But he kept talking about marriage, babies, and me being a stay-at-home mom. Never once did he ask me if I really wanted that.
I stare at the door again, and then back at the email. I scan my body, and decide that I do, indeed, care more about the publisher’s rejection than I do about my ex.
My shoulders slump, and I sink down onto my desk chair.
Ryan’s and my relationship was probably over a long time ago, but I’d hung on in the vain hope that something would change. Our relationship was just like every other relationship that I’ve ever had—and like my short stint in college, or my current writing career: Another failure.
Just like this email. Rejection never gets easier—even if it’s the thirtieth refusal letter I’ve received this month.
Reading the email over and over again, my heart sinks. Every publisher’s snub is the same. It’s professional, yet it cuts deep into the fabric of my once unshakeable confidence.
My manuscript didn’t grip the editors, it says. The beginning wasn’t compelling enough.
How much of my book did they read before rejecting it, I wonder?
I rub my hands over my face, sighing. That was the last publisher on my list. My book is dead. I’m single, broke, and apparently a big, old failure.
Look away while I wallow for a while, will you?
I push myself off my chair and stare around my apartment. My shifts at the restaurant aren’t covering all my expenses. My freelance work has dried up, and I’m not sure how I’ll make rent next month.
I came to New York City six years ago with big dreams and bigger expectations, and they haven’t quite come to fruition. By ‘haven’t quite’ I mean I should probably tattoo FLOP in big letters across my forehead. I’ve ended up with a big pile of rejection letters and a very small bank account.
Ryan was offering to help me out with my expenses until I got a book deal—but that’s obviously not going to happen, now.
“That’s fine,” I say under my breath. “I didn’t want your money anyway.” I talk to the closed door, as if my ex-boyfriend can hear me.
Ryan used his money as a chain around my neck, always making me feel guilty for not having enough of my own. He’d make a big show of paying for things whenever I couldn’t—which was often. I hated it.
But not anymore. I won’t use him as a crutch. I’ll figure this out on my own. I press my lips together and widen my stance. Pushing up my sleeves, I swing my eyes from one end of the room to the other.
Is my sofa worth anything? I don’t even sit on it that much. Maybe I could get a hundred bucks for it. The TV can’t be worth much—it’s an old-style thing with knobs on the front and no remote—but maybe a hipster will want it in an ironic kind of way. My dining room table has three mismatched chairs and a lot of rings from coffee mugs on it. I doubt I’d be able to even give it away for free.
My eyes flick around the tiny studio apartment, cataloguing all my belongings. Only my two most precious possessions aren’t for sale. My laptop and the little leather-bound notebook where I stuff all my ideas. Those two items will stay with me until I croak.
When my eyes land on my dresser, I pause. Maybe I could sell my dirty panties on the Internet, or something. Don’t people pay a lot for those?
Shaking my head, I try to build myself back up again.
I’m not a screw-up. It’s not failing until you stop picking yourself back up. Isn’t that on a motivational poster somewhere?
Things will work out—they always do. I’ll pick up a couple of extra shifts at the restaurant. I’ll put my groceries on my credit card. I’ll hustle harder for some freelance writing work. I’ll sell my panties, if needs be.
I’ll make it work. I can do it.
I stretch my neck from side to side and try to build myself back up. Maybe if I rewrite the book—revise it for the millionth time and make the beginning more gripping—maybe then a publisher will pick it up. I’ll get a nice advance cheque, and my problems will be solved.
It’ll happen. I have faith.
Confidence starts to creep into my heart. A sense of calm washes over me, and a smile drifts over my lips.
I haven’t been rejected by my ex-boyfriend—I’ve been freed. I can do anything. I can be anything! I’m not Jolie, failed writer and tired waitress. Not anymore. No, I’m Jolie, the independent and successful boss-lady! Watch me blossom!
My smile grows wider as my belief in myself grows. I slam my laptop screen down with a thud as a giggle bubbles up inside me.
Laughter tastes sweet, even if I’m alone in my apartment. I throw my head back and let out a big belly laugh, leaning into the feeling.
Freedom.
It feels good. Great, even! I build myself higher, and higher, and higher…
…and then reality brings me crashing all the way back down when the lights in my apartment flicker off.
I hear the refrigerator shut down, too, as the power to my entire apartment is cut.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I rush to the switch on the wall. I flick the lights on and off, but nothing happens. Using the flashlight on my phone, I find the electrical panel and turn the breakers on and off again, but nothing works. I try it again, and again, and again…
…nothing.
Groaning, I sink down to the floor. I drop my head in my hands and I admit to myself what I’ve known since the lights went off:
It’s not the breaker. It’s the bill.
To be precise, it’s the red-marked bill currently sitting on my kitchen table, unopened and unpaid.
Tears sting my eyes as an overwhelming sense of failure creeps into my heart. How did I think I could do this? When I moved away from Farcliff, I truly believed I could make it in the world. I had eight hundred dollars, half of an English Lit college degree, and an ego the size of Farcliff Kingdom. I was invincible.
I got myself a work visa to the United States and I moved to New York, full of hope and dreams and naivety.
Bright-eyed, I fell in love with the lights and noise of the city.
Now, the lights are off and it’s deathly quiet.
I’ve failed. Professionally, personally, and philosophically flopped.
My lower lip trembles as I squeeze my hands into fists. I dig my fingernails into my palms to try and get a grip on myself. I’m working the closing shift at the restaurant tonight, and the last thing I need to do is show up with puffy, bloodshot eyes and a red nose from crying.
I shut my eyes and try to pull myself together.
It feels like I’m teetering on the brink of a breakdown. A strong gust of wind would knock me into meltdown mode. I keep swinging between highs and lows every few minutes, and it’s making my head spin. So, I just stay huddled on the floor, with my hands balled into fists and my eyes squeezed shut.
I count to a hundred. The lights still haven’t miraculously come back on, and I’m still single and broke—but at least I don’t feel like I’m going to break down and cry anymore.
Picking myself up off the floor, I stand up and find my work uniform. I’ll work my shift tonight and scrape together enough money for the bill. The power will be back on in no time.
I repeat the words to myself over and over until I almost believe them. I take extra time to do my makeup and hair like I’m putting on war paint. I stare at myself in the mirror, fake-smiling at my reflection. I wonder if I look as miserable as I feel.
My phone rings, interrupting my pity-party. It’s my mother.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Jolie, don’t panic.”
You know when people say, ‘don’t panic’ and you immediately start panicking? And then instead of explaining themselves, they pause, as if the silence hanging between you will do anything to calm your racing mind?
My mother is an expert at that. She wrote the book on dramatic pauses—which, coincidentally, is more than I can say about my own book-writing career.
“Whatsgoingon?” I breathe the words out as one.
“It’s your father.” My mother sigh
s.
My heart takes off at breakneck speed, trying its best to make me faint. “What happened?”
Is this the gust of wind that will knock me over the edge into a full-on breakdown?
“The cancer’s back,” she says quietly.
“No. No, no, no. How, Mom? How?”
“The oncologist said it’s treatable, and we caught it very early this time. We’re going to have to move back to Farcliff City. We have to be near the hospital now. There aren’t enough medical facilities out here in Westhill.”
My parents have been living at the Westhill Palace, in the heart of the forests on the western edge of the Kingdom. My father has been in charge of the Westhill Royal Rose Gardens for about five years. The two of them moved to Westhill after I left for the United States. Being appointed to the Westhill Rose Garden was the greatest honor that has ever been bestowed upon my family.
For my parents to be moving away from the Westhill, it means my father’s illness is getting very, very serious.
“What about the garden?” My voice squeaks, and I clear my tightening throat.
My mother sighs. “We’re going to have to leave it behind. Harry Brooks will be in charge of it.”
“Harry Brooks? Last time you left him in charge of the roses, you practically had to start over. He killed nearly all of them—you were complaining about it for months.”
“Jolie…”
“Mom… How bad is it?”
Leaving Westhill on such short notice, and leaving the incompetent Brooks in charge of the Royal Rose Gardens means something is seriously wrong. My heart is racing and I’m finding it hard to see straight.
My mother sighs. “We just need to be closer to the hospital, that’s all. He needs to start another course of chemotherapy, so we’ll be in and out of the hospital every week. We can’t travel two hours each way from Westhill to Farcliff. It’s just not feasible.”
“Every week?”
Mental breakdown, here I come.
“The doctors had to up the frequency of his treatment this time.”
“I’m coming home.”
“Jo, stop. You don’t have to. Your father didn’t even want me to tell you that we were moving, but I wanted you to know. Everything will be fine. He’ll recover—we just need a bit more care for him this time. It’s precautionary.”
“Chemo isn’t precautionary, Mom. Aggressive chemo isn’t a precaution.”
My mind is reeling. I can’t stay here. I can’t be in a foreign country, struggling to keep my lights on, when my father is in and out of the hospital.
“I’m coming home,” I repeat.
“No, Jolie. You can’t put your life on hold for us. You’re doing so well in New York! It keeps your father and I going to know that you’ve been so successful.”
I almost start laughing.
Successful? Me?
I’m the very definition of failure. I’m so far from success that I might as well not even know the meaning of the word. I’ve never told them how much I’m struggling, of course. What would that accomplish?
But the truth is, I wouldn’t be giving anything up by coming home. I need to be close to my family. There’s nothing left for me here.
Taking a deep breath, I try to think of an angle that my parents will agree to. “Well, what if I tended the rose gardens?” The words slip out of my mouth before I even know what I’m saying.
My mother pauses, and the words hang between us. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m better at gardening that Harry fucking Brooks—”
“Language, Jolie.”
“Sorry. All I’m saying is, I’ll be closer to you. At least I’ll be in the Kingdom. That way, Dad won’t have to worry about the gardens going to shit—sorry, I mean he’ll know the gardens are being taken care of. I can write from there, too. A bit of solitude in the country will do me good. I’ve been wanting to get away from the city, anyway.”
I can hear my mother breathing on the other side of the line. She’s thinking about it.
“Darling, the Prince…”
“I can handle the Prince.”
“He’s not well. Ever since he had his daughter…”
“Who cares? I probably won’t even see him. You’ve lived in the Westhill for years, and you’ve only seen him a handful of times.”
“Jo…”
“Mom, I want to be closer. If you won’t let me stay with you in Farcliff, at least let me help out with the gardens. Dad will want to show some flowers at the Annual Rose Festival, no? How would he feel if he wasn’t able to show any flowers at all?”
Mom sighs, and I can hear her starting to give in. “I’ll talk to your father.”
The tightness in my chest eases, and I nod. “Okay. I’ll start packing.”
I’ve always been decisive, but this is quick—even for me. The power isn’t coming on in my apartment, though, and the refrigerator isn’t going to magically fill itself with food. I can’t be struggling here when I should be closer to my family in Farcliff.
Taking my father’s place at Westhill is my only choice—even if I won’t admit that to my parents.
2
Gabriel
I hold my brother’s letter in my hand, staring off into nothing. The garden is mostly quiet, with only the calls of a songbird disturbing the silence. The roses are still only green, prickly bushes, but I can already see tiny buds starting to form on them. It’ll be at least a month before they bloom, before the garden is bursting with color and scent. It’ll be the most beautiful place in the Kingdom, and the one place that makes me calm.
Today, though, not so much. Nothing would make me calm after reading the King’s letter.
It’s the ten-year anniversary of the King’s crowning, and I’m invited to attend the celebrations at Farcliff Castle. ‘Invited’ might be the wrong word. ‘Compelled to attend’ is more accurate. My brother has left no room for negotiation.
I know I should be there. To see my brother celebrate his first decade as King of Farcliff would be a great moment for the family, especially after everything that happened when he ascended to the throne.
That’s not what worries me.
His letter also mentions someone else. Someone who hasn’t seen Farcliff Castle since she was an infant. I took my daughter away from Farcliff nearly six years ago, and I hoped I’d never return.
Charlie’s letter is very clear about it, though. My presence is required—as is Flora’s.
As if my daughter can sense my turbulent thoughts, I hear her voice coming nearer.
“Daddy!”
Flora comes into view at full-speed. She’s sprinting through the rose bushes, barreling toward me as she grins from ear to ear. I stand up to catch her, bracing myself for impact.
Another child might slow down, or even come to a stop. Not Flora. She accelerates toward me, leaping into my arms at top speed. As I spin her around in the air, she giggles so hard spittle goes flying from her mouth.
I set her down and a smile cracks on my lips.
“What are you so happy about? You shouldn’t be running, Flora. You know what the doctor said.”
“Look!” Flora ignores my worries. She reaches into the pocket of her dress. Flora insists that all dresses should have pockets and refuses to wear ones that don’t—probably because of situations exactly like this one. Her pockets routinely hold all types of treasures that a six-year-old finds.
Flora pulls something out, cupping it gently in her hand. I sit down on the bench and lean toward my daughter as she takes a step toward me.
“I found it in the forest,” she says, still hiding the object in her palm.
It could be anything. A beetle, or even a frog. It could be a little stick that she liked the shape of. It could be a foil-wrapped chocolate, flattened and melted from the heat of her body. It could be squirrel poop, or a funny-shaped leaf. When I say it could be anything, I mean anything.
And my daughter, ever the actor, loves to heighten the d
rama. Her lips tug into a mischievous grin.
“Ready?”
“Show me.”
She uncurls her fingers to reveal…
…a rock.
“Wow,” I say, unconvinced.
“Wait.” Flora licks her finger and rubs it over the rock. Once wet, I can see all the sparkles and parallel lines of shimmering blue that striate its surface. She tilts it in the sun and more dazzling colors appear. Smiling, she glances at me. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Flora brings the rock up within an inch of my face. Her eyes are wide, a hopeful smile hanging on her lips.
In that moment—in every moment with Flora—I forget about Charlie’s letter. I forget about Farcliff Castle, and all the bad memories that go with it.
I just take the rock between my fingers, and I look at it.
Copying my daughter, I lick my fingers and wet the surface of the rock, which has already started to dry. The brilliant blues and teals that line the rock reappear, and I angle them in the sunlight.
“It’s beautiful, Flora.” I smile, handing the treasure back to her. Flora is the only person in my life with the ability to make me see the beauty in the small things. To her, everything is magical—even a simple rock. Her cheeks are rosy today, and she almost looks like a normal, healthy child. On days like today, I forget about the pain and suffering that her illness has caused us.
“I got it for you,” Flora says, tucking it into my front pocket and patting my chest. “It’s good luck.”
“Is it?”
“Uh huh.” She hops up onto the bench beside me and points to the letter that lays forgotten. “What’s that?”
Leaning back on the bench, I stare up at the bright blue sky. Westhill Castle has been my oasis. It’s been my refuge from the controversy and evil that lurks in the streets of Farcliff.
But it’s also been my prison—and Flora’s
Now, it might be time to walk out of my prison and back to my home.
Taking a deep breath, I take the letter between my fingers and stare at it. “It’s a letter from your Uncle Charlie. He wants us to come visit.”
“Visit Farcliff?” Flora’s eyes widen.
Royally Unexpected: An Accidental Pregnancy Collection Page 39