Free Flesh: A Romance Novel

by Daya Daniels

  He loved me.

  It was as simple as that.

  He even bought me a new truck. A shiny black Ford F-150. I finally said goodbye to the old one my father had given me. It was difficult. But, I did it.

  Then, after I moved in with Austen, we slowly settled into a routine. He cooked often. Most nights Brandon stayed over. We both maintained a cordial relationship with Raine, who stopped being a problem after that famous night. Because as Austen said, she might have wanted him back at one point. But really, she only wanted what was best for Brandon.

  Austen and I did “couple” stuff. We went to the movies. We went out to dinner. We stayed up late at night under the stars and talked. I slept over...the full night. And I knew Austen was grateful I no longer had to run out before the hour of twelve o’clock. There was freedom in finally being able to admit we were a couple. We didn’t have to hide anymore. We did so many simple things together and I loved every second of it.

  I’d forgotten what it felt like to go out to dinner with a man. Or to go to the movies out on a date and really laugh. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone out dancing or went to a party as a plus one, instead of alone.

  I never believed it, but the life I was living back then when I’d first met Austen wasn’t a life at all.

  It was sad and awful and lonely.

  “What are you thinking about, Callie?” Austen’s deep voice cuts into my thoughts. His strong arms wrap around my middle and his warm lips find the shell of my ear. He stirs the coffee in my cup for me and buries his nose into the crook of my neck.

  I lean against his big body and breathe, loving that there’s safety in his hold. And when he wraps his arms around me, I never want him to let me go.

  “Your breakfast is getting cold.” He releases me, then takes my coffee cup with him back to the table.

  I straighten up, spin around and look at my family—my second chance.

  Stuck to the side of the fridge is a photograph of Austen and Brandon—one that had been taken years back on the beach. And next to it is a picture of Trav, Ethan, Noah, and Zac. I swallow down the lump in my throat at the picture that had been taken years before Trav’s accident when we visited Lake Michigan to see Trav’s mother.

  I peer closer at his unforgettable gray eyes and smile. Whenever I look at his face, my heart is flooded with twenty years of memories that I could never forget. And just when I think I’ll break down in tears and get swallowed up by the past, I remember the forty percent rule that Trav always used to speak about.

  The forty percent rule—the Navy SEALs’ secret to mental toughness, which says that when your mind says you’re done, you’re really only forty percent done and that we as humans can tolerate much more than we think.

  I’d remind myself that just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, I wasn’t done. And that if I just pushed myself a bit, I could get through all the rest.

  After Trav died, everyone was left hurting. Especially Ethan, Noah, and Zac but they all empathized with their father better than I did at first. They weren’t angry. And often without saying it, I felt they thought Trav’s ultimate decision had been the best thing, because Trav deserved to have some control over his life.

  It was the one thing that Trav hated the most about being stuck in that wheelchair. The reality that he couldn’t drive. He couldn’t swim. He couldn’t do much of anything on his own without someone assisting him. He was frustrated and angry with the fucking world much of the time. And I understood why.

  When he died, it was like a second death, only this time there was a funeral.

  Because the Trav I’d been married to often felt like he’d died a long time ago.

  I make my way back over to the kitchen table and take a seat. Hunter is mumbling to himself while shoveling bits of strawberry waffle into his mouth. Madison is still immersed in cartoons from where we sit. And Austen is smiling at me.

  I smile back at him and dig into my food.

  When Trav and I were married, I think I’d been in mourning for him when the Navy first sent him home to me with missing body parts. Trav never recovered. And because he didn’t, I had to accept that it didn’t make him weak.

  His struggle meant he was human.

  I didn’t have the right to judge him. I hadn’t lived through what he’d dealt with.

  Trav felt like a burden to all of us—to himself and especially to me.

  After he died, I was angry with him. I screamed. I cried. I even cursed him once or twice for leaving us...for breaking my heart twice.

  But then I think of his words. “I don’t want you to sacrifice for me anymore, Callie. I want you to be happy again,” he’d said that night beneath the fireworks, attempting to soothe my tears. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved. And you’ll be the last girl I’ll ever love, Callie.”

  I believed him. He loved me the best way he knew how.

  And I’d never change one thing about the life we once shared together.

  Austen’s large hand wraps around mine. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I say to him, eyeing over the hot piece of man candy who is now my husband.

  “We love you more, Mommy!” Madison and Hunter shout in unison.

  If Noah, Ethan, and Zac were here I know they’d yell the same thing in their manly voices.

  I giggle, shaking my head at my two munchkins. I observe Austen’s mischievous smirk that I know means his hands will be all over me just as soon as we finish eating breakfast. I stare into his light-brown irises and I’m filled with hope for the future.

  And I know that in taking his own life, as horrific and condemnable his actions might have been, Trav was offering me a gift.

  The gift of freedom to start over and to be happy again...with Austen.

  Because Trav knew I’d never leave him.

  And he was right.

  I would never have let go of him.

  And only Trav knew that for me and him to truly be happy, we both needed to be free.

  -THE END-

  Thank you for reading!

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  I HATE YOU/I LOVE YOU

  A ROMANCE NOVEL

  BY: DAYA DANIELS

  After twenty-one years of marriage, Carter and Mei have grown apart. But the one thing that hasn't diminished is their raw need for each other which at times stirs up complex emotions. When they both decide to call it quits, they're quickly reminded of why they fell so hard for each other from the very beginning.

  But just because you love someone doesn't mean it's meant to be...

  PROLOGUE

  PRESENT DAY – NEW YORK CITY

  CARTER

  STARING AT THE THICK booklet of papers in my hands, I remain fixated on the watery drops that hit them from above with a pitter-patter then dribble down the middle of the white pages to soak my khaki pants.

  She hated these pants—said they reminded her of her mother’s cooking. I never knew exactly what that meant, but that was always how she described these pants—boring, beige, bland—like me at one point during our storied history.

  Finally, I open the umbrella I’m holding. It doesn’t do much to shield my dress shoes from getting wet, but I don’t care.

  This was her favorite place to sit each day after work ended. We’d grab coffee and talk about our eventful days at the office and our plans for the future.

  Plans.

  What the fuck are plans?

  Once upon a time I had many. Now, I have none.

  If it was raining, we’d still come out here. It didn’t matter if the weather was chilly. We’d sit under this very same umbrella, snuggled up like the lovebirds we once were.

  Oh, how she loved the rain...

  It’s five in the afternoon and I’m sitting in Central Park. The cold chills my face, the temperature matching how I’ve felt for the last ten months that I’ve tried to rebuild myself—my life.r />
  Cold. Drenched. Drowning.

  I’ve tried to forget everything, but I can’t. Each time I look at myself in the mirror, I’m reminded of the man I used to be at one of the best times in our lives and I want to reach out and grab him—yank him out from the glass and bring him back to the present, only I can’t. Now, I see the man I am now.

  The good guy. The better guy. The adult.

  And most of the time I want to forget about the man I’ve become in between.

  Fuck that guy.

  I wonder if she looks at her own reflection and thinks the same thing about herself. But I doubt it. “No good could come from changing perfection,” as she’d say. I huff at the memory, unsure if I find it humorous now. Or, if even to this day it had the power to turn me batshit crazy, ready to slaughter her with my eyes. It did.

  I wonder if she remembers who we were before it all happened.

  We’d met in our twenties when we were young and full of life, passion, and hope.

  Things are different now.

  It’s funny. They tell you to build a life together—to change, to settle, to grow up and mature. To do everything they feel is the norm, but what happens when those very things are the catalysts for tearing you apart?

  If someone asked me what happened—what led me to where I sit now, alone—I’d tell them life happened. It’s the only explanation I’d have—nothing deeper, nothing more complex than that statement. Those two little words that destroy lives.

  The rain falls harder. It soaks my socks and turns my beige dress pants a light brown. The material sticks to my thighs, but still I don’t move. I remain frozen on this bench that used to be ours under the September sky.

  Taking a breath so big that my chest expands with the action, I eye the words at the top of the first page: Dissolution of Marriage. Flicking to the second page, I sigh.

  Everything we’ve acquired over the years together is listed here in some fancy font, complete with bolds, underlines, and sections that are highlighted in yellow and red so you don’t miss them.

  Believe me, I see it all!

  The left side neatly itemizes properties, cars, boats, and the right side lists their current value or their sale value, I should say. My entire life is reduced to a booklet. A fucking booklet—bound professionally in blue and white without even one typo in sight.

  This is the end of us.

  Twenty-one years down the toilet because of wrong decisions, reckless actions, poor assumptions, unfair judgments, broken promises, arrogance, selfishness, and impatience. Twenty. One. Fucking. Years.

  Love.

  If I could eradicate the word from the English lexicon myself, I would.

  I accept I’m lost. I’m forty-six years old and have achieved every single success in my life, but I lost the one thing that mattered the most to me.

  Mei.

  She was everything. She is everything to me.

  If only she knew it.

  Adjusting my glasses, I close the pages and hold them tightly in my hands as if they’re my last lifeline.

  I think about the woman I love.

  And how much she loves the rain...

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE WAY IT ALL BEGAN

  MEI

  I PASSED THE MCAT. God, I’m glad it’s over.

  I’m twenty-two years old. I’ve earned my four-year undergraduate degree from Northeastern University. I’ll now be spending the next four years at Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons earning my medical degree.

  Would I ever get out of school?

  Shouldering through the narrow hallways of Edie’s tiny apartment in the East Village, I hold a beer in my hand that I’ve hardly taken two sips from and my hair is saturated with cigarette smoke. I didn’t know why I agreed to come to this shindig. It truly isn’t my scene. Looking around, I only spot laggies and losers—all Edie’s crowd.

  Edie Faust and I grew up together back in Somerville, Massachusetts. We both decided to come to New York City to study and attend medical school. Our personalities are far different. She’s wild and crazy and I’m much more subdued and reserved. It was the reason we decided not to be roommates while living here, but still we spent a lot of time together.

  Despite being on her way to becoming a doctor, her choice of crowd baffles me. This place is filled with weed heads, mouth-breathers, and weirdos. The music blares and more people filter in from outside, struggling to close their umbrellas and shake away the water that has soaked their clothes once they’ve been let inside.

  Walking across the room, I find a spot near a window and stare out. The city is bright, but the lights are slightly obscured by the rain falling. It’s September and starting to turn cold, which dictated my layered outfit tonight. I still want to go outside even with the rain, but I paid a mint for this blowout and I don’t want to ruin my hair.

  Placing my hand on the glass in front of me, I catch my own reflection in it. I’ve always been slim and curvy. My inky-black hair is wavy and falls over my shoulders nearly covering my breasts and my bangs tease my thick lashes. I left my lips bare as always, showing off their naturally pink tinge that I inherited from my mother. A flash of lightning catches the blue in my eyes that I got from my father. Most people I meet wonder if they’re real. They are. My unique features are courtesy of my English/Irish father and my Japanese mother.

  Dragging my fingers through my bangs, I primp myself a bit and slant my head to the side when I’m done. I guess I look attractive. Some man here might find me sexy, but I doubt it. I’ve never been the sexy type, not on the outside anyways.

  Erykah Badu’s “On & On” sounds melodically throughout the apartment. A few people in the corner light up a bong. I roll my eyes. The lights dim, making the night outside seem brighter while I stand like a wallflower in the corner, holding my beer that’s slowly turning warm with the heat in here. I force myself to bob to the music, pretending that I’m having fun when I’m really ready to flee this place like I’m in the middle of Afghanistan. But I’m going to stay, for now. I promised Edie I would.

  “Hey,” a voice says.

  I spin around and nearly crash into a body.

  “Hey, pretty lady,” the random fatty jokes. “Not so fast.” He smiles and I already know he isn’t my type.

  Short. Stocky. Weird.

  He dips down to stare into my face as if I’m a specimen. “I’ve never seen one like you,” he slurs.

  I stiffen. “One like me,” I repeat back to him, wondering if he’d like to be doused in beer tonight.

  “You’re oriental, aren’t you?”

  I give him the stink eye and push past him. “No,” I quip. “An oriental is a fucking rug.”

  Where the hell is Edie?

  Making my way toward the kitchen, the crowd grows thicker, rowdier and the place is filled to the ceiling with smoke. Tomorrow, my hair will reek of weed. I’m certain of it. My blowout was a waste.

  Edie’s holding a tray of crackers and cheese in her hand and two beers high over her head. Her curly black hair bounces around as she flies by me at lightning speed. “Are you having a nice time, Mei?” she asks with a giggle as I follow her.

  “Yeah, it’s cool. I’m going to leave in a little while,” I tell her.

  She delivers everything to a group of people packed together in a corner on a loveseat that I’ve never met before and straightens up, placing her hands on her hips. Her brown eyes flash. “You can’t leave, Mei. You promised you’d stay. It’s Friday,” she whines, running her hand through her hair. “And you look really hot. Plus, you’re showing some tits tonight.”

  I force a smile and look around under the semi-darkness. The music is even louder now and I swear my eardrums are two seconds away from bleeding.

  Leaning in, I shout, “This really isn’t my scene, Edie! I’ll catch up with you tomorrow!”

  She gives me a pathetic look, then checks her watch. “It’s not even twelve. Please hang around for a while.” She picks
up a beer and pops the top, passing it to me. “Please,” she begs.

  Reluctantly, I take it from her and with a huff I guzzle it down. I figure what the heck.

  Slowly, I pad around the tiny apartment for a while, getting more drunk by the minute and by each fresh beer I snatch from Edie as she plays hostess for tonight. Eventually, I make it back over to my original spot. The weirdo is gone, so I have it all to myself. I take a seat in the large windowsill and press my face to the glass.

  “You look like the loneliest girl in the world,” a deep voice says. “What are you looking at out there?”

  I smile before I have a chance to jerk my gaze in the direction of the voice. Truly, I’m ready to tell whoever it is that’s attempting to flirt with me to fuck off, but when I do lift my eyes and open my mouth no words come out.

  He smiles.

  It’s handsome. Assured. Flirty.

  He gives me a wink and I’m treated to the sight of two rows of perfectly straight white teeth when he smiles. He runs a hand through his thick, chocolate hair that’s a little long, brushing his ears and neck. In spite of the fact he’s wearing a Bush T-shirt and jeans, there’s something preppy about this guy, but he’s still hella cool, all-American and sexy. Like the type of guy who should have a guitar slung over one shoulder and a cigarette dangling from between his full lips.

  He bobs his head a few times and steps closer to me under the light. Thick dark brows set atop deep gray eyes that are stormy like the night outside keep my eyes focused on him. My heart pounds in my chest when he leans down and extends his hand.

  “Carter,” he says in his deep voice. “Carter Ashton Bentley Forbes.”

  Four names!

  Slowly, I shift where I sit. A lock of his thick hair tumbles across his forehead when he leans in. I want to brush it away, but I don’t. I only stare at him like a mute, transfixed by the sight of him in front of me.