Sid and Teddy

by H. D. Knightley

  I giggled and ate another bite of cookie.

  His muffled voice said, “Crap, now there are crumbs everywhere. I didn’t think this through either.” His head emerged from the covers and he smiled. “But you have to admit, cookies in bed are epic.”

  “I completely agree.”

  He crawled up and sprawled beside me, offering his arm for me to curl under, and so I did, happily—in a pile of crumbs, under a cloud, after saying I love you, truly, the big kind, the kind that changes everything.

  A few minutes later he said, “I don’t want to move, it’s too cold to leave the cloud, and the crumbs are um, crumby, but I want another cookie.”

  I giggled, “Me too, I’ll jump this time, it’s only fair.” I scampered across the room while Teddy grinned, holding the covers up for me to return to.

  Finally, after the plate of cookies and some hot chocolate we convinced Mary to make for us around 8:00 p.m., after she said something that sounded like, “No, the kitchen is closed,” but then she made two mugs anyway, we fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

  In the morning, I lay wakeful, watching, as Teddy still slept, on his side, broad shoulders vertical, cheek pressed into his pillow. I checked to see if my hand fit inside his hand, it did. Then I checked to see if I could kiss his knuckles without waking him, I could. Finally I needed to get up—needed to pee, had to have food—faster than this. I dropped a foot to the floor and Teddy rustled. I stilled to see if he would go back to sleep, and he did, so I climbed out of bed, gathered my clothes from my pack, and then looked up. He was watching me.

  “You’re up? Any chance you’ll come back to bed?”

  I grinned, “We have sights to see, plus, there are entirely too many crumbs in that bed, what kind of establishment is this?”

  “Sub par, but I definitely want to stay here tonight.” Teddy grinned, his cheek resting on his arm, bicep showing.

  I said, “That goes without saying,” then I had to look away to keep from climbing into bed and kissing him right there, bicep, then cheek, and then— “I’m going to shower. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  One Hundred Forty-Seven

  Teddy

  The breakfast room was full. There were other tables, with other couples, also a family, about twelve people in all. I had kind of forgotten that this place had other guests, our treatment had seemed so special, so entirely for us alone, like we were the best guests of Mary’s B and B.

  Mary was sitting across from Sid. They were holding hands, speaking intently, smiling at each other. Mary jumped from her chair, bellowed, “Scottish breakfast (Incomprehensible something) pronto,” and gestured for me to sit.

  I did. Sid looked beautiful, hair pulled up in a wet bun, cheeks pink, just showered, glowing. She had two butterfly bandages on her cheek, and one small bandaid across her nose. Under her eye was tinged blue but hidden with makeup again. She looked injured, not beaten. I hoped between her fading injuries and my adoring gaze maybe less people would be judgmental today.

  A second later Mary delivered plates piled high with toast and eggs and ham and beans in front of us both.

  I devoured one big bite after another. The ham was delicious and necessary—cookies and hot chocolate were not the best diet for the past fourteen hours. I smiled to myself and Sid asked, “What?”

  “Nothing, just famished.”

  “Me too. Marathon hungry.” She spooned egg to her mouth.

  “So what were you and Mary talking about?”

  “I was telling her about my screenplay, and how this is research, and she was telling me she was thrilled that her B and B was a part of it, and that I could come write here anytime.” Sid spread marmalade on her toast and added, “Unless she said something else, I don’t know.” She grinned. “I realize now I’m writing for an American audience, because apparently English and Scottish aren’t even the same language.”

  “Whenever I think I have it figured out, she adds the next word, and I realize she’s talking about something totally different.”

  I shoved a few more bites into my mouth watching Sid. I was building my strength and courage because I was building up to a big question. I was so in love with her I didn’t want this to end. Not only the big things, but the little things too—the eating breakfast together, the planning our day, the strapping-our-boards-onto-the-roof-of-the-car together moments, the day-to-day Sid, the bouncing, riding in the car to go surfing Sid—I wanted to ask if that was something I could have all the time. Please.

  Maybe it was too soon though, too big a question.

  I had already rushed headlong into this, impatiently asking for it. I didn’t want to push her more. Scare her away.

  Maybe, probably, I needed to go slow. Count the waves, but one thing Sid taught me—slow sucked. If I loved her my whole life wasn’t that seriously slow enough?

  I chewed a piece of ham as she ate her toast, from the diagonal cut towards the corner of the crust, marmalade messily smeared on her cheeks.

  She licked her tongue around her mouth trying to get the mess off. “Marmalade, it’s no Nutella. Not usually a fan, but here in Scotland I kinda like it.”

  I nodded, not hearing what she said. “So, speaking of your screenplay, I was thinking—I mean, I know we have a lot to talk about, our future. I know you want to go slow, and that I went against it by asking if we could get a room, and thank you for agreeing by the way.”

  Sid squinted her eyes as I meandered around my point. I continued, “So I feel bad asking for more, but I want you to reconsider and go with me to Santa Barbara. I have plenty of room in my apartment, you’d like my roommate, we could go surfing every day, if I don’t have class, and you could write. There’s a breakfast nook in the kitchen that you . . .” I trailed off, not only had she paused, but she wasn’t chewing, just watching me talk.

  Then she nodded. “Of course.” She smeared marmalade on another triangle of bread.

  “Of course—you will? Really?”

  “Yes, Teddy. I wondered if you still wanted me to—if you want me to come, I’ll come, definitely. But I’ll need to go home a lot of weekends, for Dad.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Absolutely.”

  “But also, I’ll learn to drive when I get home, so if I need to go home to LA and you can’t drive me then it won’t be that big a deal.” She took another big bite of toast, and grinned cheekily. “How into me are you now, scale of—”

  “Ten.”

  One Hundred Forty-Eight

  Mary

  Mary embroidered her motto, En ma Fin gît mon Commencement, on her cloths of estate. It translated as, In my end is my beginning, a belief in existence beyond her earthly life, a deeply religious, heaven-bound sort of longing.

  But perhaps the phrase applies to an earth-remaining sort of hope. Because to crash, to fall, to succumb to deep despair—that could be the end of us, but to survive the crash, to clamor out, to continue and begin anew—that’s the ultimate act of hope.

  It saddened me, Mary’s story. What happened in her life was so devoid of hope—the loss, the heartache, the tragedy of it all, the Never Able To Begin Again. Even though she loved and married and gave birth and battled, continuing on was never a possibility, because the end was going to happen—to be executed. There was no stopping it. No living through. How tragic, how epically wasteful.

  But me. I could stop it. Live through. Love.

  To fall in love, despite all that had happened, was supremely hopeful.

  The kind of hope that would have made my mother proud.

  One Hundred Forty-Nine

  Mary Screenplay. Int shot. B and B

  Teddy leans back in his chair, legs splayed, watchful expression.

  Sid leans both elbows on the table, attentive, smiling.

  Table spread with food, mismatched china, tableware and coffee cups.

  They look into each other’s eyes.

  Teddy: I love you, Sid.

  Sid: I love you too, big love, Teddy,
the biggest.

  Teddy: So today we go to Linlithgow?

  Sid: Yep, the birthplace of Mary. Isn’t it funny we started at her coffin, in Westminster Abbey, then the palace where she lived, now the castle where she was born.

  Teddy: We like to start at the end and work to the beginning, and this is a good one I think.

  Sid raised her coffee cup: The best beginning of my life.

  Teddy smiled: Me too Sid, me too.

  The camera pans away, taking in their table, the wider room, then out the door and over the road, then up above with an aerial shot of the bed-and-breakfast and finally out and away, beyond the Scottish country side.

  The animation of the embroidery begins, Mary’s motto: In my end is my beginning, stitching away and off the screen.

  One Hundred Fifty

  Sid

  My mom wanted the best for me. Always. From the moment I was born she fretted over my world, the temperature, the breastmilk, my learning, our environment, my god damned baby pimples, which were terrible. Dad said. Mom never mentioned it.

  Because that was the way she was, wanting for me perfection. Her pursuit of perfection came at a cost though, in her robustness, her stamina. She had those tears behind her eyes and though she blinked and smiled and hoped, those tears got her in the end. Like the Ache always does.

  But now I knew it wasn’t the everyday sadness, the inevitable dramas that killed her, the present people and places and loves, but the past. The tears that built up, that she didn’t let go of, that she loved me in spite of.

  That spite, that was what did it. Even when I didn’t see it, or even know it was there.

  I was protected from it. But when that death crashed into her, it crashed into me, and there I was, crashed.

  But Mom’s perfection, her pursuit, gave me a resiliency, I suppose.

  The ability to see the better.

  To expect the best, without the ‘in spite of.’

  That was her gift to me.

  Not making the world always perfect, but making me able to crash and live on. And be better.

  And to know I deserved it.

  The better.

  My mom’s tragedy, that she gave up on her life and mine, still threatened, sometimes, to drop me to my knees.

  But not always. Not anymore.

  I was ready when the wave came. I pulled my board underneath me and stroked. I stroked hard, and the next wave was what I hoped it would be: epic.

  Afterword

  Thank you for reading Sid and Teddy. Please take a moment to sign up for my newsletter. Maybe I’m working on a sequel to a book you love, and you’ll want to know. Perhaps you just want a free book occasionally. Better yet, you’d like to know what’s next. I’m thinking dragons. But in a friendly way.

  I have some other books you might enjoy. There’s a fairytale retelling that’s dramatic and exciting and sort of funny and very romantic. If you loved Teddy you’ll totally fall for Hank:

  Fly; The Light Princess Retold

  I also wrote a dystopian trilogy (the first book is free so what are you waiting for?) and again, if you loved Teddy, you’re going to love William. And Estelle is awesome.

  Bright (Book one of The Estelle Series)

  Beyond (Book Two of The Estelle Series)

  Belief (Book Three of The Estelle Series)

  And if you sign up for my newsletter:

  hdknightley.com

  I give away a lot of free books to my friends.

  Thank you,

  H.D. Knightley

  Acknowledgments

  This story is a work of fiction. Any characters within these pages are completely made up. They might share names, traits, or circumstances with people that I know in real life, but it is not them. I promise.

  I did lose my mom. My experiences in the hospital were much like the ones I wrote about here. I was aged 43 through, she was 63, so really it wasn’t the same at all. The reason for Sid’s mom’s death, the loss and sadness and the Ache, that’s all made up. The family stuff, the abuse, the love of Oasis, the being a little punk rock—all invented.

  Some of the events and places in Los Angeles are my favorite things. Becker’s Bakery has the best cakes. Wahoo’s Fish Tacos is a fabulous place to eat. El Porto is a great place to surf. And the Independent Shakespeare Company is the best Shakespeare. If you’re ever in LA in the summer you should go do all four. Definitely.

  I never had a boy punch me. But I saw a boy punch a girl one time and she went back to him and if you're reading this and it has happened to you, please ask for help. You deserve better. You can do better. Live through to the other side and then love again.

  To Paige Herring, you left us too young. I didn’t know you well as a mom, but you were my best friend growing up, and I wish you could have found the hope to continue on. Life is hard and alcohol sucks for taking you too young.

  The Moms, Alicia and Lori, are based on a wide variety of women I have known in my life. Starting with my own mom who I miss every day.

  Thank you to Michelle Dupree, the first friend I met as a mother. Once, in the backseat of her car, her baby, Will, held hands with my baby, Isobel. Comforting her while she cried. It was literally the cutest thing we ever saw. And for the first time, not the last, I thought, what if my kid grew up to marry your kid, wouldn’t that be awesome? Thank you for being my first mom crush.

  Thank you to Maggie Baird for Friday Project Day, our time in your backyard, making crafts, watching our kids play, inspired much of this book. Your desire to make everything great, for your kids and mine, was an inspiration.

  Thank you to Mara Donahoe, for being the kind of Mom-friend that dared to dream with me about making alliances and marrying our children together (but only if they wanted to.) For coming to Ean’s birth and also for being his godmother. And for feeding my family on camping trips. We would have starved, that part is true. You have always put the best in bestie, even when we don’t see each other enough.

  Also thank you to Brenna Johnson, we shared a lot of hopes and dreams for a few months there, and it didn’t work out, but I think the best parts of our friendship remain. (And maybe our friendship was the whole entire point.)

  There are a lot of other moms to thank, and I can’t thank them all by name, but if you ever sat on my picnic blanket and talked with me about hopes and dreams for our kids, then this book was written with you in mind. I adore you all. Thank you for being at the park, on the beach, in my life.

  And thank you to all the homeschooled teens that I have watched grow up, you lived lives full of wonder and exuberance, even though the Moms were watching. Good on you. I hope your future selves remain awesome.

  Thank you to Kevin Dowdee for reading and editing the surf scenes so that I don’t sound like a kook and also for giving me the space and time to write. I love you.

  And thank you to my kids, Isobel, Fiona, Gwynnie, and Ean, it’s true that I dream; hopefully you remain forgiving of me when my dreams get too big. It’s a mom thing. You’ll understand someday.

  And to my dad, who is creative, loving, philosophical, poetical, and humorous. I think my writing style owes an awful lot to you. Maybe it’s listening to all those A Frog walks into a Bar jokes.

  And to Anna Smith, for taking the photo that inspired this whole thing, thank you.

  My beta-readers rock!

  I wrote this book in July of 2016 in a little over a month. Then I wrote more and tweaked and edited and then I kind of stopped and took my time and then I got too nervous about sharing it. So my beta-readers had to really hold my hand and make their suggestions sound sweet and kind or else I would spin out into despair and worry. They managed to give me notes and keep me from freaking out and helped me turn it into a really good book.

  Thank you to Isobel Dowdee for the pages and pages (and pages) of notes. You were right about (almost) everything. I don’t know how you got so good at this, but I’m grateful for it.

  Thank you to Kristen Schoenmann De Haan
for being the first (not in my family) reader and beginning her notes with, “I think this may be your best yet!” And other notes and praises and kindnesses that made finishing the book that much easier.

  Thank you to Jessica Fox for your advice and notes and for saying, “Sometimes I would laugh, sometimes I would get mad, and sometimes I came close to crying. It was very enlightening to see the changes and feel a long with them.” You made me think, “Maybe it really will be all right.”

  Thank you to Amie Conrad for finding so many mistakes and missteps and still saying, “You’re amazing at channeling boy super heroes, and fragile, yet strong young women. Well done!” I appreciate the kind words.

  About the Author

  H.D.Knightley lives in Los Angeles. She’s the mother of four children and is married to the surfer boy she fell in love with when she was a teenager.

  She likes writing stories about people faced with huge issues—light-polluted skies, droughts, piles of hoarded things, encroaching water, abuse—that rise above and carry on anyway. These are insurmountable difficulties, yet her protagonists choose hope and love instead of despair.

  Her heroes include, Estelle (The Estelle Series), who becomes a celebrity dissident for starting a farm; the Princess Amelia (Fly: The Light Princess Retold) who discovers gravity and rescues her kingdom from a drought; Edmund who scales heights to rescue Violet (Violet’s Mountain); the paddleboarder Luna (the Leveling Series) who finds love, shelter, and possible disaster, at the edge of a rising ocean; and Sid and Teddy who find each other through a fog of grief.