by M. E. Carter
He let me go because he has a selfless kind of love for me. Or like, anyway. The love will come later, but only if I let it.
“My point is,” Donna says, interrupting my giant epiphany. “I wouldn’t want that former love of my life to know the book is about him any more than you wanted Spencer to know. I get it. It’s why I never, ever, planned to breathe a word about it to anyone.”
I blink a few times as I have another epiphany. What is it with these giant realizations today?
“So what you’re saying is, they made the story up.”
“That would be my guess, yes.”
“His publicist and my publicist got together and made up a story about my feelings and blasted it for the world to see only to garner attention?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Donna reminds me. “Fans have been asking about who your muse is for years. I’d be willing to bet they decided this was the perfect opportunity to use that lingering secret to their advantage. Even if they had to fudge the information a little, or a lot they didn’t really know, and to them it didn’t really matter. This made for a great story.”
“And I confirmed it all by my reaction.” Dropping my head onto my desk with a thud, I’m not sure which hurts more: my forehead or my pride.
She gives me a minute to take a few deep breathes and pull my thoughts together before she finally levels with me completely. “I have a bad feeling you are about to tell me you saw the article, overreacted, and pushed away the first man who has ever gotten your motor revving. Am I right?”
“Maybe?”
She snorts a laugh. “Also known as yes. Look Adi, I’ve known you for a long time. And yes, it has been all on-line and at signings. But even from the pictures, you were so at ease with him. I’ve never seen you look so comfortable in your own skin. Is that something you want to explore further?”
Nailed it.
“Yes.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“To feel confident enough to go for it?”
She huffs in frustration, and I can practically hear her throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Adi, I know you think you’re clumsy and quirky. Those aren’t terrible qualities; they’re endearing. But you are also smart and funny and kind. You are dynamic. And I have news for you. As awesome as Spencer Garrison is, and yes, he is one hot piece of ass, he is also a man. That means he farts on demand, stinks up the bathroom, and probably leaves dirty underwear on the floor.” An unattractive snort comes out of me as she makes me laugh. “He probably forgets his mama’s birthday and flicks boogers when he thinks no one is looking. Because that’s what men do. And you’re laughing because it’s true.”
“He did fart in his sleep one night when we were together. I never told him, but I thought something had died until I realized what it was.”
“Well, there ya go. He’s not as perfect as you like to pretend his is. Also, I wish I could fist-bump you for tapping that.”
My giggles take over, and it feels good to laugh. Really good. Like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Not because I wasn’t betrayed by my friend, but because I somehow know she’s right. Spencer isn’t any more perfect than I am, but I like him anyway. Can’t the same be true for him?
The conclusions I’ve drawn up are not about anything Spencer has done. Hell, the assumptions I made were not about anything Donna has ever done. They’re all about me and my own self-sabotage. Why I do it, well, that’s a question for another day and possibly for a future therapist to figure out. But I have a more immediate problem—how to let Spencer know I need him, and I’m ready to dive into this thing head first. Even if it scares me. Or I break my neck at the bottom of the pool.
And just like that, an idea hits me out of nowhere. With my brain spinning, I have to get off the phone. Now.
“Um, Donna, I don’t mean to be rude, but the writing fog hit me. I think the block is busted.”
She gasps. “Ohmygod, go! Don’t stay on the phone! Get those words down!”
I don’t even say goodbye, just flip my phone shut and grab my laptop.
The idea pours out of me and I write.
And I write.
And I write.
And two days later, Greer has all of her thirty thousand words with more on the way.
Chapter 26
Spencer
One month later
I’ve become accustomed to sunrises in Lexington. Watching them alone has sucked, but there doesn’t seem to be much I can do about that. Kate has called me a borderline stalker for the amount of time I’ve spent online following Aggi’s alter ego. Adeline Snow has enjoyed quite a bit of coffee, her socks have been making appearances on Sunday, and if her hashtags are any indication, she found her words again. I’m proud of her and have typed out more than one text to her with just those words only to delete them.
Time. I promised myself I’d give her time. But I didn’t think she’d really need it. I assumed over these last few weeks she’d at least reach out to me, tag me in a post, comment on one of my posts. Crickets. That’s what I’ve found instead. Using my sister for intel wasn’t easy, so I was forced to come clean with her. The day I admitted my feelings for Aggi or as she knows her, Adeline, I think I may have lost some of my hearing.
Kate assured me that Adeline has been active in her reader group but only to update on the progress of her new book. She’s keeping the premise under wraps but promised it’s going to be the most epic of love stories and the hero is the swooniest of all her leading men. Kate’s words, not mine. And, if I know my girl, not hers either.
The idea that I may be the inspiration for any new character she creates has me a little on edge. And, inspired. I realized if Aggi is writing and planning to publish her book after the whole muse-gate fiasco, then I need to take her lead and handle my own shit.
I’ve officially announced my retirement. I promised to fulfill my commitments over the next year but by next summer I want to be spending more of my time with my foundation and traveling the country speaking to and working with kids. I’ve even brought on a new marketing person/creative director who is looking to expand our programs to include a new focus on children with special needs.
Rising from my seat on the patio, I take my coffee cup to the sink and rinse it before placing it in the dishwasher. A quick look at the clock on the fridge, and I decide it’s a reasonable enough time to call my sister. She has a few rugrats who have probably had her up and wishing it was happy hour for at least an hour.
Tapping Kate’s contact, I tread down the hall to the office just as she answers the phone. “Come take these hellions, please.”
“Is that anyway to talk about your precious babies?”
“Yes, I birthed them. I can call them what I like. Seriously, please come visit and be uncle of the year for at least three days. Reed and I need a break.”
“Depends on what kind of intel you have for me.” Kate begins to respond with what I’m sure is a smart-ass remark but a crash and a scream in the background distracts her.
“I swear these kids are sending me to an early grave. I have to go, there’s syrup everywhere and your niece thinks she can make syrup angels like snow angels. I’ll call you back.”
You’d think calls like this would be instant birth control for me. They aren’t. If anything, it makes me want a family more than before. I just hope whatever gene the kids inherited to act like monkeys in the zoo is from Reed’s family and not ours.
Looking up at the pictures on my credenza, one of which is Kate and me at an actual zoo as kids, I laugh. Nope, probably our family. No matter, I’m ready to take that step in my life.
Minutes turn to hours before Kate calls me back with an update. “I really hate that you make me do this, you know?”
“Liar, you love it.”
“You’re right. Okay, Adi posted last night that she typed “the end.” First, I hate that I can’t even fucking read this book because now I’ll always envision your sorry ass as
the hero, and my eyes will have to be bleached if there’s a sex scene. So, thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome. Continue,” I say, leaning back in my desk chair, feet propped on the desk with my ankles crossed.
“Well, she finished her manuscript. Actually, hold on . . .” I hear a click here and there in the background and then a snort. “She’s a sneaky one. She posted her word count last week and then again last night with the post she finished. It’s the same number. She finished this book a week ago but only told us last night. I wonder why she did that?”
“What else?” I ask, skirting right past her monologue, I don’t care when she finished it, only what she’s going to do now.
“That’s it. There’s nothing else. But, that’s not uncommon. So many authors burn the midnight oil and push themselves. It’s likely she hasn’t had a hot meal or a shower in a week. She could sleep for the next three days and not even realize it.”
Sighing, I stand from the chair and walk to the kitchen for something to drink. Glancing at the clock I looked at this morning, I note it’s closer to dinner time than lunch.
“Spence?”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you call her? I mean, you obviously care about what she’s up to and how she is. The time you spent together, it sounds like more than friendship or colleagues.”
It was. I can’t tell my sister that though. How do I explain the level of my feelings to her when I’ve barely scratched the surface with Aggi herself? Sure, I told her we became friends. I relayed stories of our stops across the country, the crazy fans, and everything the public already knows about. I kept the intimate and real moments we shared between us. Our time here in my home, our nights making love, and the day at the Hall of Fame. Those moments are ours and ours alone, something I’m holding close to the vest until I can talk to Aggi.
“Maybe I’ll call her this weekend.”
Scoffing, Kate accuses me of being a liar and then begins catching me up on the kids and what everyone is up to. She may have wanted to sell them this morning but now she can’t stop sharing their milestones.
A bell rings through the house. The front gate.
“Kate, I have to go. Someone’s at the gate. I’ll look at my calendar and plan a visit soon, okay?”
“Okay, bye baby bro.”
Ending the call, I push the call button for the gate as I switch the screen on to see who is there.
“May I help you?” I ask into the microphone as a man leans out the window of a van with writing on the side.
“I’m with Rapid Delivery Services and have a delivery for Spencer Garrison.”
Freddy mentioned he’d be sending a few boxes of stuff I have to sign for a charity auction, so I buzz the guy through. I swear if one of the items in these boxes is a life-size cutout of me again, I’m sending Freddy an ant farm. Minus the farm.
Outside I hear a car door close followed immediately by a second door before there are footsteps on the porch. Before the delivery guy can knock, I open the door and the person before me surprises me.
Aggi.
Damn she’s a sight for sore eyes. The vision before me is the perfect combination of Agnes Sylvester and Adeline Snow. Her long hair is down in soft waves falling across her shoulders where she’s sporting a light pink sweater covering a T-shirt that says something about being a book nerd. A pair of form-fitting jeans clad her amazing legs while a pair of black and white Chucks finish her look. She’s nerdy chic and absolutely perfect.
“Hi.” Her voice is quiet as a slight smile graces her face. I start to respond but notice a box in her hand.
“What are you doing here?”
“Delivering a package?” It’s a question not a statement although she’s holding a package and there’s a delivery man standing behind her. “If you want me to go, I will but I need to let Charlie know so he can finish his route.” I look behind her to the man I assume is Charlie. He’s standing far enough back to give us privacy, but the way he’s shifting I can tell he’s ready to run.
“I don’t want you to go, Aggi. Charlie?” The man nods. “I’ve got this. Thanks for the delivery.” My gaze drops to my girl and I wink as a blush creeps across her cheeks.
We stand staring at each other as Charlie hops in his van and pulls away. A few seconds tick by and then Aggi clears her throat, pulling me from my thoughts. Or my staring is more like it.
“Oh, shit. Sorry. Come in. Let me take this for you,” I offer as I take the box from her hands and step aside to let her in the house. She tentatively steps forward, and I allow myself a quick glance down her body as she does.
“Can I get you something to drink? A glass of wine or water?”
“No, no thank you. I didn’t think this through. I guess I’m kind of stuck here now.” She pulls her finger between her teeth nervously. “Do you think a ride share will come all the way out here? Is there a taxi service in town? I’m staying at the little Bed ’n’ Breakfast in town.”
“Let’s worry about that later.” Nodding, a look of relief crosses her face, and I smile as I place the box on the table and take her hand in mine, pulling her to me. I could do more small talk or ask her what she’s doing here in Lexington, but I don’t. She’s here. She came to me. That’s all I want to focus on now.
She lands against me with an oomph as I cup her cheeks with my hands and lean down to kiss her. My lips are light as they brush hers, a test to see how she responds. Her grip on my forearms is strong and I take that as an invitation to increase our kiss. Licking the crease of her lips, I beg her to open with my movements and she rewards me quickly. The moment our tongues meet, it’s hotter than the warmest Texas summer day. Her breaths are fast and match my own as our kiss deepens. Bending, I pick her up and wrap her legs around my hips as I walk us to the couch.
She lets me devour her mouth and pull her closer to me. Chest to chest, our hearts beat in tandem and I need more. Before I can make a move, Aggi pulls back, breaths labored and cheeks flushed, she looks drunk. Drunk on me. On us.
“I . . . I brought you something.”
Chuckling, I place my hand to the back of her head and pull her lips to mine again but after a quick peck, she pulls back again.
“Please, Spencer. I need—”
She doesn’t finish her statement and instead hops off my lap, almost kneeing me in the balls before she gasps, and I smile and wave her off. Some things don’t change. Whispering “Sorry,” she scampers off to retrieve the box on the table.
“I need you to open this.”
Shifting myself on the couch, finding some relief from the wood I’m sporting, I take the box from her hands and tap the spot next to me on the couch. Climbing on the couch to the space next to me, she kneels and watches intently as I open the box. Tossing the lid aside, I look down at a . . . binder? She brought me a binder.
“A binder?”
Smiling, she says, “Open it.”
Flipping the binder open, I look down at the first page.
Switch Stance
A Sports Romance
By Agnes Sylvester
“What is this?”
“It’s our story. Well, it’s my perspective of us. Of our time together and how I feel. About you. About us. That title seemed sort of perfect.” She clears her throat and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “Since, you know my natural instinct is to run away from intense feeling, and this time I had to change directions to get where I wanted. Maybe they’ll change the title, or something, I don’t know . . .”
Her words peter out as I look back down at the binder and start flipping the pages. Page after page are words upon words. It’s her book. Her book is about us.
“I don’t understand.” I sound like a moron because it’s clear she wrote a book. A book about us.
“I freaked, Spencer. I have lived in my head for so long with you as my fantasy. You were always this unattainable celebrity and, in most cases, an inspiration for the characters I wrote. I won’t go into
details on how you inspired some of my most beloved male characters, but you did. Then you came into my life for real, and it was more than I could have imagined. You didn’t think I was a complete idiot or embarrassment. You saw the real me and you didn’t dismiss me. I had all these feelings I couldn’t process. How much of what I was feeling was the version of you I had made up in my head, in my characters, and how much was real? Then the muse thing happened, and I was mortified. I assumed I’d been betrayed by a friend and that everyone in the world, or the book world at least, would know what a complete fraud I was.”
“Sweetheart, you are not a fraud. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“I know. I mean, I don’t know, but I’m trying. Regardless, it’s how I was feeling. And I freaked out. I was in my own head, and I refused to hear what you were saying. I’d been blocked for so long and I was doubting my ability as a writer on top of everything else.”
“And this?” I ask, pointing to the binder.
“I got out of my own way. I let myself believe it all, and the writing fog came. I wrote and wrote until my fingers cramped. I dictated when I couldn’t type another word. I put everything I felt, that you’d said to me. I put it all to paper and the result is this.”
“It says Agnes Sylvester.”
“That’s for you. The final draft submitted to my editor says Adeline Snow. But for you, I wanted you to have this from me. The real me. The one you see. The one I am when I’m with you. I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
Tossing the binder aside, I pull Aggi back into my lap and kiss her with all that I am, all that we are, and all that I know we’ll be. Pulling back, looking at my girl, I smile. “You owe me a lot of nights, baby.”
A shy smile is my response, and I take it as an invitation as I stand and put her over my shoulder in a fireman’s hold. We make it three steps down the hall to my room when she kicks the wall and knocks a picture off the wall.