by Ellie Hall
He grins up to his eyes. “I was hoping you’d ask.” He goes to my room and returns with a book. “I’ve been writing.”
Stories Told
Catherine
I turn the novel over in my hands. It’s titled OTP: a love letters novel by K.C. Flynn. The cover image shows a couple with pinkies linked from behind, walking down a sunlit lane.
My thoughts glitch. My pulse trips.
I flip through the first few pages and see the author also wrote the other books in the Love Letters series each set in Rome, New York, Paris, or Prague. All of them are romance novels, some of which I’ve read and others buried somewhere in my extensive to-be-read list. More notably, all the books by K.C. Flynn are at the top of the New York Times bestsellers list, several times over. “Are you a literary agent?” I ask, confused.
“No, I’m the author.”
I laugh and retort, “Yeah, me too. The title of my latest novel is How to Lose at Life. It’s hilarious. It’s about an ambitious twenty-something who moves to Manhattan, loses her job, also maybe her mind, and ends up as an assistant to a guy whose name rhymes with rat, only she’s so hard up, she doesn’t even make the connection. She spends most of her time reading about the romantic lives of others and can’t quite figure out how to fix her own broken heart.”
Kellan doesn’t laugh, and a smile doesn’t crack across his face.
“What? It won an award for being downright hilarious.”
Kellan’s eyes glaze over with warmth. “Have you read OTP?”
I look at the book again and run my finger over the name printed on the cover. “K.C. Flynn.” I study him for a long moment. “Kellan Flynn Connolly.”
He nods. “That’s me. I have a strict non-disclosure agreement because I’m using a pen name. Mr. Bratte is under orders not to reveal my purpose at the PR firm.”
“Did you know I worked there?”
“Happy coincidence or fate, depending on what you want to believe.”
“You write romance novels?”
“I do.” His lips quirk.
“For a job?”
“Uh, huh.”
I shake my head. “Nuh, uh. The joke’s on me. You had this made. Self-publishing is hot right now.” I flip my thumb across the pages, making them flutter. The sensation matches the one in my stomach.
“I did have this made, but it’s no joke,” he says, tapping the cover. “I try to be a witty guy, but the jokes are at some of the more annoying characters’ expense—a sports bar manager, a nosy neighbor, that kind of thing, but not yours. I wouldn’t play a joke on you.”
“Kellan, I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple. I hurt someone I care deeply about. I ran away, joined the military because I was afraid, and figured the best way to get over my fears was to bury them deep beneath the most macho thing I could think of. The truth was I was hurting too. At the time, it was easier not to deal with all that. Then I sort of got my life together and my parents were pressuring me to uphold the family legacy so I went back to college—majored in business and minored in English.” He clears his throat. “After graduation, I felt unfulfilled. I’d always wanted to travel through Europe so I declined a shoo-in job as a financial advisor which I would’ve had thanks to Colby. He says hi, by the way.”
“How’s your oldest brother doing?”
“He’s getting married this summer.”
“I think my mother mentioned that a little while ago.” I purposely didn’t add the save-the-date to my calendar, not because I don’t like Colby and I’m sure his fiancé is lovely, but I didn’t want to see Kellan, which is a moot point now.
A smile spreads across his lips. “Want to go? I’m a groomsman, but haven’t added my plus one yet.”
I throw my hands up in the air.
“Too soon?”
“Too close to the bone. I’m not sure what to think about our future.”
“Our?” he asks.
“Kellan,” I say in frustration.
“Alright, alright. Sorry. Back to my story. My parents dealt with me joining the Marines, but passing up a job with a top firm in Manhattan? It didn’t fly. But I did. Left. Flew the coop.”
“A Connolly left the nest without Mom and Dad’s blessing?” I ask in disbelief.
“I figured they’d come around, eventually. There are lower expectations with the middle child.”
“Is that true?”
“No. They were ticked.” He shrugs. “Anyway, with little more than a backpack full of clothes and my laptop, I went overseas. I spent a lot of time walking and thinking and realizing that I’m a lucky guy having been educated, healthy, smart..., and suddenly not so lucky. My father, in a fit of rage, locked down my credit cards.”
“Whoa. How did I not hear about this bit of gossip?”
“They blacksheeped me. They’d been looking for an excuse since I enlisted.”
“But you’re in Colby’s wedding so?”
“My ordinary sheep status has since been reinstated. This story has a happy ending,” he pauses and looks up at me, “at least I hope so. Lonely and broke, I also missed home, but it wasn’t the house on Seaside Terrace. It wasn’t my parents. It wasn’t the money or the yacht for that matter.” His eyes linger on me with suggestion. “I missed you, Catnip. Totally broke and stranded, I’d devised an elaborate plan to get aboard the yacht—docked off Monaco at the time—and sail back to the US.”
I chuckle despite myself. “A stowaway on your own boat?”
“Something like that. I was in Rome, making my way north… There’s something magnetic about that city: the fountains, the alcoves hidden behind flowers and vines, the food—the glorious smells of bread, garlic, pastries... Everything there is so sensual. I thought of it as romantic Rome.” He lets out a laugh. “Imagine that, me, having romantic thoughts.” His eyes twinkle.
“Yeah, crazy.” The two simple words explode from my mouth with sarcasm.
“If you knew me during college—”
“I knew you before,” I say despite the lump in my throat.
His smile spans time and continents. “Yeah, you did.” He speaks at a whisper as if saying something sacred as if I’m the original OTP.
His eyes lock on mine, blue flecked with gold like the summer sun glinting in the sky.
“I thought I knew you,” I whisper back. “I entrusted the fragile pieces of my heart to you.” It pounds in my chest, scared, in warning, begging me not to look or listen or do anything but keep my eyes down and my attention averted.
“And I’m sorry I wasn’t more careful.” He reaches for my hand, sending hot arrows blazing through my arm, volleying for the place in the middle of my chest.
A car alarm blares outside, breaking the spell.
I’m unable to ignore the tingling heat where his fingers left an impression.
“Despite what you may think, I am sorry. You don’t have to accept my apology, but I’m offering it in every way I know how.” Kellan’s voice chills a few degrees. “I’ve been in combat, defending freedom and fighting to survive. And what I’m doing now is a version of that. It’s different, a more peaceful battle, but a fight nonetheless. I’m trying to win you back, Cat.”
His words land on my inner terrain like bombs, exploding the land of hate, destroying anger, blowing up sadness. Can I trust him? I want to flee. I see how easy it was for him to run away from the difficulty all those years ago. Things get challenging and retreat is the most obvious option. But I’m stronger than that, than he was, running away from us. I’ll be strong for us now.
I do not flinch. I don’t quake or shudder under attack. “You were saying about Rome,” I prompt him, holding my ground.
“Right. I was making my way through Italy toward the yacht when I came upon an opportunity to work at a book festival. It was fascinating and reminded me of you, which reminded me of home. I realized, Catherine, you are my home. Every good memory I have, you were there: the clam bakes, the bonfires, the sailing trips
…the late nights under the stars.”
Afternoons by the pool, the country club, the beach, or just snuggled on the couch watching movies. It was no accident that I always sat next to him at his house or he slid into the booth next to me when we were at the diner. I got a ride from him to school—even after Claire’s boyfriend started bringing her when he got his license, and we still went together when I was dating Zach. I made it a point to go to Kellan’s games, and he rarely missed a field hockey match. We were together on holidays, birthdays, nearly every day. While watching a movie, on snowy afternoons, sitting next to him wasn’t usually because I was cold. Our pinkies always found their way to clasp the other.
“Why didn’t we talk about this in high school?”
“We did after Claire’s funeral. We were young. I was afraid.”
“My relationship was a sham, as you know,” I say.
“I thought you loved Zach. All the while I was lying to myself.”
“Lying to me.”
He doesn’t avoid the daggers in my gaze.
“I thought I was protecting you.”
I was telling myself a story too: trying to be the picture-perfect daughter, friend, and student, keeping my life together even as it all unraveled before my eyes. It turns out perfectionism has marginal returns, and most of them resulted in me feeling the void of inadequacy.
It’s as though my thoughts lay siege to the space between us, carrying us away from this moment and into the past, a place I don’t think either one of us wants to be. The only way is forward.
Kellan trucks on with his story. “I was at a book festival, working long days to make some fast cash to get to Monaco.”
“Couldn’t you have called one of your brothers? An aunt or uncle?” His safety net is wide.
He shakes his head. “I was ashamed, I guess. Also, looking back, it was an adventure. It might sound silly or privileged—not everyone’s parents had a ship bound for North America off the coast of Monaco—but I wanted to figure it out myself. To jump without the Connolly parachute.”
This conversation has me feeling like I’m free falling.
“Talking about ships and vast horizons reminds me of my father.”
“Did you tell him about…?” Kellan asks.
My eyes widen. “No. He’d have hunted you down.”
“Which means you wanted to protect me which meant you still cared.”
I snort a laugh. “You’ve got me there. I did then. I do it now.”
Kellan slings his arm around me, drawing me close to him on the couch. I nestle closer. The television is frozen on the opening image of a train emerging from a tunnel. Relatable.
He continues, undeterred. “Back to Europe—a friend worked at a coffee stall at the book fest, and with her generous, never-ending donation of coffee to my cup, I was highly caffeinated and highly motivated. I’ll never forget, one afternoon, I was in the parking lot by the security office. It had been raining for days, really putting a damper on the event. Everyone was grouchy and muddy. Then all of the sudden the sun beamed out from behind the thick clouds. This may sound crazy, but it was like the rays shone directly at me and an idea struck.”
Kellan jolts slightly as if feeling it anew. “It was like a flash from the heavens above. I had the idea for a book.” He gets up, revealing a sliver of skin above his waistband.
I will not succumb to the catnip. Physically, Kellan could be the lead in some of my favorite contemporary romances. I will not be broken down by longing. I get a double zing. One in my belly. The other like sticking my finger in a light socket. Look away, Catherine. But I don’t. I can’t. My longing is acute.
“And? Did you get an agent, a publisher? Is there more to the story?”
“I’m not telling.”
“No fair. You can’t leave me with a cliffhanger.”
“I want you to come back for more.”
I groan. “One more chapter, please.”
Anchored
Kellan
Catherine repeats her request. “Please, tell me what happened in Italy. How’d you make it home? How’d you become one of my favorite authors?”
“One of your favorite authors?” I ask with a teasing eyebrow.
She smirks. “Top three. I couldn’t get into Michelle and Steve from One Lovely Day.”
“Yeah, she was whiny,” I admit.
“They didn’t have that spark.”
“But we do.” I chuckle and then tickle Catherine.
There is no avoiding the high voltage crackling inside as our hands brush and as my fingers dance across her skin.
Then all at once, she goes cold, still. Sadness seems to wash over her.
I stop.
Her dark eyes glisten against the dark backdrop of night. “I’m not sure how to do this. Us. Without fearing losing you again.”
I meet her eyes with sudden intensity and steadiness that wasn’t there a moment before. “This isn’t going to be easy. Not for you. Not for me. It’s like pulling shrapnel. It’s resetting bones. It’s pushing ourselves until our lungs and hearts explode. It’s going step by step until we think we might die from the pain. But we don’t. With each step, we find courage. We learn to trust again. We heal. We remain side by side through it all. War and peace. Sickness and health. For better or worse, forever and ever,” I recite some of the words we’d written for each other intended for the night I left.
“You remember?”
“I’ve never forgotten.” I get to my feet and lift my shirt to reveal an angry red scar from my collarbone across the left side of my chest. Beside it is the tattoo of an anchor.
“I carried my regret over what I did to us into the war. Regret and guilt didn’t help me be a stronger soldier. When that bullet grazed my skin, it peeled back the lies I’d told myself. What we had brought me back to my feet, kept me fighting. Ever since, I’ve been trying to find my way back to you even though I knew you wouldn’t be waiting with open arms.”
My heart thunders under Catherine’s fingers as she traces the length of the scar. I tilt her head so I can meet her eyes.
“You were my anchor, Catherine. You always have been. I’m telling you the truth.”
My hands grip either side of her face as tears sting her cheeks.
“We’ve been fighting each other, but it’s for the same thing. Maybe we’re comrades and not combatants. We were the right people. One true pair, but it was the wrong time. I needed to go through this to realize, truly, how much you meant to me. To find my way back to myself. To you.”
She blinks away the tears and her brown eyes hold mine. They tell the truth.
“You were with me when I was in the line of fire. You rescued me. You brought me through recovery.”
“Why didn’t I know what happened to you? Why didn’t your parents tell—?”
“I asked them not to. Because I wanted to return to you whole, healed. Not the person you knew, but the man I’ve become.”
I drop back onto the couch and draw her to my side. Catherine holds her head in her hands, hiding behind her fingers.
“You brought me back to life. I felt you there during those days I spent writing in Italy. Every time I was stuck, it was the promise of someday having this moment with you that urged me on, painted images in my mind, created words and scenes. Every time I closed my eyes you’re there. In every city, every hotel, with every book. It was like I finally found something I could pour myself into. It was a way back to you—a connection to your love for stories. The poems you used to read, the books, and all the romantic things you did for Zach made me jealous.”
Catherine looks at me from under her fingers. I pry them away from her face. “I wanted you. I wanted that to be us. I wanted to do sweet things for you. I didn’t know how.”
I take a deep breath and set the last of my armor down. “It’s always been you, Catherine.”
“You are my one true pairing, Kellan. It’s always been you.”
“It’s always been us.
”
My arms close around Cat as she sinks into my embrace. Our hearts beat wildly as if we’re teenagers all over again.
I inhale her scent, familiar yet fresh. Sugarplums and winter. Her hair tickles my nose and I laugh. She grips my jaw. Her eyes flick to mine. I hold her gaze steady, adrift in a latte.
Then she places her lips on mine.
A decade’s worth of anticipation electrifies me. The kiss is every light in New York City lit at once. Every star in the sky gathered into a basket and exploding with light.
Her lips dance across mine in a practiced rhythm. She remembers. My body remembers.
My fingers tangle in her hair. Hers squeeze the back of my neck and then drift along my shoulders.
It’s all I can do not to kiss her for ten years starting now, to make up for lost time. To experience what we’ve missed.
Pulses race.
Breath catches.
I finally feel complete.
We pull apart, we rest our foreheads together until Catherine says, “Okay, Romantic Marine. I want the rest of the story. Finish telling me how it is you became a famous author.”
But she doesn’t wait for me to speak. Once more, her mouth lands on mine and we continue kissing, going deeper, losing ourselves in each other.
Finally, catching our breath, I say, “I wrote the first Love Letters book, like I said, fueled by caffeine and determination. The book festival job led to one in a kitchen which was good because that meant free meals. I should have learned how to cook. Instead, I was learning about publishing. I sent queries to a few agents in the U.S. and got a handful of friendly rejections.”
“But you didn’t give up?”
I wink. “Not a chance.”
“I was couch surfing, living off pasta, my college minor, and hope. I took a few more odd jobs, still making my way north, but with less urgency. I considered the life of the artist, a vagabond backpacker, struggling to make it until I found an agent. It had a certain romantic luster, but I wanted more than that and was determined to make it on my own.”