by Sara Ney
“God damn right my girl did!” my dad booms, accompanying his decree with a bang of his fist to my desktop. “My daughter wrote a book. A goddamn book!”
“Hodge,” my mom scolds him for cursing, and rolls her eyes impatiently. “Anyway. The thing we’re disappointed in, is that you were afraid to tell us. The thought that you kept that secret from your father and me for a year makes me… so sad for you, sweetie. It breaks my heart that you’d even think we wouldn’t support you.”
“I…” I look down at my folded hands, clasped together on my desk. “I know you depend on me. I went to college for this, for freaking construction. Do you know how many women were in my classes? Hardly any. Then I had to go to an Ivy League school. Who does that? Why didn’t I just go to State, for crying out loud?” I’m on a roll now that the floodgates have opened. Cathartic, I forage on, mindless of the consequences my words might have. “This is the only job I’ve ever had since I was in middle school, working in the office—why would I leave to be a writer? Talk about a bad decision.”
“Honey, your dad and I—”
“And then there’s Cal,” I blurt out. “He’s counting on me to be here when you and Dad retire, which is when? Eight more years? Seven? Then what? He’ll hardly be qualified to take over by himself. I’m not either, but at least I have a few more years of management under my belt.”
My parents glance at each other, worried that I’ve lost my damn mind, then back at me. “Tabitha Elizabeth, haven’t we always told you, you can be anything you want to be?”
Where is Mom going with this? “Well… yes.”
“Then why are you working here?”
My head snaps up. “What?”
What does that even mean?
“If you want to be a writer, why are you working here?”
“I just told you. Weren’t you listening?” My voice is meek. Weak. Pitiful.
For a strong, independent woman, I sound pitiful.
I suck.
“You do not suck, sweetie.”
Oh shit, did I say that out loud?
“There you go again. Do you always mutter to yourself?” my dad asks. “I hope you don’t do that around our clients.” He chuckles. “It’s bad for business.”
My mom smacks him in the arm. “Hodge.”
“What your mom and I are trying to tell you is we want you to follow your dreams. We never meant for you to be imprisoned here.”
“Dad, that’s not it at all!”
He ignores me. “If you need to stay working here while you get on your feet—until your books take off and you can earn a living—then you’re welcome to stay. If you want to take some time off, we’ll help you do that.”
“Help me do… what?”
“Well, you’re twenty-four years old, but if you want to move back home to save money—”
Ew.
“I am not moving back in with you. No offense, guys.”
“We’re just giving you options. You’re not stuck here. I know you’ve always thought you were responsible for holding down the fort until your brother was old enough to take on more responsibility, but give me some credit. That’s what Dale and Roger are for.”
Dale and Roger are my dad’s Vice President of Operations and General Manager.
“But… they’re not family. I thought you wanted this to remain a family business.”
“Sweetie,” my mom puts in sharply. “Now you’re just being ridiculous. Maybe that would have been possible twenty years ago, but times are changing.” She pats my dad on the hand. “Do you hear your daughter, Hodge? She thinks we’re not with the times.”
They both laugh. “I bet she doesn’t think we know all about them Timber and the Tweeter Apps. Please, we’re down with that.”
My mom makes a gesture with her hands that looks surprisingly thug. Gangster even.
“Please stop throwing hands signs,” I plead.
She does it again.
“Don’t do that. Please stop.”
Mom laughs. “Greyson showed me that Bumble site last time Cal brought her home. You should see some of the young hunks online these days.”
“It’s an app mom, not a website.”
She waves her hand in the air. “Same thing.”
No, it’s not the same thing. I beg the universe for patience. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…
And then she asks the question I’ve been dreading: “So, your dad and I were wondering, what is your book about?”
I groan into my hands as my head thumps down onto my desk. My mother ignores my obvious discomfort and chatters. “Is it one of those murder mystery novels? I was just telling Donna Standish you have such a flare for drama, and that of course she could have a signed copy of your paperback.”
One thought—and one thought only—flashes through my mind as my parents ramble on like I’m not even in the room.
I am going to kill Collin Keller.
If I don’t kiss him first.
Tabitha: So in the end, Mom and Dad were really supportive…
Calvin: I can’t believe for a second you thought they wouldn’t be.
Tabitha: I know, but you have to understand, I was really embarrassed.
Calvin: Why? It’s not like any of us are going to read it.
Tabitha: YOU JERK! Greyson’s gonna read it. COLLIN read it!
Calvin: But Collin only read it because he has a boner for you. That’s totally different. No dude reads a romance novel unless he really likes a girl. Or wants to bang her. Just saying.
Tabitha: You’re revolting.
Greyson: He’s right about one thing, Tab. Collin genuinely likes you. Would you please put my brother out of his misery and call him. Or text him? He feels terrible.
Tabitha: God, I love these Group Chats [heavy on the sarcasm]
Greyson: Do what you want, but keep this in mind—it was an honest mistake. He cares about you, so much. He’s a great guy, Tabby. Don’t let your PRIDE get in the way of a great relationship.
Calvin: You and your damn Keller pride.
Greyson: ^^^^ Hey, smart-ass. I seem to remember you flipping out over a certain tweet before we started dating. You refused to talk to me for days #sexybeast
Calvin: Oh yeah, I totally forgot about that. Thanks for reminding me. Not.
Greyson: Aww, baby, but that’s when I fell in love with you.
Calvin: I can’t wait until tomorrow when I get to kiss those sexy lips of yours.
Greyson: YOUR lips are sexy. Rawr
Calvin: I love you
Greyson: I love YOU
Tabitha: HELLO! GROUP CHAT! Stop. Do NOT start sexting. OMG. How the hell do I take myself out of here? SOMEONE HELP ME. bangs on glass
I’ve been waiting close to two hours at a table in the far corner, waiting to see if she’ll walk through that front door. Tuesday and Wednesday she was a no-show, and yesterday I arrived a second too late, only to catch the taillights of her car pulling away.
But still, I wait.
Like clockwork for the past four days, hoping luck will be on my side.
The lukewarm mug on my table stopped steaming over an hour ago, the soy congealing at the bottom. I stir it to keep my hands occupied, but don’t take a sip.
As fidgety and anxious as a crack whore, I tap the spoon on the saucer until a young woman at a nearby table brings a finger to her lips to shush me, shooting me a dirty look in the process.
Noted.
My legs bounces beneath the table restlessly.
Dammit, where is she?
Digging into the interior pocket of my jacket, I pull out the envelope tucked inside and smooth the wrinkles out with my palm, using the surface of the flat tabletop. I look up when the coffee shop door opens with a whoosh, a small cluster of leaves blowing in along with the brisk wind.
Holy shit, it’s her.
She’s here.
I fucking swear my heart skips a beat at the sight of her. It’s only been a few days, but man,
she’s a sight for these hungry eyes.
I stand, moving towards her, and then double back because, shit, I forgot my envelope. It gets stuffed into the back pocket of my jeans before I call her name.
“Tabitha.”
She places her bag at a table near a bank of windows and stills at the sound of my voice, her movements halted. Turning, just like in the movies—or a romance novel—her eyes widen at the sight of me. And she looks how I feel: tired. Weary. Desperate to stop the instant replay of what happened between us over and over in my mind and just wanting… something. Anything.
A resolution. A conversation.
Closure.
That’s a damn lie; I don’t want closure—I want her.
“Collin.” Why doesn’t she look surprised to see me?
“Hey,” I say, approaching. My eyes drop to her laptop bag, and I cautiously let my lips curl into a tentative smile. “What are you working on?”
She bites down on her lower lip, amused by the déjà vu. “Work stuff.”
I can’t get enough of this beautiful girl and her laidback sense of humor. Thank God she hasn’t told me to fuck off.
Yet.
Relief sags my shoulders.
“What kind of work stuff?” I raise my hands and do air quotes, because I know she hates when people do that. I’m rewarded with a cheeky grin for my efforts.
Her hand goes to her hip. “What’s with all the questions?”
“Just curious, that’s all.”
“Remember what happened the last time you were curious?” she asks, leaning against the large, overstuffed chair next to her table.
“Yeah. But I’m willing to take my chances.” I pull the envelope out of my back pocket and extend it towards her. “This is for you. Could—would you read it? Please.”
“Now?” She glances down at it, then at my face, studying it a few moments before reaching out to take the envelope. Our fingers meet when she does, and I’d like to think it was intentional on her part. Or maybe I’m delusional.
She shivers.
Nope. Not delusional.
My pulse quickens when she pulls out her chair and sits.
Awkwardly, I stand there, not sure…
“Would you sit down?” she demands. “You’re making me nervous.”
I sit, watching intently as she breaks the seal on the envelope, removes the thick cream paper from inside, unfolds it, and begins to read.
No man has ever written me a love letter before—not unless you count the time in seventh grade when Tim Bachman passed me a note in class describing how he wanted to feel my boobs. Did I want him touching me under my sweater after the soccer game? Yes or No. (Firm no on that one, by the way).
Unfolding a piece of cream stationary paper that looks like it’s been read and refolded a few dozen times, my breath catches in my throat, because there in black ink and masculine script is a handwritten letter.
I bend my head and read.
Dear Tabitha,
I’ve never written a woman a letter before—not unless you count the time in eighth grade when I asked Melissa Spellman if she’d make out with me under the bleachers after the football game. She said no, by the way, so I guess we can’t count that. So please, bear with me…
I don’t know where to start, except to say that you’re all I can think about, from the minute my eyes open in the morning—until I climb into bed at night. I would say I think about you when I close my eyes to sleep, but the truth is, I lie awake most nights staring up at the ceiling, trying to picture your face and remember the sound of your voice. Is that weird?
The other day When we argued and you walked out that door, it went against every one of my instincts not to chase you down. I panicked. I thought you were walking out of my life before our relationship had a real chance, and it scared the shit out of me. I can’t say I’m sorry for what I said because you shouldn’t have to hide how incredible. You know how I feel about you; I haven’t played any head games and it kills me that people don’t fucking know you’ve created something incredible. On your own, standing on your talent. Maybe to you it doesn’t feel big. Maybe to you it doesn’t feel remarkable.
But it is, holy shit, it is.
Is this the worst love letter you’ve ever received? Because that’s what this is, so sorry about the swearing. It was hard for me to articulate how I feel—I don’t have a way with words the way you obviously do. Numbers, yes. Words, no. I’m trying not to fuck this up. Is it working?
If you’ll let me, I’ll stand by and support you, whether you choose management for your parents’ company or you want to write. I won’t say another word about it.
I miss you. Let’s start over.
Sincerely Love, Collin
I continue staring down at the letter, scanning it at least a dozen times, reading and rereading each word, over and over, devouring it, memorizing every line. Each and every beautiful, ineloquent word. Not because they’re the most poetic words I’ve ever read, but because he wrote them.
He’s the most fascinating man I’ve ever met.
He writes me sort-of love letters and works for a stock brokerage firm.
He’s funny and smart and ridiculously good looking. He thinks I’m beautiful, smart, clever, and funny.
Collin believes in my dream.
Collin believes in… me.
And that’s more than enough.
I bite down on my lower lip to stop the stupid grin spreading there, and raise my head, our gazes colliding. Tears moisten the corners of my eyes and I wipe them away, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” I say, folding up the sheet of paper, lovingly tucking it into my laptop bag where it’s safe and sound. Standing, I push back my chair and inch closer to where he stands regarding me.
I take a deep breath. “I overreacted—as usual—and I’m sorry. I might write romance novels, but the truth is, in reality… I’m complete shit at relationships.”
His hand lovingly brushes some wispy stray tendrils of hair away from my jawline. “So am I.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” I tilt my head into his palm, letting him cradle my cheek. “You’ve done nothing but try to win me over while I ran scared. For what? To push you away because I was lying to my entire family? This letter just proves what a fool I’ve been. Collin, this letter… it was…”
“Don’t say sweet.” He frames my face and plants a kiss on my nose before his hands glide down my ribcage to grip my hips, tugging me in, pulling our bodies flush. Mine gives a shuddering sigh.
It missed him, melts into him like a pile of magic sand. Like it belongs there.
“Fine, I won’t.” I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and wrap my arms around his waist with a whisper. “But it was. It was sweet and beautiful, Collin. The most beautiful thing anyone’s ever written me.”
“You’re beautiful.” His warm breath flirts with the shell of my ear. “I can’t wait to get you home. I’ll let you show me your gratitude then.”
Oh, I just bet he does.
I wince. “Hey, Collin?”
“Yeah?”
“People are starting to stare.”
“So? Let them.”
So we do.
Taking Chances, a Novel by TE Thomas
Acknowledgements [re-edited]
This book means a lot to me, not only because it’s my second novel but because along the journey, I think I might have found myself. But I didn’t do it alone. I had the support of my family, my parents, my friends, and someone else.
To Collin: who discovered my writing all these months ago, before anyone else, and who believed in me when I didn’t want to tell a soul about it. The past six months with you have been…. indescribable.
You love my writing, you love my wacky sense of humor, you love my pink “thinking” baseball cap. But most of all, I’m pretty sure you loved me at first sight. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me, and hear it in your voice when you whis
per my name in the dark. You’re my best friend.
I love you, too.
“Everyone raise your glasses in a toast,” I announce around the high-top bar table, hoisting my wine glass in the air and encouraging Tabitha’s friends to do the same. Clearing my throat, I begin. “We’ve gathered tonight to celebrate Tabitha, who’s publishing her second romance novel.” I put a hand to my mouth, pretending to whisper this next part. “Even though she kept it a secret from us in the beginning. Greyson, Samantha, Bridget—thank you for coming all this way to celebrate our friend! To Tabitha: we are so proud!”
“So proud!” Greyson echoes. “Seriously, Tab, Cal and I are so excited for you. Even though you used my brother as your muse for book two, which I cannot get past. Especially the chapter where you finally ‘do it.’ I will never be able to un-read that scene, and for that I will forever be ungrateful.”
My best friend Tabitha, an author, laughs, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, but the best ideas imitate real life.”
I laugh, lowering my glass. “But do we have to know about it? Honestly. The visuals you gave us we could have lived without.” Even though Collin is a complete hottie, and I don’t mind for one second picturing him in the sack. Of course, I can’t say that out loud.
I’m not that tacky.
Tabitha has the decency to blush. “I only used Collin to form the male character! I didn’t use our relationship to plot the book!”
She can’t even look us in the eye when she says it, the liar.
We all stare, our friend Samantha’s expression clearly asking, Who are you trying to kid right now?
“You expect people to believe that? The whole second book is about two people who meet at a store; that’s you. Then they bump into each other at a party. You. Then he finds out her secret. Also you. You, you, and you. Your story. Just admit it so we can finish toasting your success.”
A dreamy smile crosses Tabitha’s face. “Fine. I admit it. I was falling in love with him, so yes—I might not have done it on purpose, but it is our story.”