Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 Cassie Graham
All rights reserved.
This book is meant for personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except where permitted by law.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Cassie Graham
Edited by Golden Roots Consulting LLC (goldenrootsconsulting.com) and Graham House Books
Cover Design by Sprinkles on Top Studios
Cover Photo by Adobe Stock Photos
Formatted by Elaine York/Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting
If you’re reading this book and it hasn’t been bought from a proper retailer or won in a verified contest, please delete and purchase the book from one of its distributors. Feel free to visit www.authorcassiegraham.com for more information.
Unable to Resist
Anyone But Him
The Truth of a Liar
Enchanting Wilder
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For April, the most incredible best friend a girl could ever ask for.
You’ve shown me people don’t have to be related to be family.
Five years ago…
Epilogue
The tapping of my computer stops. I can’t do it.
Epilogu
Epilo
Epil
Epi
Ep
E
I write and delete the word repeatedly, the sensation of inadequacy pouring over me like a waterfall of botched expectations. How am I supposed to write an epilogue about something so broken? Something not over. Something…un-writeable. How do you compose an ending to something you’ve yet to accept?
Who would want to read this?
My hands tremble as I set my fingers on the keyboard of my laptop but then quickly take them away, the surface burning my skin.
I need something better than words – words fail me.
Come on, August. You can do this. It’s the ending to your love story. You can’t change it. You just have to write it. You can’t go back on your decision now – it’s set in stone. Put your shaky fingers to the keys and write something powerful. Something life changing.
Belle is gone, writing is all you have. Do what you do best and write.
Don’t leave it like you left her. Don’t leave unspoken words in the back of your throat because you’re afraid to speak them. Don’t let the air pass before you get the weight off of your chest. Say what you need to say so she’ll know that even though you’re gone and she’s given up, you’ll always love her.
The pen is my power and the words are my promise.
Lifting my glasses, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I know how to write love. I know how to write passion and want. I don’t know how to write devastation – complete and absolute destruction of the heart. I don’t know if I can do it. I never imagined I’d be this kind of writer.
I shove my chair back from the desk – frustration taking over – and turn from the screen. It taunts me. The blinking cursor mocks with its relentless lack of letters, reminding me that I’ve failed to fill the empty page.
Making my way to the big window that looks out to Midtown, I pass my open living room, wishing I could fill it with memories instead of furniture. No matter how much I store in here, it’ll still feel bare. The agency rented a lavish apartment for me near Manhattan and I know they did it because it was part of my contract, but I sort of wish I could have bought myself a cheap, hole in the wall place in Brooklyn or New Jersey. The high-rise they put me in doesn’t feel like me.
Sighing, I bend down and open the window, the latch sticking just a bit. The fresh air a welcoming reprieve from the humid stuffiness inside. I feel the beads of perspiration on my skin as the breeze embraces me.
Sliding my feet out, I step onto the fire escape and grip the rail. The presence of the city surrounds me with the crippling realization that I’m alone. New York City has so much to offer. The life underneath my feet waits to be introduced, but all I can concentrate on is the emptiness. My grief overpowers every sensation.
Five days ago, I got a publishing contract. My book will be in stores all over the world. I’ll be able to walk to the bookstore down the street in less than a year and pick up my own book. I should be happy. I should be on cloud nine. I should feel something.
It’s useless without her. I’m hopeless without my air.
A strong wind blows around my body and I will my lungs to gasp for its vibrant life, but I can’t take in enough to feel human.
That, all too familiar sensation, pings behind my eyes and I force myself to hold it in. I look down at my hands, my knuckles a strange shade of white. Why can’t books just write themselves? It would be so much easier than living the horrible events over again, permanently etching the words into literary history forever.
I shove my hand into the pocket of my pants and pull out the lighter and cigarettes. I don’t smoke anymore, Belle hated it, but I find myself shoving the stick into my mouth because it feels familiar. The flame flickers to life and I take one long drag, letting the smoke topple from my lips. It frames my face and I pull the cigarette away, watching it burn between my fingers. The paper blisters bright orange and I tap the end, watching the ashes plummet eighteen stories down to the ground.
I don’t take another drag when I lose sight of the embers. Instead, I put out the butt with an aggressive stomp of my foot. I don’t even know why I felt the need to light up, but the nicotine entering my body was so incredibly satisfying. I could feel the chemicals settle inside my chest with a hum.
“That feeling?” Belle used to say, her forehead wrinkling above her eyebrows. Her concern was always so beautiful. She’d place her hand on my chest, feeling it rise and fall. “It’s cancer, August.”
I smile to myse
lf. She was always worried about my health.
My hair blows into my face and I push it back, making a promise to myself that I’ll try not smoke anymore, even though it oddly makes me feel better.
Turning to go back inside, the apartment around me is empty, lacking any sort of personality. My furniture hasn’t been delivered yet, and the walls are bare and there are no rugs on the floor. The lackluster space echoes with unsaid words.
It matches my heart.
My soul.
I’m an empty shell, lost and homesick.
My phone rings and I don’t look at the screen. It’s not her. It’s probably my editor wanting the end of the book, but I silence it and sit back down at the computer.
Okay, I can do this.
It’s not my job to write what everyone wants to say. It’s my job to write the things unable to be said.
I write to drown in words so my reality won’t destroy me.
With acceptance and a new feeling of determination, I crack my knuckles and place my hands back on the keys. If I’m going to write an ending, it’ll be one she’ll never forget.
My fingers begin to flash across the keys and soon the epilogue comes to life.
Epilogue
My bags felt heavy in my hands. Yet, I packed very little, not wanting to take anything that reminded me of her. I twisted my grip on the straps, knowing it was the weight of my decision that felt like a thousand pounds. My muscles twitched, straining to keep the bag from tumbling toward the ground.
The common room was empty. No Resident Advisor. No half-drunk students passed out on the couches. There weren’t any overachievers studying at the tables. No one was around to see my departure.
It was better that way.
My heart thudded with a speed that hurt my chest and I stood still at the door to the exit, the metal of the handle cold under my hands.
I didn’t say goodbye. I couldn’t. It hurt too much to leave her the night before and it would be even harder to see her sadness today. It would obliterate me. I promised her we’d talk, but the sun has come up and I couldn’t bring myself to knock on her door.
I wouldn’t leave if I did.
I pushed on the door, walking out into the parking lot. The early promise of spring sung in the horizon and I wanted to be excited, but my heart felt icy. My chest empty.
Tossing my bags into the cab of my truck, I ignited the engine and stared through the windshield. I moved my eyes up to her dorm room window and sighed.
“Don’t close the door, Brooke,” I said, repeating the same words she had told me to me the night before as I walked out of her room, leaving her behind. “Maybe the chapter is over, but our story isn’t done.” My tone fell to my feet because she wasn’t there to hear it. No one was. “Don’t close that door.”
My fingers quiver as I write the last word and I gulp, praying I could change THE END, but recognizing I couldn’t even if I tried.
Our story is finished for now, but the book isn’t closed. There are still empty pages to fill with words and I’ll search for those until I find the correct ones to get her back.
Belle is my air. I’ll always need her.
Reading the last paragraph one more time, I save my document and send it to my editor without another thought. I can’t read the story again. I don’t want to. It’s in the hands of the publishing house now.
Pulling out a pad of sticky notes from a drawer in my desk, I write, “Don’t forget air,” and tape it on the screen of my laptop. It’s a reminder that no matter what, no matter where I go or how crazy my life becomes, she’ll always be important to me.
Don’t forget air, August.
Remember to breathe.
And never forget what she means to you.
Even if you screwed everything up.
Present…
Bless Your Heart
The bustling-street noise around me feels like a muted buzz in the back of my brain as I stand at the stop sign waiting for someone to let me walk across. It takes more of a conscious effort than I like to block it out. The rare, non-stop chatter and constant movement is difficult to ignore considering a few days ago it was a ghost town.
A highly anticipated movie is being filmed, which is what’s causing the ruckus. I know I shouldn’t be too upset because in a one-streetlight town like Bradshaw, Georgia, the out-of-towners can only mean good things for businesses. Today, though, I can’t allow myself to take notice of the semi-trucks lining the sidewalks or the numerous amount of pretentious looking movie-making crew members holding clipboards and talking into their Bluetooth headsets.
I bypass them, moving a few feet from the stop sign, hoping to find a better spot to cross the street. I stare at my feet, attempting to look invisible as I wait.
A petite, young blonde bustles by me with an armful of coffees. She speaks rapidly into her Bluetooth as she juggles one of the coffee cups, almost running me over. She bangs her arm into mine and splashes of espresso fall onto my black jacket. Without looking my way, she mumbles an apology as she repositions the coffee. I don’t have time to react to her lack of decency because she’s already halfway down the sidewalk. I shake my head and smile, pushing my honey-colored hair out of my face, tiny pieces already falling out of their sock bun.
“Hey!” my best friend Lily says, slapping me on the butt as she steps next to me. Her long blonde hair is tied into a high ponytail and her power suit fits her petite body perfectly. “This is insane!” Her eyes bulge as she takes in the spectacle around us.
Another semi-truck rushes through the intersection, ignoring the stop sign. “I know! I wish they’d slow down enough for us to cross the damn street.”
Lily works in the media building next to the museum where I work. She’s our local news reporter and gossip girl.
“They’re going to be here for a while, Cam.” She places her hand in the crook of my arm. Her eyes are sympathetic and I wish she’d stop looking at me like that. “Gotta get used to it.”
I groan and move back to the stop sign where I originally began, deciding it seemed like the safest bet. “I know, but they’re everywhere. I had to park seven blocks away!” Another brigade of black cars and semi-trucks drive by and Lily spots an opening where some of the cars are stopped up ahead. She makes a beeline back toward the corner of the street where I just was and waves my way.
“Me too, best friend. Me too. Call me later, yeah?” Lily says, taking life into her own hands, leaving me behind and stepping in front of a large white truck barreling down the street.
“Yeah!” I yell so she can hear. She gives me a final wave over her shoulder, and I clench my body, fearful she’s going to get hit. I don’t deflate until she’s safely on the other side of the street.
Grinding my teeth, I attempt one foot off the curb and then step back, out of the way of a golf cart I didn’t see. The three business people occupying the seats don’t even notice me. I take another crack at it, moving my foot out onto the asphalt only to be rushed back by a group of women heading the opposite direction, fussing with their hair and holding what appear to be scripts. I huff to myself, but push my way past them to the other side of the street. It’s just as busy, but I’m at least on the same side as my destination.
Once I walk a little farther, the museum comes into view, dwarfing the surrounding buildings. Its red-brick exterior clashes with the concrete city surrounding it. I take the last twenty feet, push open the thick wooden doors and enter.
The Museum of Southern Art houses the largest collection of southern artifacts in Georgia and I’m lucky enough to be an antique appraiser for the organization. I primarily work with pieces from the Civil War. Confederate side only, of course. We don’t even speak about the Union.
“Morning, Cam. You see the circus outside?” Beau’s smooth voice welcomes, walking out of his office, kissing me on the cheek. His dark black hair falls in his face; his olive complexion bringing out the chocolate of his eyes. I’ve known him two years now – and we’ve
been casually dating for about two months – but his good looks still catch me by surprise.
I squeeze his muscled arm, clad in a pressed light blue button up. “Ugh, yes.” I huff. “It took me twenty extra minutes to get here.”
He laughs, the sound melting into my bones. It’s warm like honey. “I got here about an hour ago and there was only one semi-truck.”
“Well, there’s at least twelve out there now,” I grumble, my heels clacking on the floor as I make my way to my office. Pulling on the cabinet in the corner of the room, I heave my purse into it and slam it shut. “I have a few new items coming in today, I don’t think I’ll be able to make lunch. Want to go get dinner instead?”
Beau leans up against my doorframe in all his tall, rugged manliness. The corner of his lip tugs up. “Of course.”
I smile and sit down. “You choose where we eat tonight.” I type on my computer, the tapping of the keys filling the peace between Beau and I, but Beau’s footsteps distract me from inputting my entire password.
Moving from my door to the side of my chair, he moves his hand to my face, caressing my cheek with his thumb. “I don’t care where we go, as long as we go home together after.”
I audibly shake.
Ugh. Damn him and his stupid good looks and I-want-to-conquer-you hands.
“O…okay,” I struggle to say. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks.
He stays over at my place pretty much every night anyway, but with the look in his eyes and the want in his touch, you’d think he hasn’t seen me naked, let alone slept in the same bed, for the last couple of months.
Beau stands up, straightening his vest. “I’ll see you tonight. We have a piece from The Met coming today and I’ll be busy, but I’ll pick you up at your place at seven.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond before he walks out, closing the door behind him.
I shake my head and move my eyes away from the place Beau just occupied.
We haven’t been dating long, but I already feel comfortable with him. Which is odd for me, considering my past.
Who Needs Air Page 1