“But that’s just filler information. You know why I’m here. I need to learn the other part of my business—the wine part. It just doesn’t seem right to take this gift from Hew without you on board with the idea.” There is silence, of course. “This is the part in the movie where you give me a sign—a rain cloud opening up and pouring on me, or even the cliché lightning strike—but not too close. I’m tired of being in the hospital.”
But still there is nothing. And I take the silence as a no.
“It’s okay, I get it. I’m not sure if I’m ready to let go yet either. I mean, I feel like I’m leaning that way, and I know you’d be okay with it, want me to move on and all that, but it’s not easy.”
I don’t talk anymore. I just finish my sandwich, then lie down next to him in the sunshine, partly covered by the shade of the tree. Above me, birds hop from one branch to the next, building a nest. I lace my fingers behind my head and stretch my legs while enjoying the warmth on my face.
Relaxed, I close my eyes and fall asleep, only to wake up sometime later to a loud bang. I shoot straight up and look around. The gardener’s here now; a ride-on lawnmower rumbles beneath him. Cut grass and dust shoots from the side of the machine into the air. I think it must have backfired and woken me. I feel groggy but need to get back home.
Reluctantly I collect my things, shove them into my backpack, and shrug the straps over my shoulders. I kiss my fingertips, then reach down and rub the smooth top of Bren’s headstone.
“I had fun today. I’ll see you next week.” Since Bren didn’t give me a sign, I’ve decided not to go to France. If he’s not ready, then I’m not ready.
I walk to my bike, passing a group of gardeners, and say, “Hi.” I nod to them, but they’re snickering, and I have no idea why. I ignore them, find my bike, and head back home. When I pull up to the house, Dad and Mom are in the front yard planting flowers. I stop near them, set my bike on its side, and kneel down to help them.
“How was your visit?” Mom asks without looking at me as she presses dirt down around the base of a pansy. I lean in to help.
“Bren talked my ear off.”
They each give me a sideways glance.
“Just kidding. I swear.” I hold up my palms. That’s when they both sit up and stare at me, then begin laughing hysterically. My dad laughs so hard that his face turns bright red and tears rolls down his cheeks.
“I knew I was funny,” I say slowly, looking from one to the other in confusion, “but I didn’t know I was that good.”
Dad places a hand on my shoulder. “Trust me, honey, you’re not that good.”
“Then why are you laughing?” I look between them.
“Do yourself a favor and go inside and look in the mirror.”
I raise my eyebrow at this, but jump up and run up the stairs. Just inside the front door, a mirror hangs on the wall. When I see my reflection, I scream and then burst out laughing, too. My hair and dress are covered in bird crap.
I laugh . . . I laugh so hard it hurts. It feels good. Bren sent zombie birds after me while I was sleeping; I know it. This is his sign.
Chapter 59
He
I’m sitting on a bench in Paris, looking across the Seine River. Tourists shuffle across Rue Lagrange, making their way toward Notre Dame Cathedral. I’ve been roaming the streets admiring the details of the architecture all morning.
If Shea decided to come to France, I have no way of knowing. We didn’t have the same flights, and I haven’t talked to her mom since before I sent the birdhouse. For all I know Shea could have thrown the thing out. But if she did come, I couldn’t stand the thought of her being here without me, even if we never see each other.
I’m still hung up on her smile, our time together, and the way we are when we’re together. For some reason, being in the same city, looking at the same Eiffel Tower, the same Arc de Triomphe, and the same stars at night gives me comfort. I tell myself it’s not stalking if I don’t seek her out, but I toss a pressed penny into every fountain I see, asking destiny to send her my way one more time if it’s meant to be. And I apologize for calling her a bitch.
After a while, I stand up and dip my head into the loop of my camera strap, then settle it on my chest. I stroll the path along the Seine, snapping shots of the architecture, the river, the bridges, and the people sunning along the banks or painting at easels. Paris is alive and beautiful. It’s Shea’s kind of day.
I wander to the Louvre, which is even busier. I mill around the plaza, looking for the best shot of the glass pyramid, designed by one of my favorite architects, I. M. Pei. At the perfect spot I crouch and lift the camera to my face. Through the viewfinder, I find perfection but it’s not in the architecture—it’s a woman standing in the water in the middle of a large fountain that wraps around the glass triangle. She dances with slow, graceful movements, beckoning the crowd gathered around her to cheer at her show. A security guard yells in her direction but she ignores him. I walk to the fountain to get a closer view. She spins, arms spread wide, disturbing the still water, but stops when she sees me. She raises and lowers her arms like wings of a bird as she glides toward me until we’re face-to-face.
“Hi,” she says. I didn’t realize when I wished for Shea by throwing pressed pennies in every fountain that I would actually find her in one. Destiny works in mysterious ways.
“Hi.” I grin and watch her struggle to step out of the fountain. I reach out my hand, helping her to the ground where she’s dripping wet, wearing a tank top and days-of-the-week underpants. She drops a pink backpack on the ledge.
“Every time I see you, you’re wearing something unexpected,” I say, remembering the conversation when we first met.
“How many times have you seen me?” Shea wrings out her shirt and pulls it over her head. Wearing only her bra and panties, she’s completely comfortable with her near nudity, and she has every reason to be. Every milky curve of her body is still utter perfection.
“Too many times to count,” I offer from our original script.
“Really?” She leans away from me to dig into her backpack, and I see her panties have MERCREDI embroidered on the ass. Wednesday in French. This girl still makes me smile, which is what I’ve missed most about our time together. She turns and shrugs into a gingham sundress that makes her look fresh and radiant.
“I think destiny keeps pushing us together,” I tell her.
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug.
“I have a confession to make.”
She shoots me a sideways glance. “I guess it’s good that we get these little confessions out of the way. Maybe that’s what we do on this trip. We only tell the truth.”
“I came to Paris hoping that we might meet.”
“Shocking. That’s not much of a confession.” She wraps her hair into a bun. “But just remember, we’re just hanging out and having fun, no attachments, no e-mails or texts after whatever this is is over.” She jabs a pointed finger in my direction.
“Your statement implies that we’ve started a ‘whatever this is.’” I raise an eyebrow.
“We have. We’re friends. That’s all.” She slices the air with her hand. “I just want you to know that I forgive you, that I want to know the real you, and then we can see where this goes.” She shrugs as if what she just said didn’t just change the trajectory of my life for the better.
I’m beaming inside, but trying to play it cool, I say, “I accept your rules.” I can’t believe she’s standing in front of me, talking to me. “So if we’re friends now, don’t you think we should introduce ourselves?”
“You first.” She juts her head in my direction.
“I’ll do you one even better. I’ll tell you my name and one truth about myself.”
She agrees to this with an unsure nod.
I reach out my hand. “Hi, my name is Hew and I have a drinking problem, but I’m doing all I can to fight it.”
Her eyes widen. She, of course, knows my truth already
, but I’m unsure if she has researched my real name. “Your name is really Hew? You didn’t lie?”
“Who in the world would purposely choose to be named after a computer?”
“True.” She laughs. “It’s a very uncool name.”
Everything I told her from the beginning was the truth because all I’ve ever wanted was to know her, have her know me, and fall forever into her radiant little world. It’s all I wanted since we met. She is my addiction now.
“I warned you when I bought the lottery ticket that I wasn’t good with the dreaming stuff.”
“You still have it?”
I slap my back pocket. “It still goes unchecked, and I still continue to dream about what you and I could do with that money.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Hew. Mr. Possible-millionaire.” She bites her lip and finally lifts her hand, fitting it perfectly within my grasp. The energy we once shared is still there, surging from me and into her. I’m reminded of how we were, and the possibility of what we could be again.
“So now it’s your turn.” I look at her.
“Okay. My truth first.” She rolls her eyes. “In San Francisco, when I was supposed to drive to either the fortune cookie factory or the Palace of Fine Arts, I drove to both places. I wanted to spend more time with you.”
“You didn’t leave it to destiny?” I’m giddy inside, knowing that she made the conscious choice to be with me. My heart swells.
“Of course not. She’s a bitch.”
We laugh.
“And your name?” I press her, wanting to hear her say it. Of course I know it already, but if she tells me this time, I know she’s truly forgiven me, giving me a chance to make things as right as I can between us.
I focus on her lips, waiting for what feels like eternity. Her mouth forms the shape of a circle, releasing the sounds, and as she does, everything around me slows. When her real name finally rolls over her tongue, I see our past, I see our future, and the all-consuming love I feel for her.
But most importantly, I see Hope.
THE END
Reviews
If you enjoyed Hew and Shea’s story, please take a moment to write a spoiler-free review on the site where you purchased the book. By sharing your feelings in a review, on your blog, on social media, or with a friend about the book, you support this independent author.
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Author’s Note
To my knowledge, the mental illness Shea suffers from and is treated for in this story is fictitious. Real-life research and case studies were an inspiration, but I bent and shaped the information for the needs of this novel. If you would like to read in depth about similar topics, refer to the extensive textbook, Delusional Disorder: Paranoia and Related Illnesses by Alistair Munro.
Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for alcoholism. It is a real disease that affects many families. If you know someone who suffers from substance abuse and you need assistance, please contact www.aa.org, or find a treatment center here:
www.findtreatment.samhsa.gov
Acknowledgments
A big thank-you goes out to my beautiful beta readers. They are my super troopers, suffering through incomplete, error-ridden drafts that bear no resemblance to the final product. Thank you for telling me when I suck because you only make me better. I love you! Tabitha Preast, Jenn Sterling, Michelle Mankin, Amy Bettwy, Nikki Shaw, Melissa Brown, Melissa Perea, and Deena Baily Graves.
Pam Berehulke from Bulletproof Editing is my extraordinarily kind, patient, and talented editor I want to tell every author about, but also hide her away because I want to keep her all to myself. I’m greedy that way. Thank you, Pam, for your awesomeness!
And to my husband, Warren (the namesake of my pen name), who always gets the short end of the stick: I owe you for all the evenings you sucked it up with takeout (though you know any food is better than mine), and the nights you gave up and went to bed without me while I tapped away on your laptop. You handed over our precious time so I could pursue my passion. And most importantly, you gifted me the five-year anniversary trip to San Fran that inspired this book about the city we love. When we saw the naked bikers, visited the Palace of Fine Arts, bought dirty fortune cookies, drank wine in Napa, and cruised the California coast, you and our love inspired me.
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About the Author
Michelle Warren didn’t travel the road to writer immediately, first she spent over a decade as a professional illustrator and designer. Her artistic creativity combined with her love of science fiction, paranormal, and fantasy led her to write her first YA novel, Wander Dust. Michelle loves reading and traveling to places that inspire her to create. She resides in downtown Chicago.
Other books by Michelle Warren include:
THE SERAPHINA PARRISH TRILOGY:
Wander Dust
Protecting Truth
Seeing Light
COMING FALL 2014:
Miami Hush Club
Contents
Copyright
1. He
2. She
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Reviews
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Keep in Touch
He + She Page 21