So, That Got Weird: A Painfully Awkward Love Story (So Far, So Good Book 1)

by Amelia Kingston

  “Don’t listen to him. I’m fine.” Elizabeth tries to make her voice sound calm, but underneath she’s frazzled. I flash her a knowing smile, just so she doesn’t think she’s fooling anyone.

  Jackson clears his throat, drawing both our attention. “In that case, can I talk to Dad for a minute? Alone.” I’m still getting used to that word, but I’ve never felt prouder than the first time Jackson called me his dad.

  “Yeah, sure,” Elizabeth says hesitantly. Her mind must be working overtime right now. I’m sure she thinks whatever the problem is, it’s her fault. She’s terrified of not being enough. I try every day to prove her wrong, but old habits are hard to break.

  I give her a quick kiss on the temple and a light smack to her backside before I follow Jackson down the hall. I can hear her muttering “Loosey-goosey” to herself as I walk away and it makes me smile.

  “What’s up? Having second thoughts about becoming a Jacobs?” I tease Jackson. The intensity in his eyes makes me realize he just might be. My stomach twists into knots. That would break Elizabeth’s heart. Fuck, it would break mine too.

  I try not to get ahead of myself. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just can’t shake this feeling. Like, I shouldn’t be here. Like, someone’s going to come running into the courtroom at the last minute and say it was all a mistake.”

  “It’s not. We love you.” I mean that with every ounce of my soul.

  “Why?” he asks with a wry chuckle. “I’m such an undeserving shitbag. Why are you and Elizabeth wasting your time with me? You guys should adopt some perfect, unfucked-up baby. Seriously, I’m not worth it.” Staring at Jackson is like peering into my past. I was that broken, before Elizabeth.

  “First of all, watch your mouth. If Elizabeth hears you swearing, she’ll have both our asses.” I take a deep breath and pause for a minute, thinking about what I want to say.

  I’ve never been so glad Elizabeth talked me into pursuing social work instead of an MBA. I’ve literally got a master’s degree in this shit, and I’m struggling with the words. How do I convince this kid it’s not about being good enough? Blood or not, he’ll always be my son.

  “Listen, Jackson, the weird thing about love is you don’t get to decide if you’re worthy of it. The other person does. And let me tell you, from one undeserving shitbag to another, when Elizabeth decides to love someone there’s nothing you can do to stop her. Believe me, I’ve tried. Look at me.”

  He brings his eyes up to meet mine, tears building at their edges.

  “We’re all a little broken. But that doesn’t matter when someone loves you. I don’t care what you do, or what this court says. You’re my son and I love you.” I pull him into my arms and hold him, hoping it’s enough.

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  Now I’m crying. I let him pull away first, and we both wipe away the tears in our eyes.

  I make several manly grunting noises to shake the emotion out of my voice. “We should get back to Elizabeth before she has a panic attack.”

  I can hear Elizabeth’s terse voice around the corner before I can see her. She’s obviously upset and my body tenses. I glance over at Jackson and realize with a smile that he’s ready to take on whatever’s upset Elizabeth right beside me. He really is my kid.

  “Stop. Just stop. I’m not going to listen to any more excuses. Let me be perfectly clear, Father,” Elizabeth says it like it’s a curse word, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. “He is becoming your grandson today. If he mattered to you—if I mattered to you—you’d be here. I love you, but if you want to be part of this family, you have to make an effort. The choice is yours. I’ve got to go.” I doubt Dick had a chance to answer before Elizabeth hung up on him. Their relationship has its ups and downs. It’s hard to change after a lifetime of being a selfish prick. He tries, but not hard enough.

  She turns around to see me and Jackson standing there, just staring at her. I step into Elizabeth’s personal space, rubbing her tense shoulders. “You okay?”

  “Yes. I won’t let him not being here ruin this day,” Elizabeth answers with a bittersweet smile. She never ceases to amaze me.

  I lean down to make sure Jackson can’t hear. “For the record, you’re sexy as fuck when you go full-on momma bear.” I kiss the sweet spot on her neck, knowing for a few seconds at least, I’m all she’ll be thinking about.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs? We’re ready for you,” a clerk with a clipboard calls out, making Elizabeth jump.

  “Doctor.” The clerk, Elizabeth, and I all turn to Jackson. “Mr. and Dr. Jacobs,” he corrects with a smirk, looking quite proud of Elizabeth and pleased with himself. Elizabeth blushes.

  “He’s not wrong. Shall we, Dr. Jacobs?” I open the door for Elizabeth and Jackson before following behind them into family court.

  We’re only in front of the judge for about fifteen minutes then it’s done. Jackson is legally our son. Elizabeth jumps for joy with a loud squeal. Jackson crushes her in a hug. I can’t stop smiling. No, seriously, it’s a problem. My face actually hurts.

  I was terrified when Elizabeth said she wanted to adopt. What the hell do I know about being a dad? But, seeing the two of them, my family, I can’t imagine my life without them. I wrap my arms around my wife and son, squeezing tightly just to make sure they’re real. They are. And whether I deserve them or not, they’re mine.

  So, love is weird.

  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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  Pride and Pancakes

  Ellen Mint

  Excerpt

  Why isn’t the car spinning out in the snow? Nothing dramatic that’d require an ambulance or the jaws of life, just a minor hiccup in her travel plans. Anything to delay her from this coming storm. But, no, Beth couldn’t be that lucky.

  Wringing her hands over the rented Civic’s steering wheel, she glared out at the stark white landscape. It’d started muddy and drab, dawn hours away when she’d left New York City. Six hours later, deep in Vermont’s snow-capped mountains, the azure skies did nothing to evaporate the dread in her heart.

  The road was little more than dirt and snow packed down by wide wheels, increasing the throbbing headache Beth knew wouldn’t vanish once she reached her destination. At the sign for the Honeymoon Cabin—charming—she turned right to follow an even thinner trail. The tiny car barely made it into the ruts dug out by a monstrous SUV, Beth listening to every chunk-chunk of snow splatting out of the wheel wells.

  As a twist of smoke pierced the snow-peaked horizon, her editor’s parting words rang through her skull. ‘Land this damn interview, Cho. If you don’t…’

  He didn’t need to finish his threat—everyone in journalism was well aware of the always-looming cutbacks. It didn’t matter how much money their website pulled in, it was never enough for investors. And the easiest way to line their pockets was by sending yet another reporter to the breadlines.

  While the six-hour-plus drive in inclement leaning to suicidal weather didn’t endear her, it was the subject of the interview that had Beth chewing glass. If it had been a fickle actor known for being handsy, she’d have brought her friend Bruno as an assistant. If it had been a mealy-mouthed politician—not that her employer cared about politics beyond if one was caught without pants—she’d have kept a slew of previous soundbites at the ready.

  But this? This was…

  Her thought snapped away when the ever-rising ground finally leveled out and she emerged before a picturesque cabin. It looked like a Victorian Christmas card had come to life. The cabin of massive red logs boasted a single chimney puffing perfect clouds of smoke into the air over snow-capped shingles. Quaint green shutters hung off the three windows she could make out. There was clearly a picture window for the living room, but it was frosted over from the encroaching cold. Pine trees lined the driveway, each one dusted in white snow as if a designer ha
d painted them.

  It’d be a lovely place to vacation or hide away in for a week while trying to hammer a book out. But that wasn’t what awaited her inside.

  Pulling a cleansing breath into her lungs, Beth snatched up her purse and laptop and struck out into the cold. Her leg sunk a foot into the snow, the freezing air punching into her chest and a gasp escaping her mouth. Cruel, frozen water tumbled into her shoes.

  Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

  With each step she took to the cabin, more plummeting snow filled her ankle-high boots. They were cute for the city in winter but pointless this deep into the wilderness. It was doubtful anything short of a whole bearskin would keep someone warm up here. Thanks to her having turned up the heat in the car, the snow quickly melted to slush, seeping up her socks and leaving her crankier.

  Despite dreading what awaited her inside, Beth dashed for the cabin. At least it’d be warm and snow-free. She grabbed onto the wooden railings with their woodland animal carvings and leaped up the three front steps. The door was a firehouse red with a wreath of cedar and holly hanging from it. Breathing in the smell of hamster bedding, she pushed on the handle and let herself in.

  A flash of lightbulbs from by the fireplace interrupted Beth’s entrances. Orange flames danced inside the stones there, three stockings without names dangling off plastic greenery above the fire. And standing beside it, an arm lazily draped over the mantel, was what had had her grinding her teeth for six hours.

  “Tristan?” the photographer called the stone man glaring through space. “Can you turn and raise your chin?”

  If he raised it any higher, all her shots would be directly up his nose.

  Tristan Harty. Once a teenage heartthrob sporting floppy hair that dusted over those striking blue eyes, he’d climbed the charts with a handful of songs plucked out on his guitar. The trajectory of his career followed the majority of those who began in the same way. He’d grown older, teenage girls had moved on, his star had faded. Now, he was trying a comeback thanks to the rise in ’90s nostalgia and his PR team had finagled an exclusive interview with her magazine.

  Instead of the leather jacket overtop an expertly distressed T-shirt, they’d dressed him like Father Christmas. A black suit coat, tailored tight to his thin frame, lay unbuttoned over a crimson vest. A pocket watch, of all things, dangled off the vest. Does he intend to recite some Dickens to the photographer as well? Time had thinned the soulful mane of his younger years. Locks shorn to an inch revealed more of his forehead than any had seen in a decade.

  While most men his age would have wrinkles piling up across that vast brow, the cold demeanor of Tristan Harty kept his face nearly as preserved as if he were a botoxed socialite. Somehow, his record company had convinced an entire generation of fifteen-year-olds that he was the deepest, most soulful man in existence. Beth wanted to laugh at the thought when the man in question focused away from his photographer to where she stood dripping at the front door.

  Eyes bluer than a sapphire burned into her soul. She tried to swallow, but her throat constricted. Even turning her head was proving impossible as ten thousand watts bore down upon her.

  “You!” a voice shouted, evaporating the confounding spell. Beth blinked, glancing back at the once bewitching man. With the glare broken, he transformed back into a snooty aristocrat hoisting up a guitar.

  From the mess of photography equipment that claimed the cabin’s entire living room bustled a wide man. He wasn’t fat, at least not in that lovable oaf way, but his rectangular build easily fit into a doorway. He was the comedic opposite of the thin man pretending to play a song for the camera.

  “Who are you?” he shouted at Beth.

  She flexed her lips in a not smile. “The interviewer.”

  What had to be the manager scoffed. “You’re late. What took you so damn long?”

  “I’m afraid transporters haven’t been invented yet, so I had to rely upon the old-fashioned horseless carriage,” Beth snapped, in no mood to be shouted down by the reason she was in this mess. There were a dozen more interesting concerts and art house movies she could be reviewing at home instead of wasting an entire weekend in Vermont.

  The manager pinged his beady eyes skyward. “What? You never heard of airplanes?”

  She chewed on her tongue, keeping the caustic comment at bay. There was no chance of her company splurging on an airline ticket, seeing as how they couldn’t ship their reporters as freight.

  “Barry…?” A voice of reason stepped into the fray as the very subject of the interview spoke up. “Let it be,” Tristan whispered. His speaking voice was soft and drifted in the tenor range, a surprise for anyone who knew his songs.

  Barry the manager was in no mood to do such a thing. He was clearly incensed there was no underpaid intern to boss around and had to take all that anger out on someone. “Listen here…” Whatever derogatory term floated in his brain remained there, though he stared twice as hard at her eyes. “We ain’t got time to waste here. So get this little Q&A session done fast. Got it?”

  “Mr. Barry.” Beth unlatched her purse, picking up her phone. “This little ‘Q&A session’ is part of the deal. I have full access to your…talent, and we host a release for his album.” She should have been surprised at having to remind him of the back-scratching contract, but it was a wonder sometimes that most managers had the wherewithal to work a bed.

  His annoyance at her tripled in strength. Beth internally smiled at her barbs when Barry pointed toward an open room. “Fine! Set up in there. I’ll send Tristan in once he’s finished.”

  “Thank you ever so much.” She hefted her bag closer to her side. Just before she turned her back on the primping and posturing, another cobalt glare burned across her sights. For a foolish breath, her cheeks burned.

  So I’m to work in the bedroom? While grateful she wasn’t being forced to conduct her interview in the bathroom, she’d done worse. Once, she’d had to question a football player while crammed inside a food truck while an untended open fire singed an inch off her hair. Though, as she gazed around the room, a new unease settled in her gut.

  While the living room and small adjacent kitchen were rustic and woodland themed, this was where the honeymoon adjective came from. The bed was gigantic, with four posters painted like birch trees, and a damn canopy, of all things. Red and pink silks hung off the posts and a shimmery duvet covered the bed itself. Perched between the ordinary pillows was one in the shape of a heart. There were no bottles of wine in a bucket on the nightstand, but a remote sat there instead. Beth was both curious and terrified to see what it was for.

  She glanced at the oval-shaped mirror set in the vanity, finding in the glass an exhausted woman who’d been awake since three a.m., driven up a mountain and still had to crack this damn introvert. At least she’d thought to check in at the hotel first, knowing she’d be exhausted by the time this was over. A warm bath and a night of typing in her terrycloth pajamas was as good a reward as she could count on.

  Unbuttoning her blazer, Beth set to work. There wasn’t much in the way of seating in the bedroom, so she picked up the vanity’s chair and placed it in the center. Hopefully, Tristan would feel just comfortable enough to be uncomfortable. Laying out her tools of the trade the way a warrior would before battle, Beth inspected the batteries’ lives. Her phone was holding strong—she’d learned to keep her apps to a minimum lest she miss a vital picture or be unable to record a pivotal quote. The laptop was at seventy percent. Not great, but she’d only crack into it once she was back at the hotel.

  The room felt too bright and cheerful. For some subjects, that’d be perfect. The candy-coated-sprinkle types loved nothing more than to bake cupcakes and divulge all their secrets while frosting. But not Tristan Harty. He’d been in the spotlight for over fifteen years, then out for eight. In all that time, the most people’d gotten out of him was his name, date of birth and current hit song. He was a black hole of personal information, and in order to keep her job, Beth had
to get this vacuum to sing.

  Cracking her knuckles, she took one last look at her reflection. Instead of the fretting thirty-year-old reporter, she saw a little girl. With her neon-pink unicorn notebook in hand, that girl in pigtails had been prepared to ask dictators and humanitarians alike the hard questions, and wouldn’t stop until she got them. This Beth could handle some has-been musician.

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  About the Author

  Amelia Kingston is many things, the most interesting of which are probably California girl, writer, traveler, and dog mom. She survives on chocolate, coffee, wine, and sarcasm. Not necessarily in that order.

  She’s been blessed with a patient husband who’s embraced her nomad ways and traveled with her to over 30 countries across 5 continents (I’m coming for you next, Antarctica!). She’s also been cursed with an impatient (although admittedly adorable) terrier who pouts when her dinner is 5 minutes late.

  She writes about strong, stubborn, flawed women and the men who can't help but love them. Her irreverent books aim to be silly and fun with the occasional storm cloud to remind us to appreciate the sunny days. As a hopeless romantic, her favorite stories are the ones that remind us all that while love is rarely perfect, it’s always worth chasing.