Becoming His

by Mariah Dietz

  His Series, Book One

  Books by Mariah Dietz

  His Series

  Becoming His

  Losing Her (coming March 1, 2015)

  For my boys, who remind me every day that anything is possible,

  and everything should be tried.

  Thump, thump. Thump, thump. My quiet strides are the only sounds I can hear aside from the music pouring softly through my ear buds. Along with the exertion of my muscles, it helps to make me feel nearly euphoric. Some people meditate to find peace and tranquility, me— I run.

  Rounding the corner, I take a deep breath of the already warm morning air and my eyes focus on a growing shadow. Slowing my pace, I look up and see a guy in his early twenties, standing around six feet, with sandy blond hair sticking out in an organized disarray. He’s fairly muscular in black mesh shorts and a bright green cut-off T-shirt. After a quick glance, it’s obvious he works out a decent amount … that or he’s a juicer. It’s always a viable possibility here in Southern California, even in the small town my parents live in.

  His mouth moves as I come to a stop, careful to maintain a ten-foot gap between us before I pull an ear bud free.

  “Sorry?” I ask, noticing his raised eyebrows over eyes which are the very definition of hazel with dark blue edges that lighten to green and darken to a soft amber.

  The small smile on his lips spreads. “I said you must be Ace.” My head tilts slightly as I give him a once-over, trying to recall if I know him. I’ve been gone all year for college, but I returned home nearly every weekend and don’t recognize this guy.

  “Must be?” I silently wish I’d brought my family’s Newfoundland, Zeus, with me—not that he’d do anything more than possibly lick him to death. Still, his one hundred and seventy-five pounds usually serves as a pretty good deterrent to most.

  The guy’s smile grows even wider, making a small, jagged scar that runs through the edge of his bottom lip and stops midway to his chin more prominent. He doesn’t exactly scream axe murderer, but I’m guessing that most don’t. He takes a step closer and my eyes quickly flit around the empty park surrounding us as my fingers roll my freed ear bud.

  “Sorry, my name’s Jameson, Jameson West …” he says, obviously sensing my unease. “Sharon told me about you girls. You’re a Bosse, right? She told me you’re one of five.” Round, surprised eyes await my confirmation.

  I stare at him, waiting for what always comes when someone learns that I have four sisters—the same trademark comments and questions. Had they been trying for a son? No. Do you girls fight all the time? Not really. Do you all look alike? We don’t, other than having our mother’s blond hair and being built fairly similarly.

  The questions don’t come. Instead, awkwardness taints the air between us as I wonder how he knows Sharon.

  “She said you’re all blond,” he adds, breaking the silence and lifting a hand to his own hair, as if he’s translating the words for me. “That’s what gave you away.”

  Sharon’s our next door neighbor and my mom’s best friend. She and her three sons have lived beside us for nearly ten years now. She also works at Saint Andrews with my father where they’re both thoracic surgeons. Sharon specializes with lungs, and my father, the heart. My dad, who’s worked with her on multiple occasions over the years, built a solid professional relationship, but my mom and Sharon didn’t really become friends until the last couple of years when her youngest son Max moved away.

  They started a book club and began playing Bunco with a group of women, which evolved into spending most of their free time together with a bottle of wine … or two, accompanied by lots of giggling and gossiping. The reality that we never really outgrow this behavior both relieves and concerns me greatly.

  My eyebrows rise, wondering just how much Sharon told him about me. “At least half of Southern California is blond.”

  His smile turns playful, “Mr. Janes also told me you’d be down here when I left this morning. Told me I should watch out for you because it’s not safe to be running alone.” He turns his head, making a point of looking around the empty field.

  Does he know all my neighbors?

  “I’m Max’s friend.” He takes another step, bridging what’s becoming a very small gap between us, and extends his hand to me.

  “Nice to meet you.” His hand is rough with calluses extending from his fingers that touch the back of my hand. “Are you visiting Sharon alone?”

  His eyes widen. “No,” he answers automatically. His ivory cheeks color with a faint blush as he shakes his head but keeps his smile in place. “No. I transferred down here with Max. We’re here for the summer until school starts.”

  This surprises me. True, it’s my first full day back home after visiting my grandparents with my dad and sister in France for the past two weeks, but I’m shocked my mom didn’t mention Max returning. It isn’t like her at all.

  “I met your mom yesterday. She mentioned you and your sister … Kylie?” His forehead creases as he offers her name, lacking confidence.

  “Kendall.”

  Jameson’s lips quirk in an apologetic grin as he nods. “Kendall, that’s right. She said you two would be able to show us around.” The brightness of his eyes tells me he’s teasing, but I’m certain his words hold truth. My mother is a southern debutante, born and raised in the great state of Texas—a nationality in of itself in her book. Being hospitable and polite is ingrained so deeply in her, she isn’t always aware of boundaries.

  “Yeah, absolutely. We’d be happy to help in any way we can.” It’s also ingrained in us girls. Thanks, Mom.

  He motions to the track with a nod. “Can I join you?”

  “Sure,” I reply on instinct, even though I do mind. Running is something I prefer to do alone, or with Zeus.

  I don’t bother turning my music back on as we begin at a slow jog. After a few laps, our pace increases, and the air is filled with the sound of our heavy breaths and feet echoing off the synthetic rubber.

  Coming up on my house, I break free from our steady jog through the neighborhood. “I’ll see you around,” I huff. Generally I walk home as my cool down period, but space is easily filled with talking when you walk, so I ensured the absence of conversation by pushing harder, making us both winded.

  “Yeah. I’ll see you soon, Ace!”

  The sun seeping through my shades reveals my older sister Kendall sprawled across my bed, fast asleep. Even at twenty-one she has a strong aversion to being alone for any length of time, so although she wasn’t here when I left a little over an hour ago, I’m not surprised to find her wrapped in my blankets.

  I take a fast shower and dress before climbing in beside her and quickly finding sleep.

  The familiar murmur of voices floating up the stairs clears the rest of my sleep. Kendall’s disappeared and the sun casts long shadows in my room from the one window I keep uncovered, mocking me for sleeping most of the day away.

  I peel myself from the warmth of my bed and head toward the epicenter of voices. It’s Sunday, which means it’s family night at my parents’ house—a weekly tradition we rarely miss.

  “Oh, you brought macaroons home. Daddy, I love you too!” I hear my sister Savannah sigh as I round the corner and see her engrossed with the large white box etched with elegant French script.

  “Those are the chocolate hazelnut ones.” I point to the back corner of the box to indicate her favorite.

  “Oh, Ace!” Savannah’s bright blue eyes shine with tears as she stands up and wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. Pregnancy hormones have increased my second to oldest sister’s constant need for affection. “I’m so bummed I didn’t get to go with you guys! I want to hear all about it!” She pulls back and eyes that match our mother’s and sister
s’ slowly scrutinize my face before lifting to my brown ones, concluding her brief assessment. I smile in assurance of whatever she seems to be seeking and run a hand across her belly.

  “Babe, you’ve been to France how many times? Do you really think anything’s changed?” I look up to catch her husband, Caulder, approaching us with my other brother-in-law Kyle.

  Kyle’s eyes widen as he nearly stumbles to break his stride and separates himself from Caulder, knowing from his own pregnancy experience that his question isn’t going to be well received.

  Savannah’s eyes focus on Caulder in an icy glare. “I still want to hear about it, my family’s there.”

  Caulder seems to realize his error as his brown eyes turn somber. “I’m sorry, babe, you’re right … and in a couple years when baby Alex is big enough, we’ll all go,” he says, placing a hand on Savannah’s six-month bump.

  “More like Alexandra,” I tease, selecting a pink macaroon from the box.

  “It’s a boy. He likes good music, riding in my truck, and he goes crazy when he hears motorcycles,” Caulder insists.

  “Uh oh. Alexandra’s going to be into bad boys. You better be prepared,” I sing, winning a smile from Savannah and a scowl from Caulder.

  “Y’all really should just find out, I’m tired of buying yellow.” My mom adds from where she and my dad are preparing things for dinner.

  “I think Ace is right. I think it’s a girl,” Savannah says, looking down at her growing stomach in adoration.

  I grin, gazing up at Caulder with a gloating expression that he returns with an eye roll. Caulder’s the newest member of our family. He and Savannah celebrated their second wedding anniversary just last month. He grew up with a sister himself; however there are days I can tell that having a single sister in no way prepared him for our estrogen-filled house.

  Kendall had a difficult time understanding our older sister’s draw to Caulder initially. Savannah’s always been very sweet and soft spoken, with a strong draw to children that led her to teaching kindergarten. Caulder’s very serious, to the point of being almost stiff and awkward at times. However, I’d known from the moment I met Caulder that he and Savannah would be perfect for one another. They’re like yin and yang: Where she sees possibility, he sees risk; where she leans toward new ventures, he gravitates toward familiarity. But neither stifles the other; they balance each other.

  “Is Abby coming tonight?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah, she leaves Tuesday, so she’s staying the night,” I reply, finishing my macaroon off.

  “We’ve got to get her to call you Ace. I still look around to see who in the hell she’s talking to when I hear her call you Harper,” Kyle says, prodding through the macaroons.

  “It is my name.”

  “But you’re Ace.” He looks up from the box with a hint of sadness in his eyes. He’s right. Prior to college I was always Ace. Even in school, teachers and parents alike called me Ace, just like my friends. Transitioning to Harper took some adjusting because the only time I used to hear it, it was accompanied by my middle name—Jo—generally following one of my few acts of rebellion.

  I’ve known Kyle since I was six, providing him with a reason to be a little confused. My oldest sister Mindi had taken me to the park near our house with a couple of her friends as an excuse to watch the high school boys practicing football. I had quickly grown bored of the mundane task of sitting still and not bothering them, and eventually got distracted and left them in search of something entertaining. It didn’t take long before I couldn’t see Mindi, or the direction from which I’d travelled. I was crying and wandering aimlessly when Kyle found me. He took my hand and we set off to find Mindi with a trail of his bad jokes in our wake.

  When we found her, she was so worked up, fearing something had happened to me she hadn’t even realized I was still gripping Kyle’s hand when she flung her arms around me. However, her stress seemed to dissipate faster than it should’ve once she did finally notice him. After that, I can hardly recall him not being around. They began dating the following week and he became a permanent fixture in our house and family albums, becoming like a brother to me and the rest of my sisters, and a son to my parents.

  Kyle and I have always had a special connection, sharing a passion for running, soccer, and my family. Where Savannah is sweet, and probably too nice, Mindi has the tendency to be a bit dramatic, rivaling Kendall with being both bossy and loud. On top of that, she was born a perfectionist, something I’m intimately familiar with since it’s one of the few traits that I, too, received from our mom.

  “Where’s Min and the girls?” I ask, noticing Savannah looking precariously close to tears again and realizing we need to make a U-turn out of memory lane.

  “They’re at a birthday party. What four-year-old has their party at a nail salon?” he cries. “I mean seriously.”

  “Mom!” Kendall yells, making both Kyle and I sink back a little further into the kitchen. Kendall’s well-known for needing her sleep, and her tone makes it apparent that she’s in need of more. “Have you seen my white skirt?”

  “Kyle, the girls are here,” my mom announces as she shoves a bag of pink, heart-shaped marshmallows in my hands.

  “She’s been cravin’ these, and she’s been in sort of a mood lately,” she says, giving me an intense look that serves as a warning. I raise my eyebrows and nod before following Kyle outside, hearing my mom yell a response to Kendall before the door closes behind us.

  Mindi’s working to unlatch my three-year-old niece Jade from her car seat as I approach, allowing a large gap between us. Unlike Savannah, Mindi hates all physical contact while she’s pregnant.

  “You need to stop wiggling! I don’t know why the sky’s blue. It just is. But right now, you need to stop wiggling!”

  “Hey, Min,” I say, trying my best to sound friendly and undeterred by her obvious agitation.

  “Auntie Ace!” Jade’s words sound like a song.

  “Auntie Ace, can I go let Zeus out?” Mindi and Kyle’s oldest daughter, Emily, asks, hopping to a stop in front of me, her bright blue eyes round, shining with excitement.

  “Yeah, I think he’s in the backyard.” Both girls race across the lawn, their blond hair dancing behind them. They shriek and giggle as my dad chases them to the back gate.

  “Are those …”

  I look to see Mindi staring at the bag of marshmallows I’m still holding. I don’t hesitate in presenting them to her. She snatches them and tears into the bag, instantly shoving two in her mouth before looking up at me. Her forehead relaxes, and her eyes close with a look of content.

  “Thank you,” she garbles, covering her full mouth with her fingers.

  A loud muffler rips through the air. Mindi and I turn to see a shiny black motorcycle pull into the driveway beside ours. “Who’s that? Is that Hank? Oh my god, I look so fat today! Please don’t let it be Hank.” Mindi’s voice is a plea as she sidesteps so that she’s mostly behind me.

  “Max, welcome home, son! It’s good to see you.” My dad calls before the helmet fully reveals his face. Zeus shoves himself between Mindi and me, so I’m forced to take a step forward to catch my balance, and I hear a vaguely familiar voice.

  “Hey, Mr. Bosse, it’s good to be home and feel some sun.”

  A soft thump beside me diverts me attention, and I see Mindi’s bag of marshmallows lying on the grass between us. Zeus quickly inhales one that’s rolled beside him, and I move to grab the bag before he can get it. I straighten and reach forward to hand her what seconds ago seemed like her reason for breathing, to see that she’s completely oblivious, her focus transfixed next door.

  “Dear lord, what do those boys drink? I want some.”

  Max has been my neighbor since I was ten. He’s only two years older than me, the same age as Kendall, however, he’s never paid much attention to any of us Bosse girls. Kendall had made it her personal mission to bait him one summer, spending an exorbitant amount of time and energy thinking up w
ays to catch his attention. Me, being the youngest, and her partner in crime, had assisted in many of her missions, but he never did more than give us the briefest of acknowledgments. Eventually she lost interest.

  I like to blame the fact that I paid too much attention to Max, watching his movements and activity over the years, because of my role in playing wingman, but that’s only a half truth. Something about him has always intrigued me. He always remained slightly distant, looking at everyone with an edge of suspicion.

  When Kendall and Max started high school, two summers after her failed attempt to catch his attention, she was bent out of shape for a while when Max began dating nearly every girl in their class. She brushed it off, calling him a manwhore, and focused her sights elsewhere, but I continued to watch.

  I turn and follow Mindi’s gaze, and my eyes widen as I stand frozen in a moment of awe. Max has always been attractive, hence the many girls going home with him. He’d always been more built than the other guys in school. I’d quickly learned it was partly out of necessity; he and his two older brothers—who we used to refer to as Hank the Tank and Billy the Bully—would work out with each other incessantly, and then beat each other senseless. I recall my mom screaming for my dad to go break up another one of their knock-down, drag-out fights, certain that one of them was going to kill the other on multiple occasions. They never did; however gashes and bruises were frequently worn.

  Before becoming better friends with Sharon, my mom deducted it was because Max and his brothers didn’t have a father, and therefore they were competing to hold the alpha male title. I’m sure she was right to some degree, but we try not to encourage our mom, the non-therapist, to psychoanalyze things.

  Now Max’s arms and chest both look broader and more defined, covered with a snug fitting black T-shirt. A pair of jeans hang loose on his hips. The sight of his strong jaw and cheekbones has my fingers constricting with the desire to trace the contours, even from here. Although I’m a good fifty feet from him, I swear I can see the piercing clarity of his deep blue eyes that are such a beautiful and rare color, I’m sure Crayola would be inspired to replicate the hue.