by Megan Walker
I shake my head, trying to clear it. I still have this odd floating feeling, probably what’s left of the sedation. I’m not in pain, which probably means they also have me on the good drugs.
But I’m in the hospital. And unless the afterlife looks like a sterile room with generic landscapes on the walls, I’m not dead.
I’m going to be very disappointed if I’m wrong about this. They should at least have good art in heaven. And comfortable beds that aren’t propped at a strange angle.
“Am I okay?” I ask Felix.
“Yeah,” he says. “Surgery was successful.” He pauses. “You’re not pregnant anymore, though. I guess ectopic pregnancies are never viable.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Not happy, but not quite sad, either. Maybe that’s another effect of the sedation, or maybe it’s just a product of having been pretty ambivalent toward the pregnancy to begin with.
One thing I’m certain of, though. I want Will.
“I don’t know what Will was planning to do today,” I say. “Maybe he went to a movie or something.”
“Maybe. Does he do that a lot during the day?”
I shake my head. He doesn’t. Pretty much ever. I don’t think Will is the kind of guy who goes to the movies by himself.
“Did you try calling Ben?” I ask.
“Josh did. And Ben went by your apartment, but Will wasn’t there.” Felix scoots his chair a little closer to the bed. “Anna-Marie and Josh left when I got here—something about needing to return some lady’s car? But they’ll be back soon.”
I’m guessing since they knew surgery would take a while, they also went home to change, which is a good thing. I don’t think anyone—even total geeks like them—wants to hang around the hospital waiting room for hours dressed in medieval formal wear.
I nod and let out a long breath. I’m starting to feel something now. A dull ache that throbs in the back of my mind. There’s a certain amount of pain associated with it, though I’m not sure how much of it’s about losing the baby, and how much of it’s just about shock.
Felix stands up.
And then I see Will leaning in the doorway, panting like he’s been running. “Gabby!” he says. “Oh my god, are you okay?”
Relief floods through me, breaking down the walls of shock even more. Will’s here now.
Felix squeezes my hand one more time and vacates the room, leaving Will the chair. Will doesn’t take it immediately, though. He comes over and bends down to stroke my face, and I notice the stark fear on his.
Oh. I haven’t answered him. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m going to be okay. There’s no permanent damage done. It turns out that the pregnancy was ectopic, which means that the baby was in my fallopian tube instead of my uterus, and it burst, and—”
Will kisses my forehead. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay, but . . . there’s no baby. Not anymore.”
He nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I kind of figured.”
“I don’t know how I feel about that,” I say.
He sinks into the chair and takes my hand. “Me neither. It’s all kind of a shock.”
I’m so happy he’s finally here that it takes me a minute to ask. “Where were you?”
Will takes a deep breath. “I’ve got some stuff to talk to you about. But it can wait until you’re feeling better.”
“No, it can’t,” I tell him. “I’m lying in a hospital bed and I just got out of emergency surgery and I could have died.”
Will’s face crumples. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t—”
I realize that came out like a guilt trip. Apparently drugged Gabby is more grumpy than usual. “I’m not mad at you! My point is, I’m going to be lying around here for a while, and then doing the same at home. And I want to talk about it now, because I’m tired of not talking about things. I want to know what’s going on with you.”
Will nods and takes another breath, like he’s trying to steady himself.
For a terrible moment, I wonder if maybe he is cheating on me.
But no. Not Will. I know he wouldn’t.
“I need to ask you a question,” Will says. “And I need you to tell me the truth, even if you think I won’t like it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course I will.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Because you are so great at telling people things they don’t want to hear.”
Okay, okay. He has a point. “I’ll tell you the truth. I promise.”
“Okay. I need to know . . . I need to know if you’d still love me if I wasn’t going to be a great novelist.”
I blink at him. That is so far outside of what I thought we were talking about that it takes me a minute to adjust. “Of course I would. Is this about your novel?”
“No,” Will says. “It’s not about my novel, because I’ve been so miserable working on it for so long. I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t like being my own boss, and I’m not particularly self-motivated, and I’m not very satisfied working for a payoff that may never come. And I know you’re going to say that it’ll happen eventually, but I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t want to be a novelist. I’m done.”
That floaty, disconnected feeling is fading, but I’m still not sure that I’m following.
“Because you think you’re a failure?” I ask. “Or because you don’t want to do it?”
“Because I don’t want to,” Will says firmly. “I talked to some friends I used to work with on Passion Medical, and one of them offered me a job on a new History Channel show about Ancient Rome. And I took the job. It pays pretty well, much better than writing for soaps.”
I am definitely not keeping up, but I understand at least this much. “That job sounds awesome. Is it what you want to do?”
Will hesitates, and I wonder for a moment if he’s just doing this because he thinks it’s what I need. I don’t want to be the reason that he has to give up on his dream. “Yes,” he says. “It’s really what I want. But I know you loved the idea of me being a novelist. It’s one of the reasons you fell in love with me. And I wanted that, once, but I’m different now. And if you don’t feel the same anymore—”
Oh, hell no. “Of course I do!” I say. “I love you, Will. And yeah, I loved that you had this dream, and that you knew what you wanted, and I loved the dedication you had to it, but if you don’t want it anymore—” I blink, realizing how it must have sounded all those times I told him not to give up. “Did you really think you had to be a novelist?”
“Yeah,” Will says. “Maybe I did. It sounds stupid when you say it that way.”
I try to sit up, and my head spins. Nope, not sitting up right now. I settle back into my pillow. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” I say. “This job sounds awesome. Are you excited about it?”
“I am. I’ve always liked history, and it’s a fictional program, so there will be room to be creative. My friend is the head writer, and he wants all the staff writers to have some input in the overall arcs of the show, so he has some ideas, but nothing’s been set yet. Not absolutely, anyway. And I’d still be writing, but I’d also have co-workers and deadlines and an office and a paycheck.”
“And you want all those things.” I’m not trying to seem skeptical, but I do want to make sure. “I mean, I know you want the paycheck. But the rest of them.”
“I do. I think I was happier when I had them. Or at least, when I had them and was not simultaneously working with Sarah.”
I smile. “Then, yeah. Of course I’m okay with it. I want you to be happy.”
Will’s face falls, and I wonder if there’s more news. I’m not sure how much more change I can take in one afternoon, but if he has more to say, I’m going to listen to him. “But you’ve worked so hard,” he says. “You made so many sacr
ifices so that I could write. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure this out. I’m sorry you gave up so much, all for nothing. I’d like to make it up to you, but how can I?”
“What?” I say. “I did that because I love you. You don’t have to make it up to me.”
“Come on,” Will says. “You have to be disappointed. At least a little.”
I think about that, about what Felix said about me thinking I needed to provide Will’s dream for him, so that he’d need me for something. “No,” I say. “I’d be disappointed if you had a dream, something you desperately wanted, and you gave up on it. But if you’ve decided you want something else—I feel like we both worked really hard, and we didn’t get what we wanted. And maybe we could still have that, but instead we’ve decided we want something else. You’re not obligated to keep working toward the same thing forever if your dream changes.”
“What about you?” Will grips my hand tighter. “I think somewhere along the line I became an adult whose dream is to make money for my labor. But your dream for me didn’t change.”
“Will,” I tell him. “My dream for you is that you’re happy. And if this is what will make you happy, I’m glad you’re doing it.”
Will smiles, like he’s actually starting to believe me. “I do appreciate the way you inspired me to give the novels a shot. And then gave me time to do it. I think that was something I needed to do, to know that it isn’t what I ultimately want. I think I always would have regretted it if I hadn’t tried.”
“And you can go back to it someday if you want,” I say. “But you don’t have to. I just don’t want you giving up on your dream.”
Will smiles and stands up, leaning over me again. “I’m not,” he says. “Because you are my dream, Gabby. And I have another question I need to ask you.”
I’m feeling floaty again, but I don’t think this feeling has anything to do with the anesthesia.
“Yeah?” I ask.
And then Will pulls out a small black velvet box and lifts the lid.
Inside is a silver band, thin and delicate, with a single, sparkling diamond in the center. “Gabby,” Will says. “Will you marry me?”
I shriek so loud they probably hear me down the hall, but I don’t care. I launch myself upward at Will, ignoring the pain in my abdomen, which, okay, was maybe not the best plan because the drugs are definitely wearing off and holy cow, that hurts. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m holding on to Will and he’s holding on to me, and we’re both laughing, and god, I’m so, so happy.
Will kisses the top of my head, and then kisses it again. “Was that a yes?”
Did I forget to say yes? “Yes!” I say. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Um,” Will says. “I just realized that you had surgery. Don’t they tell you that you’re not allowed to make any big decisions for the rest of the day? Maybe I’d better ask you again later because—”
“Will,” I say, “I am definitely not saying yes because of the anesthesia. If you need to ask me again tomorrow, go for it. But I want to wear the ring now, because I want everyone to know that I get to marry Will Bowen.”
Will grins, and he pulls the ring out of the box and slips it on my finger. It’s a little big, but that’s okay. We’ll get it resized. “You might not even remember this happened tomorrow,” he says.
“Then I suppose I’ll be really confused about this ring on my finger, and you’ll have to ask me again.” Then I do remember something that I maybe should have mentioned before now. “Um, also, you should know we have pubic lice.” This was the straw that broke the corseted camel’s back before the surgery, but it doesn’t seem so bad, now that he’s here.
“Of course we do,” Will says dryly. But he doesn’t seem all that worried about it, either. Probably because he knows me, and knows that if anyone is going to catch crabs in the least sexy way possible, it’s going to be me.
But I still feel the need to explain. “It turns out it was the cot all along,” I say. “I mean, I suppose they had to originate from an actual crotch. But it was my cot causing the epidemic, and we’ll need to get some of that cream, although probably they have some here we can—”
“It’s okay, Gabby,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Pubic lice, careers, a wedding . . . all of it.”
“All the things young Gabby ever dreamed of,” I say in a tone as dry as his was, but I can’t stop smiling.
Will laughs and lays me back on the bed and then leans down and kisses me, soft and slow and perfect. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you,” I whisper back.
And I know I’m going to have some recovery time, and I’m still not sure exactly how I’m going to end up feeling about losing this pregnancy. But I know that Will and I, we’re going to be okay.
Because we have each other, and ultimately, that’s all we need.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people we’d like to thank for helping make this book a reality. First, our families, especially our incredibly supportive husbands Glen and Drew, and our amazing kids. Thanks also to our writing group, Accidental Erotica, for all the feedback.
Thanks to Michelle of Melissa Williams Design for the fabulous cover, and to our agent extraordinaire, Hannah Ekren, for her love and enthusiasm for these books. Thanks to Amy Carlin and Dantzel Cherry for being proofreading goddesses, and thanks to everyone who read and gave us notes throughout the many drafts of this project—your feedback was so greatly appreciated.
And a very special thanks to you, our readers. We hope you love these characters as much as we do.
Janci Patterson got her start writing contemporary and science fiction young adult novels, and couldn’t be happier to now be writing adult romance. She has an MA in creative writing, and lives in Utah with her husband and two adorable kids. When she’s not writing she can be found surrounded by dolls, games, and her border collie. She has written collaborative novels with several partners, and is honored to be working on this series with Megan.
Megan Walker lives in Utah with her husband, two kids, and two dogs–all of whom are incredibly supportive of the time she spends writing about romance and crazy Hollywood hijinks. She loves making Barbie dioramas and reading trashy gossip magazines (and, okay, lots of other books and magazines, as well.) She’s so excited to be collaborating on this series with Janci. Megan has also written several published fantasy and science-fiction stories under the name Megan Grey.
Find Megan and Janci at www.extraseriesbooks.com
Other Books in the Extra Series
The Extra
The Girlfriend Stage
Everything We Are
The Jenna Rollins Real Love Tour
Starving with the Stars
My Faire Lady
You are the Story
How Not to Date a Rock Star
Beauty and the Bassist
Su-Lin’s Super-Awesome Casual Dating Plan
Ex on the Beach
Chasing Prince Charming
After the Final Slipper
The Real Not-Wives of Red Rock Canyon
Su-Lin and Brendan Present: Your Wedding
All-Night Dungeon
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Turn the page to read the beginning of You are the Story, book seven in The Extra Series.
One
Felix
It’s my first day on set, and I’m on my way to meet Axel Dane, the child star I’m being paid to teach cello. Or, really, to look like he can play cello for the camera. When I first got offered the job—through my band’s agent—I thought it would be a great way for me to pick up side work while my wife is recovering from childbirth and our band is on hiatus. It should be a
n easy way to bring in a little extra money and give Jenna some solo time with our new baby—something I know she’s been looking forward to.
Within minutes of meeting Axel, however, I already know I’ve made a mistake.
Axel sits slumped in a papasan chair in the dead center of his dressing room. He’s ten, the same age as my son, Ty, so I expected there to be toys or video game systems or at least a tablet in here, but the room is empty except for some sparse furniture, a water bottle sitting on the table, and a cello on a stand in the corner.
“I need my organic quinoa,” Axel says to me in a disgruntled tone. “I can feel my insulin dropping.”
I blink at him. “Are you diabetic?”
He sneers at me, like he’s trying to cover up for not knowing what that means. “No.”
At this point, I’m sure of several things. The first is that this kid has mistaken me for someone who is paid to care about his probably-non-existent insulin problems and his need for pretentious organic grains. The second is that I’m pretty sure quinoa is a carb, and would therefore not be helpful if he did, in fact, have low insulin levels.
The third is that I ought to be at home with my wife and my son and my six-week-old daughter, not here trying to teach this kid how to look like a cello prodigy.
“Also,” he says, “this dressing room is too small. Get me a new one.”
“Sorry,” I tell him. “I can’t do either. I’m here to teach you to play the cello. Ready to get started?”
“No,” Axel says, one lock of his perfectly styled dark brown hair falling into his eyes. “I can’t work under these conditions.”
I only mostly manage to smother a laugh. This kid is an actor, and I’m starting to get the feeling he’s punking me. A feeling that I might describe as hope, because if he’s serious—
“There you are!” a woman’s voice cries from the hallway behind me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where in god’s name is my son’s organic quinoa?”