Dear Life

by Meghan Quinn

  But then a white knight came along. Fred Astaire guided her, helped her, and gave her the confidence and opportunity to succeed.

  Carter is my Fred Astaire. Without him, I don’t think I would have succeeded in this program. I don’t know if I would have been able to continue to step out of my comfort zone and become that woman in the mirror. But I have.

  I’m her. I’m vivacious, outgoing, assertive, and able to live, truly, from the depths of my body, live.

  It’s never too late to learn how to live, and I’m just glad I started now.

  Sincerely,

  Daisy

  Dear Life,

  You gave me a daughter when I couldn’t take care of her.

  You gave me a love when she wasn’t ready.

  You gave me an indecisive baby mama who put me through hell and back.

  You gave me a lying best friend who would do just about anything to protect the woman he loves.

  You gave me two strangers with kind and warm hearts.

  Weirdly if you add it all up, what you really gave me is a family, and for that, I will forever be grateful.

  Jace

  Dear Life,

  Thank you.

  Carter

  Dear Life,

  January 11, 2016, was a pivotal day for me. At the time, I was blind to the meaning of it all, not sure why you would throw me for such a loop when my wife and I were trying to adopt a baby. Why you would take away something so meaningful to me, something I enjoyed and took pride in. I didn’t get it.

  January 11, 2016, I was let go from my job, for reasons I still don’t understand. Probably for reasons I will never understand. Driving home that day, a box full of my belongings in the back of my car, all I could do was cry and think about how ashamed, embarrassed, angry, and upset I felt. I experienced every bitter emotion you could conjure up. I curled up on my couch and waited for my wife to get home, only to cry onto her shoulder while she held me, never letting go until I was ready.

  Unsure of our future, our adoption chances, with a few adoption misses already under our belt, I dove head first into becoming a full-time author, hoping and praying it worked out for me, but with the worry in the back of my mind that losing my job would affect any chance we had at adopting a baby.

  Ten days later, ten short days later, in the midst of the release of a book, I got a phone call that would alter my world forever. It was from our adoption advisor. A birth mom in Florida picked our profile. We were expecting a baby boy in May.

  Those were the hardest five months of my life. I wasn’t the same person. The normally jovial, sarcastic, crazy person I am was nowhere to be found and in her place was a worrisome, numb, shell of a woman. I didn’t want to become emotionally invested, knowing there was a chance the birth mom could change her mind and we would lose everything.

  I will never forget that day, in the hospital, when I watched my birth mom say goodbye to her son and hand him over to me. I will never forget it. The sterile smell of the room, the small, quiet sobs from the birth mom, the nearly silent clicking of photos, and the precious coos coming from the little boy I soon would call my son. It’s branded in my memory, forever reminding me that in this crazy, upturned world, there are still selfless people out there, making decisions that don’t necessarily benefit themselves, but instead benefit others.

  When I was at my lowest, I didn’t know there was a grander scheme out there for me, a bigger picture I was unable to formulate in my mind.

  You see, Life, I thought you took away my job just to put a fork in my road, but instead, you took away my job so I could prepare myself to be a stay-at-home, working mom. You took away my job so I can spend my days watching my little boy grow, laugh, smile, and look at me with those deep-chocolate eyes with such love that I don’t think I will ever feel more fulfilled in my life.

  I thought you were trying to ruin me, when in fact, you were preparing me for the next chapter in my life.

  You took away my job and in return made me a mommy. It’s the best job replacement I could ever ask for. So, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you. I’m forever indebted to you.

  Much love and boob squeezes,

  B>> Meghan

  Be kind. Be Courageous. Do good. Own you. And Prove your existence.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading DEAR LIFE. I hope you enjoyed it! You can find the rest of my books on KINDLE UNLIMITED. See below for a list.

  Keep flipping the pages for a SNEAK PEEK of the first chapter of my ROMANTIC COMEDY, The Mother Road.

  Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail list at http://www.authormeghanquinn.com/newsletter.html and receive ONE FREE KINDLE EBOOK per person.

  · You can also follow me on twitter at @authormegquinn, or like my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor/

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  This book is lendable through Amazon’s lending program. Feel free to share it with a friend!

  The Romance Novelist Series

  (Hilarious, laugh out loud romantic comedies)

  The Virgin Romance Novelist

  The Randy Romance Novelist

  Romantic Comedy Standalones

  (Full of heart, humor, and heat. Both heroes are sweet, yet demanding)

  The Mother Road

  Newly Exposed

  The Stroked Series

  (HOT sports romance with plenty of humor)

  STROKED

  STROKED LONG

  STROKED HARD

  The Bourbon Series

  (Sassy, erotic romance with a gorgeous, protective alpha male)

  Becoming a Jett Girl

  Being a Jett Girl

  Forever a Jett Girl

  Repentance

  The Love and Sports Series

  (New Adult, college football forms into professional football careers. Love triangles.)

  Fair Catch

  Double Coverage

  Three and Out

  The Hot-Lanta Series

  (My first series ever. Baseball sports romance with lots of drama!)

  Caught Looking

  Playing the Field

  Warning Track

  Hit and Run

  The Addiction Series

  (Rock star romance, minor cheating and love triangles. Book three still to come, Rehab.)

  Toxic

  Fame

  The Warblers Point Series

  (Three Irish brothers, their younger sister, and the drama they get into. Love triangles. Book three still to come.)

  Beers, Hens and Irishmen

  Beers, Lies and Alibis

  The Mother Road

  Prologue

  “Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands extended, as if he wants to help.

  “You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me.

  “Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.”

  Let’s pause for a second; do you see those three men standing to the side, fear in their eyes, sweat at their temples, with their hands clutched at their waists and their asses tight enough to pop open a bottle of beer?

  Yeah, those three, they’re the reason why I’m foaming at the mouth, gripping an axe three sizes too big for my body with my heels dug deep into the wet and muddy ground.

  That’s me, Marley McMann, the brunette in the “rustic” orange bridesmaid dress with a bouquet sticking out of my hair and a pile of multi-colored poly-blend barf rags resting in front of me, waiting to be minced into my very own personal hamster shit shavings.

  I’m not usually threatening to slice the buttons off of men’s clothing with a lead shiv big enough to cut down a
knotty vagina-looking sycamore tree. But I’ve had my limit.

  There comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to reach deep down into her soul, clear the pathways of her inner goddess, and let out her nuclear Satan. You know what I’m talking about.

  The crazy.

  Don’t try to act like you don’t have it; every woman does.

  Let me paint you a picture. It’s that time of the month; its shark week, as some may say. The civil war is being reenacted by your ovaries and death is scatted over your fallopian tubes. You’re crippled over in pain on your couch, half a Snickers bar hanging out of your mouth, a heating pad pressed against your innards, and a blanket wrapped around you as if you’re a cocktail wiener in a Pillsbury croissant. The Hallmark Channel is airing that Mario Lopez movie you’ve been dying to see and not because the plot looks good, but because you want to reminisce on your Saved by the Bell days. Mario is the only thing getting you through this time of need, that and the chocolate drool slowly dripping into the back of your throat.

  You’re content, minus the battlefield in your uterus, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, the mister in your life flops on the couch, causing a ripple within your cocoon. Your heating pad shifts and your Snickers bar falls to the ground, a travesty in itself. The swoon-worthy shot of Mario with his shirt off gets rudely switched to some stupid sporting game just as the mister lifts his ass in your direction and blasts two large farts.

  Can you feel the monster start to awaken?

  You try to remain calm; you tell yourself it’s going to be alright, you’re life isn’t spiraling out of control into the depths of hell…until one simple crack of his knuckles rings through the room.

  One single pop.

  You lose it. Your eyelids flip inside out, fire shoots out of your vagina, and your toenails grow to exponential pterodactyl lengths. You’re at his throat, scratching his jugular with your toes until you’re satisfied enough with the human carnage you’ve turned him into.

  That moment right there, that’s where I’m at.

  In all honesty, I’m a pleasant human. I have my own beauty blog and live in sunny Los Angeles, where I pay an ass ton of money to live in a two-bedroom apartment the size of a walk-in closet, but I make it work. You know those hidden Murphy beds? I have one; be jealous. I get to work from home, test out different cosmetics, and write about them. I’ve got a pretty easygoing life, or at least I did.

  It all started when Paul, my older brother, decided to get married. No, this isn’t one of those stories where I talk about the evil soon to be sister-in-law and how she’s ruined my life. I actually adore Savannah; she’s perfect for my brother, minus the big eyes. I swear she blinks three times less than the average human.

  This is about the week leading up to my brother’s wedding…the week that I now refer to on my blog as the journey of three beards and a mascara brush.

  Confused? Don’t be; you will understand very quickly where I’m coming from.

  Chapter One

  MARLEY

  “Your foot is your root and your arms are your limbs. With conviction in your hearts and purpose in your spirit, plant your root, sink it into the soil of your life, and let your limbs blossom to the sky, where your spirit will soak them in tranquility. That’s right…breathe in two three and out two three. Feel the rhythm of your heart beat with the rhythm of Mother Nature.”

  “Why do I let you drag me to these things?” Marisa grunts from the side of her mouth.

  My roots are planted and my limbs are blowing in the breeze, and I’m paying no attention to Marisa grumbling next to me.

  “And how am I supposed to let my heart beat with Mother Nature when that bitch ruined my new suede pumps during her pissing match yesterday? When does she ever let it rain here?”

  “It’s called the Weather Channel,” I breathe, letting the negative vibes Marisa is shooting in my direction to roll off my body. “Try watching it.”

  In a calming voice, the instructor says, “In two breaths, I want you to swan dive into a front fold. On your count.”

  I take in two deep breaths, extend my arms out, and then dive forward until my chest is pressing against my knees. I grab the backs of my calves and feel the stretch deep within my hamstrings. I try to channel Mother Nature, speak to her mossy-like soul, but can’t seem to get on the same wave length as her.

  “The people in here are weird,” Marisa shout whispers, drawing attention to us.

  The instructor hovers near us, her magenta leggings coming into view. “Ladies, let us clear our minds. We are here to feel our auras open like a lotus flower to the power of breathing.”

  “The only lotus flower opening that will be happening for me is if Johnny stops by tonight. Did you see his latest Instagram picture? The boy is trying to kill me.”

  Every Tuesday I bring Marisa to my yoga class with me, and every Tuesday she complains about the instructor, the LuLu Lemon wrapped attendees, and then spends the rest of the class talking about Johnny, her pleasure pal.

  Johnny has a six pack, did you know that?

  Johnny is an underwear model and doesn’t stuff his briefs—believe me, I know.

  Johnny can munch you out like he’s a ravenous pot head seeing a box of SnackWells for the first time.

  Every freaking Tuesday, I am forced to hear the homage to Johnny. I get to listen about his curly cat-like tongue – sandpaper and all – his veiny penis and giant nut sac, and I mean giant, I saw a picture. Think of a three week old cantaloupe, shriveled up with a carrot poking out the top, that would be Johnny’s nut sac. He has some giant baby making balls, waiting to squirt on any lady egg that floats in his direction.

  “On your next breath, step your right foot back and then your left, positioning yourself into downward dog.”

  Like clockwork, my body does what the instructor asks on demand. Soft dripping water and birds chime over the speakers while my mind tries to drift off, compartmentalizing Marisa’s comments to the back of my brain.

  “What’s that smell?” It almost feels like Marisa is sharing my mat with me, she’s so close.

  I peek over to see her inching closer to me, finger walking inch by inch.

  “Get back to your mat,” I chastise.

  “It smells over there, like someone ate a year old burrito and secreted it out their lady business.”

  “Marisa…,” my lecture is cut off by the low rumble of someone’s loins.

  Hanging upside down, Marisa’s eyes bug out. “See.”

  Lifting my head, I look around to see which yoga pant clad ass is offering the offensive odor.

  Being the girl that I am, I want to blame it on the petite blonde whose downward dog is so on point I want to drop kick her in the tail bone, but I know it’s not her; life isn’t that lucky.

  Pffffttttt…

  Marisa inches closer to me, making it seem like we are in the midst of a couple’s yoga session.

  “Marisa, you’re going to get us in trouble.”

  Pfffftttt…

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble, looking up again to see the lady who is directly in front of Marisa’s mat adjust her legs, shaking her butt in the air, as if she’s trying to air out a bubble that’s been trapped in her spandex for days.

  Marisa bumps my elbow with hers and gives me the stink eye. “I told you. Lady’s got the toots.”

  “Be cool,” I say under my breath, not wanting to make the poor elderly woman with the saggy spandies and large panty line self-conscious. Yoga is a place to relax, not judge.

  Pffffffftttt.

  “Hey,” Marisa walks closer to the farter and whacks her ankle. “Lady, can you stop with the toots? I’m trying to breathe back here.”

  “Marisa,” I hiss.

  “Is there a problem, ladies?” The instructor comes up next to us, clearly unhappy with our disturbance.

  Being the obnoxious person she is, Marisa releases from downward dog and sits on her butt, legs crossed. “This one right here, she ke
eps farting, and frankly it’s ruining my aura.” Marisa tosses her thumb at the poor elderly lady, calling her out.

  “You have no aura,” I chastise her, humiliated for myself and Tooting Tanya.

  “Edith, are you having some gastral issues today?” the instructor asks.

  I prefer to call the lady Tooting Tanya. Alliterations make my tongue feel sparkly, but I accept the name Edith.

  With a thump, Edith falls to the ground and looks up at the instructor, an impish look on her face. “I had the California Burrito from Alberto’s last night. Carne Asada never sits well with me.”

  “I knew it was unprocessed meat I was smelling,” Marisa accuses, making me throw up a little in my mouth.

  Edith shoots a death glare at Marisa. “It would be best if you mind your manners, young lady. When you get old, you will find it much harder to hold things in. Let this be a lesson to you.”

  “I’m not worried,” Marisa leans back on her hands. “I’ve already started my Kegel exercises.”

  Edith sits on her knees, inching closer to Marisa. “Flatulence gas comes from your butt, not your vagina.”

  The threatening stance Edith displays doesn’t scare Marisa at all; it only encourages her. Getting up on her hands and knees, she positions herself in front of Edith’s face.

  “No worries there either, Memaw. Unlike you, I don’t plan on partaking in anal orgies in my twenties like I’m sure you did. Things will keep tight, which is more than I can say for the wild roast beef that sits between your wrinkly thighs.”

  The horrified look on Edith’s face matches mine as I break my pose out of pure shock.

  “How dare you!” Edith roars, her hand rises to slap Marisa.

  Being the ninja she is, Marisa rolls to the side, out of slapping range, and rips the yoga mat out from under Edith, causing the elderly woman to flip to her back with her legs in the air and camel toe of epic proportions on display. Marisa tosses the mat to the side, brushes off her hands, and says, “You’ve completely destroyed the ambiance in this class for me, mammy. I can’t even feel my bean sprouts or whatever the hell you call them.”