Becoming His

by Mariah Dietz

  “Ace, Max loves you. I realize this is difficult, but I know Max. He isn’t going to break things off because of this. I’m sure he needs a couple of days to himself to think. Monday, maybe try going to his house. This is one of those conversations that really would go much better face to face.”

  I nod in agreement and spend the rest of the weekend close to my dad as he works to distract me and my fears. We watch a documentary on Big Foot, and Lake Champlain and the sea monster, Champ, that supposedly lives there. We go golfing and out to breakfast. He even takes me to one of my favorite used bookstores. On our way home he offers to pick up ice cream, which sends me into a flurry of tears that catches him off guard, and we spend the next hour with him assuring me again.

  Sunday is only Jenny, Lilly, my parents, and I. By the end of the evening I have a renewed sense of calm and confidence about my relationship, until I get home to my apartment and find a box sitting inside of my apartment door.

  I hover over it and comb through its contents: a text book I’d been missing, my back-up laptop charger, a folded pair of socks, a pair of jeans, and three T-shirts. A small sliver of me feels relieved; I have many more belongings over there: books, shower things, other clothes. However that sliver is trumped by a crushing pain that squeezes my chest.

  I crumple to the living room sofa and clutch a soft pillow against my chest as I heave sob after sob. I’ve never felt so alone, and I don’t know what to do, which makes the tears fall harder.

  I don’t know how long I cry for. Eventually my body gives up and goes into sleep mode.

  I wake up with a horrible throbbing in my temples from crying and dehydration and slowly make my way to the bathroom.

  Facing myself in the mirror, I’m not shocked to see how puffy my eyes are, or the dark shadows beneath them. They’re both familiar to me after this past week. I shower and pour a bowl of cereal, but rather than eating it, I continuously stir it, sending different pieces into the pool of milk with the back of my spoon.

  I need to leave for class. I should be walking out the door now, but I’m not.

  I shove some clothes and my iPod into my duffel bag and leave. I don’t bother bringing books or school things with me. I know that I won’t be using them. My brain refuses to think of anything besides repairing things with Max. I head home and take a week off of school to try and heal, as I hibernate in the protection of home.

  Two weeks and three days after our fight there’s a weak knock at my door. I’ve been turning my phone off at night to fight the incessant need to check if the little green light’s flashing, indicating that I have a text message or missed call, because it only makes it hurt worse to see that it never does. The clock on my nightstand reads two-thirty-three. There’s only one person that would come over at this time. Max.

  My heart drums as I try to prepare myself for what I should say to him. Should I be mad? Do I have that right?

  My breath stops at the sight of Kendall. Her eyes are swollen with tears, and her face is red and distorted with pain before she falls into me. Her whole body is weak with sadness and tears. I hold her tightly and feel my heart accelerate as I brush her hair back with my fingers in an attempt to soothe her before she makes a couple of gasping sounds like I’m hurting her.

  “Dad … Dad died,” she chokes out in a whisper.

  Her words pierce my chest like an ice pick, making my body go numb. Horrifying sounds erupt from me. I can’t breathe, I can’t focus, the words just keep racing through my head, over and over again. Dead. He’s dead. Dad’s dead. I clutch Kendall and sob big ugly tears that have my nose running, my shoulders wracking, and more horrifying sounds echoing through the living room.

  “Babe, babe! Oh babe!”

  A small part of my brain registers the sounds of Jameson calling as he runs up the stairs of my apartment as Kendall and I remain clutching one another. I haven’t even realized that the door is still agape until he appears. Sadness has the ability to make you weaker than sickness, exercise, or exhaustion, because your heart and soul simply stop.

  I feel a strong pair of arms encircle me as a familiar wave of cologne encompasses me. It’s Landon. He lifts me into his arms but remains on the floor with me as he presses me against him, as though he’s afraid I’m going to fall apart. It’s too late though. I don’t have any pieces of myself left. What I didn’t give away was taken from me.

  “I need to go.” My voice is hoarse with tears as I push away from Landon and stand on shaky legs.

  I just saw my dad two days ago. This isn’t possible. He’s young and healthy. I grab my purse and keys from the kitchen counter and walk out the door.

  “Ace!” Jameson yells from behind me. “She can’t drive right now.”

  “She’s wrong!” I shout viciously. “He’s not dead!” A few angry tears slip out and I wipe my face. “I need to go see him.”

  I head down the apartment stairs, making it down two of the four flights before I sink to the cold metal. I grip my knees and pull them close to me as I listen to the sound of my heart explode.

  My father’s been gone for an entire month. I hate that I’m counting the days. They’re going by so quickly.

  I sit at the kitchen bar, about to stand up because the memory of sitting here with him for so many mornings causes me to hurt more than providing comfort, when I hear Steven Wright, my parents’ lawyer ask me if I’d like some coffee.

  I look up, feeling like I’m waking up for the first time in weeks. Days have just been passing by in a haze. I see him hold the coffee pot out in offering and feel my eyes narrow as I focus on him and try to recall why he’s still here.

  “How do you like your coffee, Ace?” His voice sounds jovial, which rakes over my nerves like nails down a chalkboard.

  It’s been three and half weeks since the will was read. He’s explained the life insurance policy and the assets, distributed letters to nearly all of us including Max, Jameson, and the two babies. He’s read my father’s wishes on how his funeral procession would be held, down to the music he preferred for us to play. I was shocked to know how much thought he’d put into his own funeral, and what he wanted to have transpire once he was gone. I’ll never be able to hear “Let it Be” again without breaking out in chills and crying.

  I don’t respond to Steven as he continues holding the coffee pot out to my nonexistent cup. Instead I turn and head to the den where Jameson and Kendall are looking through an old photo album.

  “What in the hell is Steven doing here?”

  They both turn to look at me, looking slightly taken aback. I raise my eyebrows at them, and Kendall closes the album slowly and sets it on the coffee table in front of her, then reaches up to brush a stand of hair behind her ear, answering my suspicions.

  I turn on my heel and march back into the kitchen, barely noticing Kyle as I pass by him. I stop at the kitchen bar and stare at Steven as he rinses his coffee cup and places it in the dishwasher, whistling, and I realize I’ve been hearing this God awful sound for weeks.

  “We don’t need you anymore. You need to leave.”

  He turns around and a consoling smile covers his face. “How are you feeling today, Ace?”

  I’d rather hear Nate say my name. I cross my arms over my chest to prevent myself from throwing the nearest vase of flowers that still decorate nearly every surface of our house at him and narrow my eyes.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Ace …” I refuse to turn my glare from Steven as I hear my mother’s voice and her steps quickly approaching. “Honey, why don’t we talk?” she says softly as she places a hand on my shoulder.

  I shrug it off and turn my glare on her. Her blue eyes plead with me. I shake my head and rush out the patio door, wishing it was a door that could be slammed.

  I feel heat and anger radiate through me, blinding me from my own actions.

  “Harper, we need to talk.” I look up, realizing I’m back in Clementine again. I’ve been spending an exorbitant about of t
ime in here, trying to avoid … everything. I watch as she takes a few steps closer to me, flipping on the lights to display a look of determination written across her face.

  “Steven is becoming a very dear friend to me, and he’s helping me through this. You of all people should understand. As soon as Max moves on to someone else you’re going to feel the same need.”

  That’s when I know. That’s when I know I need to go.

  I shove another box further into my backseat, using more force than necessary as I hear Steven approaching whistling some happy show tune. His dress shoes slap against the pavement of my parents’ driveway as he ascends toward the house. I don’t need to look up to confirm that it’s him. The whistling is a dead giveaway.

  I’ve never put much thought into whether or not I care for the sound of whistling. However, I now know I loathe it. At least these days I do. Which causes me to briefly ponder if it has always grated on my nerves or if it’s just one more thing life is ruining for me.

  Glancing over the hood of my car I catch sight of him, and my eyes turn icy, glaring at his short, stocky stature. He doesn’t ever seem to mind my moody attitude, or death glares, and today is no different. He smiles and gives me a slight head nod, causing a slight break in his stupid song that he continues to whistle as he makes his way past me, infuriating me all the more. I’m sure he’s relieved to see me going, and the revelation almost makes me want to defiantly rip the same box I’ve just loaded back out and stick around—almost.

  My jaw clenches as the sudden impulse to hit Steven courses through every cell of my body. I want him to feel just a small taste of the pain that I’m feeling, like life has shredded every single one of his nerve endings, exposing them to every callous element that life can offer, reminding him that the pain can indeed always get worse.

  The need overwhelms me and I have to consciously fight to keep myself from going after him. Every muscle in my body strains with the desire for my fist to connect with the cocky smirk he wears like an old suit that doesn’t fit quite right. I want him to go away and leave my family alone. He doesn’t belong here. He isn’t one of us. Yet he struts around like he’s been here every day of the last twenty years of my life.

  Surely Kendall and Abby understand this hatred I feel, maybe even Kyle does. They know me better than most. Or at least they used to.

  No one seems to understand me these days though. They don’t understand I just need some space. I need to get out of here. I don’t belong here. Not anymore.

  To be Continued in

  His Series, Book Two

  March 1, 2015

  Becoming His, was first completed in August, 2013. It feels like years and yet only seconds since that time. I’ve met so many amazing people on this journey that have contributed to making this one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. I feel like this story is my third child!

  To Lisa Greenwood and Sarah Pinkerton, my shining stars that have encouraged and supported me through my grumpy moods, dramatic failing fears, and questioning of everything under the sun. You guys not only helped me maintain a level of sanity, you helped me laugh at myself and reminded me what’s important in life. You are the best friends I could ever ask for. Thank you for reading Becoming His countless times, (far too many) providing me with essential feedback that made this not only possible, but far better. I can not thank you guys enough. You have been my calm, my reason, my sisters, and I love you.

  To Amanda Dillard, Katie Ross, and Lucy Mae Enderby, with Book Loving Buckeye blog, three AMAZING and talented women that have challenged and pushed me to make Becoming His such an awesome story. I am so grateful this story introduced me to you.

  To Heather Spencer, the first person to read Becoming His, and helped to restore my confidence as well as the story after I butchered the hell out of it when someone told me no one would ever read a novel this long. You’ve been my inspiration, my strength, and my teacher, but most importantly such a dear and true friend. I love you H.

  Alison Wallace, Megan Crisp, Susan Reeves Kleist, Samantha Lloyd, Lauren Ladlee. Marlene Hoffman, Chelsea Barraza, and Vickie Elliott for your patience, support, and feedback that was essential to this process.

  To the wonderful Stephanie Powell, with Night and Day Book Blog, and Lisa, with Schmexy Girl Book Blog and Truly Schmexy Promotions, for her endless patience and support in translating this new world to me.

  Maxann Dobson, with The Polished Pen, my editor, who receives a thousand times the emails everyone else does (which is still a lot!) Thank you for answering my millions of questions and helping me to improve my writing while listening to all of my long-winded concerns and thoughts. I am so glad I found you!

  Emily Tippetts, and her awesome team, for making the inside of this book so beautiful, and for helping me learn so much about this process.

  Sarah Hansen, with Okay Creations, that somehow took my muddled thoughts and words and made this amazingly beautiful cover that is so much more than I could have wanted!

  And to my beautiful and wonderful family that have endured the majority of my craziness while this book has come to fruition. Dealing with my distracted self while Max and Ace played through my head. And handling the emotional roller coaster I experienced while telling their story. You guys have been my heart through this and I appreciate you keeping it safe.

  Lastly to the readers. I want to thank each and every one of you for reading Becoming His. I hope you fell just as hard and as far in love with the entire Bosse Family, Jameson, Wes, Landon and Max as I did. I can’t wait to share, Losing Her, with you all!

  Mariah Dietz lives in Eastern Washington with her husband and two sons that are the axis of her crazy and wonderful world.

  Mariah grew up in a tiny town outside of Portland, Oregon where she spent the majority of her time immersed in the pages of books that she both read and created.

  She has a love for all things that include her sons, good coffee, books, travel, and dark chocolate. She also has a deep passion for the stories she writes, and hopes readers enjoy the journeys she takes them on, as much as she loves creating them.

  Please visit Mariah Dietz at Mariahdietz.com

  Copyright ©Mariah Dietz, 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, printed, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical. Please do not participate or encourage piracy in any capacity.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights.

  Cover Design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations LLC www.okaycreations.net

  Cover Photo © Alita Ong

  Edited by Max Dobson, The Polished Pen www.polished-pen.com

  Interior designed and formatted by

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Books by Mariah Dietz

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29 />
  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Losing Her

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice