Elastic Heart
Page 22
I worked my ass off getting that assignment to prove to my dad I was worth it, finally worth his attention, and recognition. I interviewed with other department chairs so no one could say I got the internship due to nepotism, but I always felt like he didn’t want me at the firm to begin with. Three years I’ve spent consumed with law school, studying my life away to pass my bar exam in one shot, and now this. I wondered if I would always feel–lacking.
“What do you mean, you’re canceling our vacation? Three years, Lucas. I have been waiting for this moment—to finish school and pass the bar exam. Waiting to tell my dad about us and start our lives. Just fucking waiting! Everything has been set, and now you’re having second thoughts?” My voice shakes with uncertainty. Feeling dejected, I grip the space above my nose between trembling fingertips to ease the pain between my eyes as the phone rests against the side of my head. The secret of our relationship has taken its toll on us both, and now I hover on never getting the peace I long for.
“I’m not canceling anything. You’re just being unreasonable. Your dad has offered me a chance to work on a high-profile case this summer as lead council. I just think if we hold out a little longer, he’ll finally respect my efforts. He will finally see me as a competent lawyer good enough for his daughter. I have to earn my job, unlike some of us.” Sneering laces his voice and I’m taken back by the venom he throws at me.
Fuck you, Lucas, my brain screams, but the words keep a choke hold over my throat.
“What? I’ve worked just as hard,” I say calmly, trying to keep myself in check. I don’t tell him that was my case before I turned my father down for this much-needed, stress-relieving time away. He had dangled the case like a shiny lure, and I refused to be baited because I thought Lucas and I would be together rebuilding our strained relationship hundreds of miles away. It is time we should be spending together after all the sacrifices we’ve made to get to the top and be offered a job at my dad’s firm— so we can emerge as a couple and no longer some sordid secret romance.
“Doesn’t my job, our future, mean something more than some silly little summer of self-exploration?” Lucas implies coldly. “It’s not as if I didn’t sacrifice too by not telling your dad we’re together. You made us a secret to begin with.” Sure, so now it’s entirely my fault for wanting to be taken seriously in a shark tank full of lawyers who’ve known me from the time I pissed my pants as a toddler. Jerk. “Come on, Abs, we talked about this.” The nickname grates on my nerves.
Did we? Yeah. We agreed to keep PDA out of the office and focus on work so we could be offered good jobs, or at least kick-ass references. Apparently, Lucas has made an addendum to the memo I missed, so much for being professional and building credibility with fickle colleagues. Pulling the phone away from my face, I look at the once happy picture of us hugging. How long will I keep making excuses for him?
I ignore Lucas’ pleas to reconsider. Under my Dad’s thumb, I would remain working my ass off grunting for the firm, getting coffee and doing pointless research for his cases as assistant counsel. At least Everest Barlow, my dad’s partner, believed in my work. Obviously, Dad offered this lead case to Lucas to punish me for defecting this summer, and Lucas—unable to help himself—snatched it up in his selfish self-preservation.
“I’ll call you when I get there.” Hanging up on Lucas, I feel strangely devoid, wondering what the last three years have been.
A slick haze coats my eyes as I hold the wadded up tissue against my cheek, hoping to catch any fallen teardrops that endlessly pour from my eyes. The salty mixture of sadness and disappointment scratches my cheeks. My dad considers this behavior weak, so it’s best I leave anyway. It’s less conflict for our family dynamic to endure as I figure out what to do next.
As my mother lay dying from cancer, she often spoke of the town she grew up in, and I wondered how different my life could have been had she stayed there in Gold Beach. It’s no wonder my father forbad us from speaking about it after she passed. He hates just about everything she loved. I suppose that’s why it felt like the perfect place to hide away and lick my wounds for the summer.
I drive my car, a sleek silver BMW convertible—a gift from my dad for getting into law school—up the coastline. The trip from LA took me fourteen long hours, causing my shoulders to ache and my backside to burn from sitting in the same spot for so long. I couldn’t stay inside my apartment any longer. Being a task-oriented person, the stink of inactivity was killing me. Unable to sleep another wink I left around 3 a.m., well before the sun rose in LA, showing me its true colors as a selfish, egocentric city of my peers.
As I drive north, the sun brightly shines and wind blows my hair free from its ponytail as I head up Route 101 toward Oregon. On one side of the highway is a rocky coastline and on the other is a forest of tall North Pacific pine trees growing denser as I leave civilization. I don’t feel any compulsion to stop, except to maybe use a bathroom; hunger isn’t a present concern at the moment. Ocean air saturates my nostrils with a clean salty sting and the smell of crisp pine.
I come to a small commuter bridge—it’s one of those old drawbridges crossing the Rogue River. The wait to cross takes forever. I practice deep, cleansing breaths as I focus on the remaining drive. The sun glints over the water, blinding me for a second, and gulls fly low, letting out cries into the wind. Just a little farther and then I can collapse and regroup.
There is only one way in and out of this coastal town along the scenic highway. I imagine I’m entering my stronghold with the bridge towers on either end protecting the city and watching over me. I feel safe within my new kingdom I’ve been voluntarily exiled. Continuing to wait for the bridge, I read a sign with gold ornate lettering on a curvy blue background: Gold Beach, Oregon, pop. 2,650. Scratch that, current population 2,651 for the next several weeks.
I look down at my steering wheel fleetingly to view my neatly manicured nails. Mandated office attire, I muse. The minions all dressed in pencil skirts and slacks in subdued colors will be handling case files today. They will be flipping through hundreds of documents on rampant expeditions to find loops holes and case law references. I shake my head, wondering who will be writing my mentor’s opening dialogue. The only regret is that I might have disappointed Everest, but I think he’s also the only one who would understand my defiance.
A deep breath settles me into acceptance… I should paint these nails some bright, obnoxious color for the next two months. The blare of a barge horn startles me back to the present. I drive slowly through the bridge toll, watching a young man down on a boat. The sun’s glare obstructs much of my view, but I imagine he’s in charge standing at the helm, waving his hat at me. From this distance, I’m guessing he is attractive, but not really my type. For one thing, he’s big with huge, hulking shoulders and shaggier hair than I’m accustomed too. His face looks like he might be sporting scruff or a messy beard, but I can’t be sure. Definitely not the blonde manscaped suited-up guys I’m used too from the dark T-shirt molded to his chest and cargo shorts hanging from trim hips. As he drives the barge through, I notice he isn't even wearing shoes. Keeping my hands on the wheel, feeling uncertain, I refrain from waving back. Spending a great deal of my life learning to be the good girl, the perfect daughter, has gotten me nowhere. My hand itches at the wheel but I hesitate too long and he’s guided the boat through the drawbridge by the time I decided to go for it. It’s not as if I will ever see him again anyway so I let the regret go. I’m here to work on me, not pick up guys.
The bridge lowers, bells ringing and I drive my flashy little car over the bridge and down a coastal road full of rocks and sand. Off to my left is an astounding view of the ocean as I follow the instructions from my iPhone’s GPS. The directions are the only sound I’ve allowed inside my car since leaving LA.
Letting the car feel each twist and turn of the road I’m pleasantly surprised my destination is exactly as it was advertised. I registered at a cute little bed and breakfast with a view of th
e ocean and beachfront access that I found online during my search of my mother’s hometown. This was the perfect location for a secluded getaway and what I had hoped would be a romantic time to slow down and rekindle. So much for that happening now, if ever. My hands shake while holding the wheel pulling myself together. The B&B boasts a homemade breakfast by the proprietress and absolute privacy, which is something I desperately need right now to be able to hide away and heals my wounds.
Pulling up to the house, I can see its timeless beauty from the fresh painted shutters to the wraparound porch. It’s so picturesque I sit there for a moment, letting my head rest back against the seat. A sea breeze whips my hair around as I step out of my car and grab my substantial designer suitcase—another gift from Dad—lobbing it up the flight of stairs to the doorway. I sort of anticipated someone greeting me right away and opening the door, but the charming vista probably lacks some of those other amenities I’m used to at five star resorts.
“Well, hello there. You must be Miss Holliday, my evening reservation,” the woman with a gentle voice calls out to me from behind an old wooden counter inside the foyer of the house. I look around, taking in the décor. It’s all subtle colors, white washed woods and soft lines, something my mother would have appreciated. “I’m Madeline,” the woman introduces herself, clutching my hand warmly in her soft one, “but you just go ahead and call me Maddie.” I can’t help but smile at the woman. Her face is kind, and I’m glad I made the reservation here instead of at some overpriced island resort like Lucas had originally wanted. Much of my tension eases in this stranger’s presence.
“Hi, I’m Abigail Holliday. I have a summer reservation with open dates. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying.” I let out a deep breath, feeling relieved.
“Oh my, you look oddly familiar to me. Do you have any family here, my dear?” Maddie cocks her head to the side, studying me strangely. She squints, as if I will turn into an older, taller, blonder version of me. She’s not half wrong either.
“Actually, my mother Judith grew up here, but she’s passed away, some years now. Her maiden name was Love. I’ve probably got a few distant cousins hanging around. This is my first visit.” Thinking about my mother makes my heart hurt. I miss her, but I don’t want to think about her right now. That’s all part of the family shit I’ve worked hard to suppress.
“Well, Abigail, you definitely came to the right place then.” Maddie is sweet and doesn’t press me further, which I’m grateful for. “I’ve got a nice little cottage right on the beach waiting for you. Reservation for two, my dear?” Maddie looks at me and my luggage expectantly. I smile back, shaking my head.
“Just for one,” I correct her, holding back the angry tears.
“Not a problem, dear.” She reaches over the counter and holds my hand, squeezing gently before letting go again.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” She hands me a key and motions for me to follow her. I begin to drag my suitcase along, but she stops me.
“Oh, dear, just leave that. Roman will be by shortly to take that big bag to your room. No need to carry it down the path. It’s a bit uneven right now until he fixes the walkway.” She prattles on pointing to things here and there, but I’m too occupied by the view to listen much. “Poor boy comes home every summer, and all I do is keep him busy with endless repairs.” She laughs and I feel bad for whoever this maintenance guy must be.
“Oh, okay.”
She continues to speak, telling me small bits of information about her B&B, but I’m busy taking in all the fresh air and lack or responsibilities right now. I follow her from the house down a short path through the gravel, sand, and small brush to a little whitewashed cottage. It’s exactly how I pictured it from the website. Little blue shutters frame the windows with small flower boxes and two rocking chairs on the porch, which face the ocean.
I’m standing on the porch in awe as she opens the door. “It’s perfect,” I say, and she smiles delightedly before leaving me to await my baggage. I want nothing more than to sleep the next few days away, read on my Kindle, and lay in the sunshine. Leaving L.A. was a good decision, the best maybe if only I could stop the nagging doubt of my second guesses…
Thanks for reading Elastic Heart! This book was definitely not easy to write, however it might just be my favorite.
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I of course need to thank those who helped me write this story!
Once again I’m thankful for my tight team of betas, they let me know what’s up and what’s not working. Aaly, Katina, Dayna, and Amanda, thank you so much for reading this story when it was rough and ugly. Your words and advice are invaluable to me.
Liz Wiley, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you’re more than a beta and you’re more than a personal assistant. When we met I was so unsure of myself. I was certain my writing was shit, but you kept telling me otherwise. I’m still not certain… but I don’t know where I’d be without you!
Thank you to my editor, Editing by C. Marie. You do a wonderful job and I’m so grateful to have you on my team!
Thank you to my formatter, Formatting by Leigh, for saving my butt! I tried doing it on my own and subsequently crashed and burned. But hey, if you don’t try you’ll never know.
Thank you to all the wonderful writers in the indie world! There are so many writers who have shown me so much support, I could write a second book dedicated to just you guys. I’ve been blessed to be included in groups with wonderful writers who genuinely care about each other. Once again, though, I’m singling out Kristen Hope Mazzola, because you’re a doll. You went out of your way to help me, not because you could get something out of it, but because that’s the kind of genuine person you are.
Unfortunately a lot of bad gets highlighted in the indie world. Drama gets focused on and shit gets flung, but I’m so happy and so grateful to be surrounded by not tens but hundreds of wonderful authors who are beautiful inside and out.
To my Facebook group, Get Hard. We started out small but we’re growing! I love all of you and have such a blast with you. Which brings me to the next group of people to thank: the readers. Thank you to the readers who take time to purchase and read my book! Thank you for leaving reviews on my book! Good or bad, reviews are the life blood of an author. They help me grow and flourish. So thank you! Without the readers I don’t exist. Without you guys, I’m like Tinkerbell sans the clapping.
Thank you to my family. I’m in a very unique situation, I think, in that all of my family, from my extended family to my immediate family, is very supportive. My Grandma Dort has supported me from the beginning and continues to support me. My Mom, my Dad, my Step-Dad, my sister, my brother, my sister-in-law, my brother-in-law, they all support me. I’m so very thankful.
Last but not least, my rock, my foundation, the glue to my inner glue-sniffer, Eric. I’d write a whole sonnet about you, but I have to write my wedding vows in a few months and I don’t want to waste all the good stuff. I love you.
Owned Series
You Own Me (Owned #1)
Let Me Go (Owned #2)
Tied (Owned #2.5) Available in Mouth Rocks the Heart charity anthology
Come To Me (Owned #3) May 2016
The Boogiemen Series
Seven (The Boogiemen #1) September 2016
Standalones
Elastic Heart
Beast Date TBD
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