All of You All of Me
Copyright © 2017 by Claudia Burgoa
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands, media, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and-or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Design by:
by Hang Le
Photography by:
Wander Aguiar
Interior Design & Formatting by:
Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting
Edited by:
Paulina Burgoa
Anja Pfister
Marla Esposito
Robyn Crawford
Virginia Tesy Carey
Contents
All of You All of Me
Foreword
Hunter
Prologue
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
Life goes on
June
July
August
September
October
November
December
January
February
March
April
May
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Fervent ~ Coming Soon
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
Also By Claudia Burgoa
About the Author
AS A THERAPIST, I see a lot of people who yearn for the perfect relationship. They might be struggling with depression, eating disorders, or complex trauma, but they wistfully believe that if they had someone who truly loved them, life would be easier. This can be true—love is an amazing force, and the loving relationships in my clients’ lives are as important and healing as therapy. Still, sometimes I have to confront them with a question: “If the perfect person walked up to you tomorrow and asked you out on a date, would you be able to make that relationship work?”
That is the question this book grapples with. Willow and Hunter have a great connection right away. However, they also both have mental illnesses. Hunter’s anxiety and agoraphobia keep him isolated, unable to engage fully with the people around him. Willow’s borderline personality disorder leaves her life and her relationships in chaos. As they grow closer, they find a lot to appreciate in each other. They each make each other’s lives richer, happier, and healthier. However, their growing closeness also reveals the way their illnesses have sabotaged them in the past. They have to struggle intensely to achieve intimacy, confidence in each other, and comfort with their relationship.
The one thing their love cannot do is magically cure the problems each of them is dealing with. This book confronts the reality that even once you’ve found the right person, you still have problems to deal with. Love heals in subtle, more mysterious process. It’s the courage to call a doctor or therapist; it’s someone standing at your side while you do something that terrifies you; it’s a lover who knows they can’t solve all your problems for you, but shows confidence in your ability to get better.
This book matters especially to me because so many of my clients believe they’re broken and unlovable. “No one will ever want a headcase like me.” And often the media supports this view—people with mental illnesses often show up in books, movies, and TV as unappealing exes or dastardly villains. Works like All of Me All of You that challenge the dominant view are special and do real good. They can realistically show people struggling with their own issues and traumas that they are lovable and worthy of romance. They deserve happily ever afters too.
~ Elisabeth Coburn BA MC
MY ENTIRE WORLD collapsed when I was twelve. It was a Tuesday morning. Two airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center towers. Those are the commonly known facts to outsiders. There are no mentions about Charlotte and Christopher Everhart being inside the North Tower at the time. I watched as smoke poured out of the towers while the raging fire consumed the World Trade Center. Everything was deadly quiet while I waited to hear some news about my parents. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t talk, and before I knew it, I was under the bed waiting for my brothers and my parents to come home. It was Harrison who arrived with Fitz along the way.
“Scott is at school, he’s alright, buddy.”
“Mom and Dad?”
He pressed his lips together, shaking his head. “They will always love you, Hunt.”
His words were brief, but my heart shattered. I lost my balance in that moment. I became unmoored. That sense of being afloat, not knowing where the bottom became a constant. After that day, I couldn’t leave my room without having a massive panic attack and hiding under my bed. Fear that my brothers would die gripped my heart. I started talking to myself, there’re no voices in my head. It was a way to fill the void and the silence that surrounded me since they had died. Almost six years after they passed away and endless sessions of therapy, I left my room and tried to live a normal life.
It’s been ten years since I looked around, searching for something or someone to fill the loneliness from my heart—the missing piece to replace the hollow space in my soul. No one is interesting enough to let into my life, past the barriers I built long ago. Feelings are messy. Relationships are messy and easy to lose. I’m afraid to lose my loved ones again. Falling in love is tempting. Loving a woman like Willow Beesley is heaven and hell. She’s the beautiful fire I want to touch even when I know the blazing flames might destroy me.
I should hide under my bed. Instead, I’m fighting for us.
Willow
“WHAT BRINGS YOU here?”
I stare at the flowery, yellow wallpaper, concentrating on one of the white flowers. The answer shouldn’t be hard. It’s his tone. To my ears, it’s condescending. I bet he’s thinking another one with a broken life. Yes, that’s me, Willow Beesley. The woman with a fractured mind and a tortured soul.
He doesn’t know how screwed up I am, not yet anyway. My shell looks like an average New Yorker visiting a middle-aged man with rimmed glasses and crooked nose holding a notebook. Everyone sees a therapist these days. It’s a trend. If you don’t spend two hundred and fifty dollars a week to visit one, you’re noth
ing. It’s like the Paleo diet or the gluten-free infatuation. As I feel ready for the scene, I turn my gaze toward him, flashing him with one of my sweet smiles. He doesn’t know who I am, and I’m not ready to show myself yet. I made sure to pull my hair up this morning; keeping my cheeks clear from any strands so he can notice my flawless face. The makeup I wear is subtle, natural. Like the girl next door, I wear a pair of jeans and a green sweater that brings out the color in my eyes. This is the part where I should answer with a sophisticated tone that I’m here because I need help with a character.
All my life I’ve gotten into the right character to get noted, be loved or simply disappear because I don’t want anyone to know who I am. I fear they would hate the person I am. There are too many reasons that brought me here to this therapist. The most important of them, I want to live.
He nods.
Since I can remember, I’ve been on the verge of drowning. Staying afloat is a full-time job—my brain is always set on survival mode. There’s this gut-wrenching pain that doesn’t have a source but drives me crazy. It’d be easier to simply disappear so I can finally be in peace—forever. I don’t. My mission is to stay alive because someone else depends on me. That would be my little sister. She’s been my anchor to this world for as long as I can remember. I love her so much and yet resent her, too. It’s because of her that I can’t just terminate everything. It’s because of her that I still cling to this life.
I remember it happening when I was around ten. My head hurt, my skin felt foreign, and I wanted to disappear. Our parents had left for a couple of months on a mission trip, and the neighbors were caring for us. I felt uncomfortable being around too many people and so much noise that I left the house. Hazel, my little sister, followed behind, watching me as I continued walking toward the water, hoping it’d remove the ants crawling over my limbs.
“Where are you going, Willow?” her little voice inquired. “You need your swimming suit if you’re going into the water.”
“I want the ocean to take me away,” I responded, watching the waves crashing against my feet. “Far from here.”
“You’ll drown,” she stated the obvious. “What will I do without you?”
Those six words stop me from acting. The words resonate inside my head when I feel lost. They have ceased throughout the years. Seeking help and all the therapy isn’t about stopping, but finding my motivation to live. I want to keep going.
I don’t handle emotions well, or relationships. I go from zero to one hundred in nothing flat and lose my fuel almost immediately. What I would give to be loved—to be understood and get better. All the same, I wish to die; to stop existing as the useless piece of shit I am.
Is this the byproduct of my parents neglecting me?
Or is it the constant need I have for attention?
Do they correlate?
“I’m here because this might be my last chance.” I wait for his comeback. A retort about how over dramatized my words sound. This is why I try to keep my thoughts inside my head. No one cares about a nobody like me.
He scribbles in his notebook, then looks up at me and says, “Then, I hope you’re ready for the next step.”
What’s next? The rehash of my life from the beginning until I walked out of the subway station and into this building? I’ve done that for the past several months with different therapists. None of it has helped.
“Can you place yourself in a time when you felt an emotion you couldn’t handle?”
The room goes still; my lungs collapse. Every time I see him. Nothing makes me happier, sadder, angrier, or more joyous than Hunter. He’s the biggest emotion I’ve ever felt. I can’t handle it. He isn’t just love; he’s everything I love and hate to feel.
IN THE BEGINNING
The first time I saw you my heart whispered, “that’s the one.”
~ Anonymous
Hunter
LIVING IN ONE of the biggest cities in the world means more people are out and about at all hours of the day—even at night. Lights illuminate the sky. There’s not a moment of silence. The cars drive around with their headlights on. I can’t see a single star in the sky. Nights like tonight make me wish I lived in the country, a house in Upstate New York. I’d trade my penthouse for a piece of land where I can watch the sky, littered with dazzling stars, relax near a lake, and listen to the backdrop of crickets in the long, fresh grass. Instead, I’m hurrying through midtown Manhattan. I fight the crowd as hundreds of people bustle in and out of the theaters on Broadway, all of them dressed in their best.
Debating between fighting for a cab or walking faster, I stop to check my phone. H’s picture and name flash on the screen as I pull it out of my jacket pocket. Over, we are over, I repeat inside my head. Once it stops, the notifications appear. I have thirty texts and eight missed calls—from her.
Why can’t I find an ordinary woman? My brothers ask why I’m even looking for a woman. They don’t have time for relationships and would rather play the field. I’m the youngest of four, and we couldn’t be more different. I’m the one who prefers routine. Is it so wrong to want the same person next to me at night?
The dating scene is complicated. Being me makes it at least a hundred times harder. If given a choice, I would date a woman who doesn’t know who I am, like the one coming down the sidewalk at the moment. Her hair is straight black; she wears a pair of jeans and flats, her figure a perfect hourglass. Out of habit, my eyes fall on her hand to look for rings. When she comes close to me, I see the stream of tears falling down her cheeks.
“Sorry,” she says, as she bumps against my shoulder.
I grasp her elbow breaking her fall. “Careful, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
She shakes her head; her eyes focused on the ground. Her sobs are muffled by the honking sound of a car.
“Is there something I can do to help?” her head tilts to the left; I remove the black curtain blocking her angelic face. There’s a need inside me. “The Everhart Complex” as my brothers would say, yearning to erase her pain. “Can I walk you home?”
“No, thank you.” She dries the tears with the sleeve of her light jacket.
“What’s your address?”
She snorts. “I live in Queens. I have a long way to go.”
Not letting her go, I hail a cab helping us both inside it.
“Where in Queens?”
The beauty lifts her head, her dark eyes almost as dark as her hair. “No, thank you. I’ll walk.”
“This one’s on me,” I order the driver to head to Queens. “What’s your address?”
“Sorry, usually I don’t . . . it wasn’t a good night. A week—or a year . . .” she apologizes, searching inside her big, black purse. “Park Avenue and Seventy-second Street, please.”
That’s not Queens, but I’m interrupted by the buzzing sound of my phone. I pull it out of my jacket and regret it as I see a new text from my brothers, and Henrietta, my ex.
H: We need to talk.
SCOTT: Your ex is harassing me.
H: No one will tell me where you are. I think this break is taking too long.
FITZ: H is texting me. You said it was over.
I text my brothers from our group chat. It is over.
SCOTT: Let her know, and tell her to lose my number.
FITZ: Stop being a serial monogamist. But if you must, find someone less . . .
Clingy, fake?
SCOTT: The word you’re looking for is fake.
Stop sending me texts; I want to type or throw my phone out the window. Being the baby of the house has few benefits, in general, it’s a pain in the ass. My brothers continue texting for the next few minutes. Giving me unsolicited advice on how to get the perfect girl. Not that either one of them has landed a girl—or plans on doing as much.
The woman next to me snorts. “Is she always that bold?”
I turn my attention to her; hers is on my phone. “Do you always read over people’s shoulders?”
H: We have to g
et back together. We have something great going on.
H: At least give me a chance to talk about the summer.
H: Can we rent a house in the Hamptons? My parents would love to join us.
“What do you mean?”
She twists her lips to the left while her dark, blue eyes stare at the screen. “She wants you to rent the house. As in you pay for it.”
My eyes narrow, the memory of last December hitting me hard on the head like an ice-cold bucket thrown from the sky. H wanted a big cabin in Vermont for the winter. I paid for it, and her family enjoyed it all fucking winter long.
“No. You shouldn’t overthink it.” Her eyes brighten, not sure if it’s the unshed tears or the light hitting her face. “Or regret it. Next time, try to get to know her before offering her a trip to Barbados.”
The cab stops right at the corner of Park Avenue and Seventy-second.
“This is me,” she says, sighing. “Reality awaits. Let’s confront my master, my demons, and beg for a little help.”
“Sounds like you don’t want to do it.”
She hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Thank you for the laugh.”
“At me?”
“No.” She smirks. “Maybe.”
“Should you be begging for help?” I don’t assume, but maybe she’s going back to some rich guy who will solve her money situation.
“In this case, yes. Let’s hope he forgives me and opens his home and wallet for a few days.”
With that, she shuts the door, dragging herself off to the third building on the left. I wonder where she’s going and who she is visiting. Mostly, why do I care about her and her name?
Willow
I hate working in an office. The buzzer of the phone goes off again. It’s like a hungry newborn. Wailing and pleading for attention every five freaking seconds. This isn’t any different than being a nanny. I should get one of those jobs again, shouldn’t I? Nope, last time the boss hit on me all the time. I had to leave her before her husband joined the pursuit. The nanny from 3B told me that’s why most nannies left the couple in 2A—my former bosses. The things I learned about some of those parents were downright scandalous. I could write an entire book about them, call it The Gossip on Madison Avenue or Tales from the New York Cribs.
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