by Sam Mariano
After You
(Because of You, #2)
By Sam Mariano
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
After You (Because of You, #2) Copyright © 2018 by Sam Mariano
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Thank you for not being a pirate!
Cover Design: Ari @ Cover It Designs
Dedication:
To the good people at Kleenex.
As many as I had to buy to write this book, I assume we are now close, personal friends. Enjoy the private island I must have bought you.
Prologue
2 years A.D. (After Derek)
The New York City streets pulsate with an energy that cannot be defined or contained. It’s an energy that exists nowhere else—at least, nowhere else I’ve ever been. Not that I’ve been many places in my 20 years, but I’m as confident in the assertion as I could be about anything.
As confident as I am that what I’m doing now won’t be the second greatest mistake of my life.
Moving off toward the edge of the sidewalk so I don’t hold up the other pedestrians, I reach into my purse and draw out a paperback. I’ve been carrying the book around with me since I first got it in the mail. Tucked inside the beginning of chapter one is a dented slip of paper. I pull it out now and stare at the address, running my thumb over the smooth blue ink.
This was an idea born of pettiness, not love, but as things sometimes do, it has evolved. What once served as a heartbroken girl’s verbal slap across the face has grown into a longing to express to him something I couldn’t any other way. I have no idea how he’ll take it, and I’ve thought about that more than I should. Hell, for all I know, he’ll never even open the damn thing. He and Kayla probably live together, so maybe she’ll get the package. I could’ve asked when I got the address, but I didn’t. I wanted to ask, but I knew it couldn’t do me any good. If they don’t live together, I’ll be tormented with thoughts of what might have happened if I’d stayed. If they do live together, that knowledge will make me absolutely miserable. Like an alcoholic spends the rest of their life recovering from their sickness, I know I’ll spend the rest of my life recovering from mine.
Love.
Sickness.
Same difference.
I run my fingers over the address scrawled haphazardly across the tattered scrap of paper—drawn by the unsteady hand of a girl who could barely handle even knowing the numbers on his house, the name of the street he goes home to at the end of every day.
Just that was a test of my strength, and it shouldn’t have been. There was no temptation, after all. For there to be temptation, both of us would have to have some level of desire and investment. Not me living my separate life in this city, and him back in that shitty old town, sharing his life with someone else.
I probably shouldn’t send the damn thing, but I will anyway.
Today is the day I let go. I had it scheduled, like studying for finals. This is the closing ceremony for me. Last night I dreamed about him for what I sincerely hope will be the last time. Today I will send him this package so he can read my catharsis, if he wants to. So he can read a very different ending to our story—the happy, fictional one we couldn’t quite manage in real life.
I open the front cover and flip past the title page, stopping at the dedication so I can read the words of the girl he hurt.
For Derek.
May you live happily ever after.
I wrote and revised the dedication about fifty times, but that’s what I ended up with. I could have written whole letters, could have hurled bitter accusations, could have leaked my sadness onto the blank page. I could have pointed out how this book could never have existed without him, could have confessed that within the pages lived my fantasies… but there was no need. If he read the book, that would be clear. As clear as the pocket of love I must still have for him, if I’m sending this damn book instead of setting it on fire and moving on with my life like a normal person.
That’s what I should’ve done, but this moment is half the reason I published the damn thing. This story wasn’t for anyone else, it was for me. I needed a place to store my ill-fated hopes and broken dreams, so I tucked them inside the pages of this book.
Perhaps I have a flair for the dramatic, but I am my mother’s daughter, after all.
She wrote letters to her ill-fated lover; I wrote mine a book.
Good thing I’ll never reproduce. I’m not sure what the next generation of Harmon women might resort to in order to vent their pain and disappointment in the men who failed to love them.
Or maybe we’re getting better. Maybe I’m a step ahead of my mom. Maybe I wrote Derek my own version of a letter, but at least I didn’t take my own life. I’m building a new one. A better one. A safer one.
Perhaps the daughter I’ll never have would’ve just consumed too much wine and had his name tattooed on her body in tribute before moving right on with her life. Maybe her unrequited love would only live on her body as some ill-considered décor, and in her memory as a story that leaks out of her when she has a couple drinks.
I guess we’ll never know. My future doesn’t hold any of that. Whatever path healthy people take to love, I’ve never been able to locate it. I don’t even want to. I’m perfectly content with my life and my choices. I’ve made peace with my past and my present, and once I unload the weight I’ve been carrying around inside this book, I’ll feel much more optimistic about my future.
Instead of wasting another moment thinking about all I poured out into this story or considering how Derek might respond to this parcel, I tuck the book away and head toward the post office. Even though I know he doesn’t need it, today I will send him my blessing. The life I imagined for us isn’t real. The hero of this story clearly isn’t him, because the hero of this story made better choices. He hurt his heroine, sure, but unlike his inspiration, he realized his mistake. Maybe he couldn’t fix it, but he did his best to make it right. He deserved the love and trust his heroine invested in him, and he would never break it.
Maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe Derek is happy without me.
That stings to think about, even now, but I shove that thought down. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. That chapter of my life is over, and now I’m going to seal it inside an envelope and ship it to my hometown so I never have to read it again.
This is my only copy. In a dramatic show of just how over it I am, I refuse to own a copy of this book for myself. I don’t need a paperback copy; the words are already stamped across my soul.
Today I let it go, and I’ll feel lighter for it.
Today I will pack up this hero and this heroine; I will give Derek Noble the last thing he’ll ever get from me.
Tomorrow I’ll move on.
Chapter One
6 years A.D.
Song: Sunshine- Jonathan Edwards
I hum along to the sounds of Jonathan Edwards telling sunshine to go away as I get the morning coffee brewing. It’s way too early, and I have way too much to do today. I start going over a mental checklist, but I can’t seem to find my motivation.
My gaze drifts to the pot of motivation brewing right now. I wish it would hurry up so I could get my day started. I don’t even like coffee, but I can’t be a human being until a steaming cup of it is coursing through my system.
Given I was alone in this kitchen jus
t a moment ago, I startle slightly as Henry’s rich voice suddenly derails my train of thought. “Someday you should consider switching up your morning song. I’m getting tired of this one.”
I smile faintly as he walks up behind me, towers over me, and reaches into the cabinet above the counter for take-out cups. “This song is classic. Don’t mess with my morning vibes. I have a shit ton of work to do today; I need to be ready.” I grab the bag he just dropped off on the counter and open it up, digging in to see what he brought me for breakfast. “Also, I didn’t let you into my house. Way to break and enter, counselor.”
“I’ll get myself off,” he remarks, dryly.
“What else is new?” I toss back.
He slants me a look to let me know he is not amused.
I flash him a charming smile. “It was right there. I was supposed to ignore it?” Grabbing the chocolate chip muffin he brought me and beginning to peel away the paper wrapper, I lean in and give him a peck on the lips. “Thank you for feeding me.”
“Someone has to keep you alive,” he points out.
I nod my agreement, picking off a piece of the muffin top and popping it into my mouth. “Very true. I’m not equipped to do that job myself.”
“You’re the most competent helpless woman I’ve ever met,” Henry tells me.
“I’m super competent,” I state.
“Just not at keeping yourself alive.”
“Sure, I could use a little help there. Hey, no one’s perfect.”
Smiling faintly, he assures me, “You’re close enough.” Grabbing my coffee pot, he pulls it away and holds the cup under the drip. “You were late making coffee, however. You’re gonna make me late to court.”
“Just tell the judge you were distracted by my perfection; he’ll understand.”
Henry cracks a smile. “My client might not.”
“He sounds like a jerk anyway,” I inform him.
“But a jerk who pays me so I can keep bringing you breakfast each morning.”
Nodding in consideration, I say, “All right, a necessary jerk. I’ll allow it.”
He stares at the coffee trickling into the cup like that will make it fill faster. I allow myself a moment to admire the smooth lines of his navy suit, the snowy white shirt and sharp tie around his neck. His briefcase has been abandoned on my kitchen table. It’s the same routine we have every morning, though usually I’m more punctual with the coffee.
I’m not much of a cook anymore, but by God, I can make a pot of coffee.
Henry technically stopped at Starbucks to get me my muffin. The argument would hold that he could have much more easily bought himself coffee there, but this is our little habit. It used to be his excuse to see me before he went to work when he was trying to convince me to go out with him. Now it’s one of the few times we’re sure we’ll see each other since we both keep such busy schedules.
On that note, as he quickly moves his coffee cup away and replaces the coffee decanter, he asks, “Are we still on for dinner later?”
“If you expect me to eat again today, we better be.”
Popping the lid on his cup, he assures me, “If my meeting runs late, I’ll order you take-out.”
“Best boyfriend ever.”
“You better believe it,” he says, lightly placing a hand on my hip and giving me a sideways kiss. “I’ve gotta run. I’ll text you when I get out of court.”
“Good luck,” I tell him, as he grabs his briefcase.
“Don’t need it,” he shoots back.
“Cocky asshole,” I mutter.
He smacks my ass. “That’s why you like me. Send me a picture of you in these cat pajamas, by the way. I want this mental image to be a real image that I can pull out and look at when I’m bored today.”
“I will not do that,” I warn him, as he heads out of my kitchen.
He’s already gone, so I follow behind him and lock the front door. My multi-talented graphic designer, Louise, looks up at me with a cocked eyebrow.
“What?” I demand.
“When are you going to let that poor man spend the night? He drove all the way over here so he could see you for 90 seconds. Let the man sleep over.”
“Mind your business,” I tell her lightly, heading to the kitchen to retrieve my muffin and some coffee.
“I’m minding your business because someone has to,” she calls back. “You have a hot lawyer boyfriend and you are not appropriately locking that shit down. You guys have been on one date. One. Singular. And you haven’t let him spend the night once.”
I head back into the living room—our office, dubbed Awesome Central by Louise—and walk to my own desk, behind hers, in the center of the living room. “Of course I haven’t. Like you said, we’ve been on one date.”
“But you act like a couple. I just heard him refer to himself as your boyfriend. How do you get awesome men to call you a girlfriend after one date without even putting out?”
By not giving a fuck, but I don’t tell Louise that. Instead, I sip my coffee and smile faintly. “I’m just that good.”
“You’re a relationship ninja. You need to teach a course for us basic bitches.”
“It would be an incredibly short course. It would not be worth your money. Trust me.”
“I’ve been trying to get Trevor to stop being a dick and it is not happening.”
“Keyword: trying. Stop that. Ignore him. When he texts you, be busy.” I fire up my computer and break off another piece of my muffin.
“But then what if he texts someone else?”
I’m pretty sure he’s already doing that, but I don’t bother remarking. “Don’t ask for the course then argue with the professor,” I advise her.
“Sorry, Dr. Harmon,” she mocks.
Glancing past my own laptop, I look at the desktop on Louise’s desk. “What are you working on over there?”
“Cover, sale graphic, picture of my wedding with Prince Harry. Look how cute we are,” she says.
“You’re a psycho.”
“Undiagnosed,” she flings back. “What do you have this morning?”
I roll my eyes. “Second chance romance. I’d rather die. You want to read it for me? Ferret out those pesky typos?”
“That’s a little harsh,” she states. “Not feeling that one?”
“It’s not the book’s fault. The book is fine. I just hate that trope with a fiery passion. Inigo Montoya’s quest for vengeance seems mild compared to how much I loathe second chance romances. I’m hoping there are emails to catch up on first.”
“You’re a real romantic, has anyone ever told you that?”
I pull a face of disgust and Louise rolls her eyes at me, turning back to her work. It’s a running joke around the office—well, my living room—that I’m the last person in the world who should be running a small press that specializes in romance. It’s essentially like the Grinch running a Christmas shop. Louise and Nadia (my other employee) are convinced I don’t have a single romantic bone in my body. I don’t mind. I like them thinking that, to be honest. To me, that says they think I’m sensible. Any reckless fool can give their heart away and be forever chasing after it.
I’m chasing different things.
My phone vibrates on the desk. I lean forward to read the text message from Henry. “That damn song is stuck in my head now.”
I crack a smile, grabbing my phone and texting back, “Hey, there are worse fates.”
A moment later he texts back, “I’m still waiting for that picture, btw.”
“I hope you’re not holding your breath,” I shoot back.
“I am. Send the picture or my death is on your hands.”
“I can’t be blackmailed, Dillinger,” I shoot back.
Blackmail.
That word jogs loose a memory. A careless, golden-haired memory, zipping up his jeans and looking back at me on the bed where I’d given up my virginity. The first in a long line of bad decisions. The first time I should have hated with the guy I should h
ave hated even more.
That’s the last thing I should be thinking about when I have to proofread a second chance romance. This poor book. I’m going to loathe every last word. Instead of rooting for the HEA, I’ll be advising the heroine to run like the wind.
Good thing this is a last pass. No content changes, just making sure the manuscript is clean.
That’s what I try to focus on. My mind wants to linger inside a memory, wants to skip ahead to the feeling of my naked body pressed against him in his bed, to his arm locked around my waist, his kisses still imprinted upon my lips. There’s tenderness in his blue eyes as he looks at me, tenderness that makes me ache.
No, if I want to remember that bullshit, I need to skip further ahead. I need to think of the agony I felt, all alone inside our relationship, begging him to tell me what was wrong while he shut down. While he lied to me and kept secrets. While he ruined both our lives and any chance we had at happiness with one another.
Ugh. Now I have to try to read this story about these two assholes falling back in love after time apart. Do not want.
I need to get started, though. I’m booked solid all week, so there’s no time to dawdle. That’s pretty much what I do every week, but this weekend I’m actually taking time off, so it’s more important than ever that I get all my work done. I won’t have time to play catch-up at all this weekend. This weekend is Alex’s wedding.
I can’t believe my father is actually getting married. That reminds me, Henry never did tell me whether or not he could get the weekend off. I probably shouldn’t have even asked him to go. We haven’t been officially together long enough that he’s required to be my date to things, and it will be a little strange if our second real date is my father’s wedding, anyway.
Still, I grab my phone and type back, “Did you ever find out if you can make my dad’s wedding?”
It takes him a few minutes to answer that time. He’s probably driving the rest of the way to the courthouse, but when he gets there, he texts back, “Will you hate me if I don’t go?”