucky. Pffffttttt… Marisa inches closer to me, making it seem like we are in the midst of a couple’s yoga session. “Marisa, you’re going to get us in trouble.” Pfffftttt… “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble, looking up again to see the lady who is directly in front of Marisa’s mat adjust her legs, shaking her butt in the air, as if she’s trying to air out a bubble that’s been trapped in her spandex for days. Marisa bumps my elbow with hers and gives me the stink eye. “I told you. Lady’s got the toots.” “Be cool,” I say under my breath, not wanting to make the poor elderly woman with the saggy spandies and large panty line self-conscious. Yoga is a place to relax, not judge. Pffffffftttt. “Hey,” Marisa walks closer to the farter and whacks her ankle. “Lady, can you stop with the toots? I’m trying to breathe back here.” “Marisa,” I hiss. “Is there a problem, ladies?” The instructor comes up next to us, clearly unhappy with our disturbance. Being the obnoxious person she is, Marisa releases from downward dog and sits on her butt, legs crossed. “This one right here, she keeps farting, and frankly it’s ruining my aura.” Marisa tosses her thumb at the poor elderly lady, calling her out. “You have no aura,” I chastise her, humiliated for myself and Tooting Tanya. “Edith, are you having some gastral issues today?” the instructor asks. I prefer to call the lady Tooting Tanya. Alliterations make my tongue feel sparkly, but I accept the name Edith. With a thump, Edith falls to the ground and looks up at the instructor, an impish look on her face. “I had the California Burrito from Alberto’s last night. Carne Asada never sits well with me.” “I knew it was unprocessed meat I was smelling,” Marisa accuses, making me throw up a little in my mouth. Edith shoots a death glare at Marisa. “It would be best if you mind your manners, young lady. When you get old, you will find it much harder to hold things in. Let this be a lesson to you.” “I’m not worried,” Marisa leans back on her hands. “I’ve already started my Kegel exercises.”

Edith sits on her knees, inching closer to Marisa. “Flatulence gas comes from your butt, not your vagina.” The threatening stance Edith displays doesn’t scare Marisa at all; it only encourages her. Getting up on her hands and knees, she positions herself in front of Edith’s face. “No worries there either, Memaw. Unlike you, I don’t plan on partaking in anal orgies in my twenties like I’m sure you did. Things will keep tight, which is more than I can say for the wild roast beef that sits between your wrinkly thighs.” The horrified look on Edith’s face matches mine as I break my pose out of pure shock. “How dare you!” Edith roars, her hand rises to slap Marisa. Being the ninja she is, Marisa rolls to the side, out of slapping range, and rips the yoga mat out from under Edith, causing the elderly woman to flip to her back with her legs in the air and camel toe of epic proportions on display. Marisa tosses the mat to the side, brushes off her hands, and says, “You’ve completely destroyed the ambiance in this class for me, mammy. I can’t even feel my bean sprouts or whatever the hell you call them.” “Roots,” I subconsciously help her. “Yeah, I can’t feel my roots, and you know what, Edith?” Marisa sneers her name. “I was feeling rather tree-like today. Thanks for wilting my branches with your sour carne asada puckered prune of an asshole. I hope you have diarrhea…” “Okay,” I stop Marisa and grab my yoga mat as I stand, not even bothering to roll it, but instead wearing it like a veil to avoid eye contact with my classmates. “I think it’s time we leave.” “And we would appreciate it if you don’t come back,” the instructor says, standing next to Edith, clearly choosing a side. Mortification sets in as I dodge raised tailbone after raised tailbone and seek the exit while hiding my face from any onlookers. In the background, I can hear the instructor tell everyone to clear their minds and seek understanding for Edith. Once we’re out of the class, Marisa goes off. “This is bullshit. We’re not the ones who were disturbing the class.” She can be so dense sometimes. I give her a pointed look and grab my keys from the locker that sits just outside the room. “You were talking the entire time, you never once tried to communicate with Mother Nature and you called an elderly lady’s butt a puckered prune, she should have kicked us out sooner.” “What? Are we not allowed to talk? What’s a gym if you can’t socialize?” We walk out the front of the gym and head toward our favorite smoothie bar. Marisa grabs my arm and says, “The only reason she wanted us to leave was because she is so obsessed with people listening to her perverted porn voice that she was threatened by our conversation.” I check my phone while Marisa continues with her rant. A picture from Paul, my brother, pops up on my screen. He’s wearing a neon trucker hat that says McMann Clan across the top. I laugh to myself as I remember the days we used to wear such hats while traveling around the country with our mom and dad. I text him back. Marley: Neon might be in, but that hat is just asking to be crucified by all fashion gods. “I’m going back there. I’m going to secretly put a recorder in that classroom and record the instructor’s voice and then sell it to the internet. Horny bastards around the world will get off on her voice. It’s the

perfect scheme. Money will be rolling into my bank account in no time.” We turn into the smoothie shop and I hold the door open for Marisa. The smells of blended juices, frozen fruit, and wheatgrass greet us. “You know ‘the internet’ doesn’t make purchases. You have to actually sell the porn voice to a buyer or actual porn site.” “We’ll see,” Marisa mutters with a devious smile. She steps up to the counter and orders for us. “Two wheatgrass shots and two small kale smoothies, extra kale. We like it thick.” Correction, she likes it thick. I drink the grassy crap because it’s the thing to do in California. My diet has changed drastically since I’ve moved to Los Angeles and my body has finally become accustomed to the overconsumption of chewy greens. Now, everything is organic that goes into my body. I stay away from red meat as much as I can, as well as gluten, soy, and a lot of chicken products. I still eat things with faces, but try hard not to, given the guilt trips I get from my vegan friend, Marisa. “Here’s to Edith!” Marisa hands me my wheatgrass shot, which I have to plug my nose to drain down my throat. “May her farts propel her home and straight to the toilet.” I shake my head and clink my plastic cup with Marisa’s, secretly hoping Edith is not utterly humiliated. She seemed like a nice lady. *** “I swear to you, it was as if angels were singing the minute his mouth touched me…” I hold my hand up before Marisa can finish her sentence. “Seriously, Marisa, I don’t need to hear about every orgasm Johnny gives you with his tongue.” “But I have to tell someone about them. It’s an out of body experience.” It’s not that I’m not into sharing, because I am, it’s just that every time Marisa talks about her sex life, it reminds me of just how nonexistent mine is. It’s so nonexistent that when I was at the grocery store on Monday, I found myself stroking the cardboard cut-out of the 49ers quarterback, Colin Kapernick next to the display of soda packs. I only stopped cuddling the cardboard because a store clerk asked me kindly to stop fondling Colin’s crotch in front of the children. In my defense, the ribbed cardboard felt nice against my fingers. Moving to Las Angeles was a great move for my career because it exposes me to the core of the beauty and fashion mecca, but when it comes to men, I’m living right in the pinnacle of all egotistical, blondtipped, douche bags. Don’t get me wrong, there are some fine specimens out here, sometimes too fine. I have a problem dating a man who’s prettier than me, or takes longer to get ready for a date, or asks to borrow my bronzer—it happened. My dating repertoire revolves around rugged, more earthy men— please don’t mistake the word earthy for smelly; all men I date must delight my uterus with an attractive scent. I grew up on a farm in Upstate New York, where I used to have hay bale throwing contests with my brother and dad. I used to walk pigs around at the country fair, showing off their size and girth, and then I would barrel race on my horse, Polly, working the crowd with our theatrics. If you haven’t guessed it, I’m a born and raised country girl who turned into an eyelash curler wielding fashionista. That being said, I need a man who is rough around the edges, has a license to grow a beard, and doesn’t ask me to go in on a monthly tanning package with him.

In all honesty, the men out here are decent. Maybe I’m being too picky…or maybe I’m just hung up on one particular man who broke my heart four years ago, but we won’t go there. “I told you I would hook you up with Johnny’s friend, Manny,” Marisa breaks through my thoughts. “He has a Lamborghini.” “You also told me he has a thick nest of neck hair that makes it seem like he’s constantly wearing a turtleneck in sunny California,” I point out. “But he has a nice car…” Sarcasm drips from my mouth. “Oh, then by all means, let me meet this man and his nice car.” “You don’t have to be snide with me.” Marisa tosses her empty smoothie cup in a trash can on our walk back to our apartment. “You really need to get laid. When was the last time you had an orgasm? And twiddling yourself doesn’t count.” “I don’t twiddle myself.” “Okay,” Marisa laughs. “Drop the nun act, sweetheart. I know you try to give yourself carpel tunnel on a daily basis.” She is so off, more like an every other day basis. Daily would just be obscene. “Fine, it’s been a while, but it’s kind of refreshing not having to deal with the drama of a relationship.” We turn the corner to our street and I halt in my tracks, horrified by the sight that stands before me. “Who cares about a relationship? I’m just trying to get you fucked…” Marisa trails off on her last word as she looks up to see both my dad and Paul standing outside of our apartment with Tacy. Who’s Tacy? The question is more like, what’s Tacy? You see, back in 1987 my parents made the investment of their lives—according to them. They purchased a 1987 Signature TravelMaster, equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, dining area, and three beds. Decorated with a mauve interior and fake wood paneling, it was the glory of RVs in its day. Being from Jamestown, New York and a huge fan of Lucille Ball and the movie, The Long, Long Trailer, my parents named the RV after the lead female character, Tacy. Back in the day, Tacy was in the prime of her life, all shiny with her built in overhang adding an extra bed into the mix and her spare tire hanging off the back, she could do no wrong. But now, in her twentyeighth year of age, she is rusting; she’s lacking in her luster and it almost seems like her back end is drooping from having to hold up that damn tire for so long. Tearing my eyes off Tacy, I turn to see my dad with his arms crossed over his burly chest, a bushy beard sprinkled with grey gracing his face, and a look of hostility in his eyes. Paul is the complete opposite; his hands are in his pockets, he’s relaxed, and laughing over Marisa’s comment. “Uh, Dad, Paul, what are you doing here?” It’s a surprise to see them in California, since they both live in New York. My dad still lives on the farm we grew up on, raising goats and milking them every morning, nothing’s changed with him besides the grey in his hair. When I was still back home, we used to raise pigs and goats, and we grew some vegetables as well, but now my dad can only take care of the goats on his own and some corn. Paul lives up in Watertown, New York with his fiancé Savannah. He’s been in the Army for the past four years, but has been hired by the government to do some kind of computer coding crap that I never pay attention to. Paul is a certifiable know-it-all and loves to bore people with his computer knowledge and random facts about mindless things no one cares about. He can be annoying at times, but he’s still one of my best

friends. “Good to see you too, Marley.” Paul pulls me into a hug. I press my cheek against his chest and smile to myself when his Old Spice deodorant fills my senses. If Paul is anything, he’s consistent. Both my father and Paul are over six feet tall, ruining me for any short man that might want to date me. I’ve spent my entire life hugging men who tower over me and I can’t imagine dating someone I can dance cheek to cheek with. No, I prefer cheek to nipple; it’s more comforting. “Sorry, I’m just surprised.” I turn to my dad and he opens his arms to me. “Hey, Dad.” “Come here, Buttons.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head five times, like he always does, his wiry beard messing up my hair. Sometimes he switches up the count of kisses, depending on his mood. If he has to say goodbye to me for a long period of time, he’ll kiss me on the head eight times, my lucky number. When I pull away, I see Marisa clasping her hands to her chest, happy for the family reunion. “Oh, you McManns, you’re so loving.” “Marisa, nice to see you,” my father says with a clipped voice, clearly still not happy with her earlier comment about my untapped libido. Picking up on my dad’s temper, she says, “Yeah…um, I’m going to take off. I have some…uh, walking to do.” Marisa gives me a quick hug. “I’ll catch you later, Marley. Paul, congrats on the wedding.” Quickly, without skipping a stride, Marisa walks her little Asian-self past our apartment building and around the corner, her phone pressed against her ear, probably trying to call Johnny. I turn to the two men in my life and ask, “Alright, what’s going on?” Paul, the blond-haired, blue-eyed heartthrob of Jamestown—that’s at least what my friends called him —smiles brightly at me, mischief in his eyes. “Aren’t you going to say hi to Tacy?” There is a sick obsession in my family where we treat inanimate objects like they are humans. They have feelings just like us and we must pay them the same attention someone in the family would earn. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t drink out of the same water glass twice unless I’ve used all water glasses in my cabinet, or else I feel guilty for not spreading the love. Thanks to my dad’s encouragement, almost every large object on the farm has a name and is treated as a family member. If the tractor’s acting up, we don’t yell at it, we talk to it calmly, trying to solve the issue. That is until Dad loses his short-fused temper and starts swearing like a banshee, kicking and screaming. Picture Ralphie’s dad from The Christmas Story times five. That’s the Bern-Man. The only time he will swear is when he’s in an epic battle with the tractor. “What up, Tace?” I nod at the pile of junk and then turn back to the two most important men in my life. “So, why are you two here, and please don’t tell me you drove out here in that.” I point at Tacy and take in her bumper that’s hanging on by a screw, strike that, hanging on by duct tape, my dad’s cure for everything. “Of course we did.” Paul wraps his hand around my shoulder and we all turn to face the Signature TravelMaster. “Marley, it’s time to finally conquer The Mother Road.” “What?” I pull away. “But, I thought we weren’t doing road trips anymore.” Before my mom got sick, Dad would sign up a couple of friends to take care of the farm for a two week stint and we would go on a family road trip during the summer. We spent countless hours in Tacy, mindless miles on the road, and unforgettable memories making each other laugh so boredom never got

the best of us. But those days were brought to a halt the moment my mom received a devastating call from the doctor. The day my mom got cancer was the day we hung up Tacy’s keys. I was in middle school, Paul was a junior in high school, and my dad was just scraping by on the farm, trying to pay off Mom’s medical bills. The cancer was quick and it took us all by surprise. Life was never the same after that. Instantaneously, I became the lady of the household, a responsibility I wasn’t ready to carry. I was forced to grow up quickly, learn how to cook, clean, and take care of my dad and brother. We traded in our family traditions for survival tactics, spending our time on the farm and making sure we didn’t lose our home as well. Our once goal of eating a hot dog in every state together and taking Polaroids at odd landmarks became a distant memory, and in its place, we pushed through the loss of our beloved mother and worked night and day until our hands were raw. Dad downsized the farm once Paul went to the Army, and when I left for school, he sold even more land, giving him a solid savings he could put toward retirement. We all went our separate ways, forgetting about the childish goals we strived for, so we could obtain new ones that focused more on our future. Since Mom’s death, I haven’t thought about our final road trip we’d been planning to take before she got sick. “Marley, I’m getting married in a week and a half. My life will be changing soon. I’m going to be responsible for a wife, for a family, and I have some unfinished business.” Paul pulls a folded up piece of paper from the back of his pocket and hands it to me. “Mom planned this trip for us. It’s about time we take it. Let’s finish what we started.” Tears well in my eyes as I look down at the map Mom drew years ago. The map has yellowed with age, but her pen markings are still clear to this day. Starting from Santa Monica, California, she mapped our trip across Route 66, traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and then Illinois, where she circled in red the city of Chicago. “The mother of all hot dogs,” I say softly, remembering my mom’s dream to eat a Chicago dog along Lake Michigan. I run my hand over the map, wishing she was still with us. We were the perfect little family of four, with Paul looking like our mom and me looking like my dad. We wore matching sweaters at Christmas and posed for my mom’s incessant Polaroid taking. The memories rock me harder than I expect as a tear falls down my cheek. My dad pulls me into his brawny chest and kisses my head once again. “It’s time, Buttons. Let’s finish your mom’s dreams.” My dad pulls out a picture from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. “We’re bringing her with us, one more final trip as a family of four. What do ya say, kiddo?” Uncertainty washes over me. “I don’t know,” I shake my head. “I have my blog and products I have to test.” “You can do that on the road,” Paul encourages me. “Come on, sis. If anything, do it for Mom and do it for Tacy. The old girl has one more trip in her.” I laugh-snort, snot bubbling out of my nose. I wipe it away and grab my boys by their waists. “I guess we’re going to Chicago.”

Keep Reading Here: The Mother Road