Fallon looks at me with large, shining eyes, wiggling in place. “Please, Mommy? Please? Can I marry Dean?”
I don’t know what seventeen-year-old boy is best friends with a three-year-old girl, but I guess Dean is different. Perhaps because he’s been taking care of his little sister for so long. But even so, I don’t think he was expecting to be the very first crush of my baby girl.
Clearing my throat and getting my laughter under control, I say, “Honey, I think you’re gonna have to ask him.”
Her eyes get even wider, if possible and she jumps up and down. “Okay! I gonna ask him now.”
She’s ready to run to him where he’s chatting with Dr. Martin, but I stop her. “Fallon, I think you should wait. Because –”
“But Mommy, I got a plan.”
I’m suspicious. “What plan?”
“I gonna ask him a gift. And he has to gimme it ‘cause it’s my birthday.”
“What gift, honey?”
“I gonna ask him to marry me.” When I still don’t understand, she says, exasperated, like I’m the kid, “As a gift, silly! I gonna ask him to marry me as a gift.”
And then, she’s running away before I can say another word to her, and I can’t help it. My laughter comes out.
Oh my God, she’s going to trick him. Not gonna lie. I’m kinda proud of my daughter.
When I come to my feet, Simon sidles up to me. His arm goes around my waist and together we watch Fallon dash up to Dean. She stumbles in her path and my feet are ready to move and rescue her. But Dean is there. He gets to her in a flash and gathers her in his arms. His face is bunched up in a frown as he says something to her, smoothing down the wayward strands of her hair. Fallon shakes her head in response, and he kisses her forehead, smiling at her.
As I watch them together, I realize I know a thing or two about crushes on lonely, dark-haired guys. Not that my sweet girl’s crush is going to amount to anything. Obviously.
Right?
Before I can really think about it, Simon asks, “What was that about?”
I switch my focus from them to my husband. If I tell him, he’s not going to like it. He is possessive of his daughter. He’s going to be upset knowing that Fallon chose Dean over him for her marriage plans.
“Nothing.”
Simon looks down at me and I trace his stubble, causing him to squeeze his arm around me before placing his splayed palm over my belly. I almost moan at his touch, squeezing my thighs together, keeping his cum from leaking out like he told me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers.
“Like what?”
He presses his palm over my stomach. “Like I’m a hero or something.”
“But you are a hero,” I say, bringing my hand over his and threading our fingers together. “You’re my hero. And Fallon’s. And you’ll be his hero, too, when he comes.”
“It’s a him, then.”
“You know it.”
He chuckles, and I go up on my tiptoes to kiss him.
When his lips are moving over me like this, with love and passion and promise, I’m not afraid of the future, of what’s to come.
I’m happy. Excited.
In fact, I’m excited about this party, too.
In a little while, our house will be full of people I love. I’ll get to see Renn and Tristan after a long time. They travel a lot because of Tristan’s paintings, so sometimes it’s hard to get ahold of them. I hope they’ll finally decide to get married this year. I can’t wait to be her maid of honor. Matron of honor. Whatever.
I’ll see Violet with her husband, Graham. I’m especially excited about that because I just love how they met. Every time we see each other, I make Vi tell it to me, right from the beginning. They’re such an unlikely pair. Vi with her ex-fiancé’s super-hot dad. I love how Renn gets all hot and bothered whenever Graham, the silver fox, walks into a room. Tristan hates that.
Even Penny isn’t immune to Graham. Not that she’s interested in dating anyone because she’s busy with her residency. Maybe tonight, along with Renn and Vi, I’ll change her mind.
Not to mention, maybe Dr. Martin will finally convince Simon to come work at Heartstone again. I know one of these days, Simon will break and go back to the job he really loves.
So yeah, life is full of possibilities, even for me.
A silver-haired, blue-eyed girl who takes a pill every day for an illness that can’t be cured.
Because I was born with more than blood in my veins. I was born with strength. I was born with courage to fight.
I’m a warrior.
And that’s what I’ve passed on to my daughter, as well.
That’s what I’ll pass on to every single child of mine.
Strength and courage and the ability to rise even when they fall.
THE END
God Amongst Men
Enemies to Lovers Romance
Coming 2019
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Dopamine
Renn & Tristan’s story
Coming 2019
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Nicotine Dreams
Violet & Graham’s story
Coming 2019
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Join my New Release Alert so you don’t miss out!
As a writer, I get my inspiration from a lot of things. Medicine Man is inspired by my love for the novel, Girl, Interrupted and Harry Potter series, along with my uncle who suffers from depression.
When I was little, I could never understand why everyone was so worried about him or why his hands would shake while writing or why his visits to the hospital lasted for weeks.
While I will never grasp the hardships he went through and still goes through, as an adult, I know that I admire him immensely. I admire his will to fight and stay steady and strong in the face of his illness.
My goal in writing this book is to acknowledge this very strength that resides in millions of people who battle it every day. I hope you know that you’re not alone, and you don’t have to be. You’re strong.
You’re a warrior.
I’d also like to take this opportunity to point out that a stay at a psych ward is more often than not a very intensive and sometimes, grueling process. I found several articles depicting both harrowing and hopeful experiences. With this work, my aim is to focus on the light at the end of a dark tunnel. Please be aware that I do not intend to make light of this experience.
But at the same time, I’d also like to disabuse anyone of the various myths surrounding an open-unit, medium-term psych ward such as Heartstone. Generally, patients staying at such facilities have a full life on the Outside, and are admitted with the goal of helping them resume it as soon as they are able.
Thank you for reading this story!
PS: In case, you want to connect with me, please email me at: [email protected]
The other place to interact with me is my reader group on FB (Saffron’s Purple Hearts)
My husband: He’s the man behind all my hard work and every single book I write. He’s also the kindest, most genuine man I know.
My family: Thank you for supporting me, always. Thank you for being there for me and teaching me to always go for my dreams.
Ella Maise: I’m so, so thankful that we connected this year and that we’ve been chatting almost every single day since our first few messages. Thank you for taking this journey with me. Thank you for being my sounding board and a source of inspiration. Love you!
Bella Love: Can you believe that we started this journey together? It seems so surreal. Thank you for being with me since the beginning. I love you so much!
Autumn Davis: Thank you so much for all your faith in me. I’m so sorry I bug you with my little insecurities and anxieties. I’m so very grateful for your support and your trust in me.
AM Johnson: Thank you so much for putting up with my constant questions. Thank you for holding my han
d when I was freaking out about every little detail. I adore you!
Beta Readers: Renate Thompson, Bella Love, Ella Maise, my agent: Meire Dias, Mara White, Ellen Widom, Cynthia A. Rodriguez, Autumn Davis, Melissa Panio-Peterson, and Veronica Larsen. Thank you so much for your invaluable comments and insight into my story. Your thoughts have made this story the best that it could be.
Candi Kane: Thank you for being on my team and being so very sweet. Releases scare me and you made everything so easy.
Readers: Thank you for reading my books and waiting for them with all your enthusiasm. I’d be nothing without you.
Writer of bad romances. Aspiring Lana Del Rey of the Book World.
Saffron A. Kent is a Top 100 Amazon Bestselling author of Contemporary and New Adult romance. More often than not, her love stories are edgy, forbidden and passionate. Her work has been featured in Buzzfeed, Huffington Post, New York Daily News and USA Today’s Happy Ever After.
She has an MFA in creative writing and M.S. in Biotechnology and she lives in New York City with her nerdy and supportive husband. Along with a million and one books.
She is represented by Meire Dias of Bookcase Agency
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Chapter One
My heart is not an organ.
It’s more than that. My heart is an animal—a chameleon, to be specific. It changes skin and color, not to blend in, but to be difficult, unreasonable.
My heart has many faces. Restless heart. Desperate heart. Selfish heart. Lonely heart.
Today my heart is anxious—or at least it’s going to be anxious for the next fifty-seven minutes. After that, who knows?
I’m sitting in the pristine office of the school’s guidance counselor, Kara Montgomery, and my heart is going haywire. It’s fluttering, dipping up and down in my chest, bumping against my ribcage. It doesn’t want to be here, because it takes offense at seeing the guidance counselor, which is really just a euphemism for therapist.
We don’t need a therapist. We’re fine.
Isn’t that what crazy people say?
“Layla,” says the guidance-counselor-with-a-psychology-degree/therapist, Ms. Montgomery. “How was your vacation?”
I glance away from the window I’ve been staring out of, forgoing the scenery of the snowy outdoors to focus on the smiling woman behind the desk. “It was all right.”
“Well, what did you do?” She is rolling a pen between her fingers, and then it slips out of her hand and falls to the floor. She chuckles at herself and bends to pick it up.
Kara is not a typical guidance counselor/therapist. For one, she’s clumsy and always appears frantic. There’s nothing calm about her. Her hair is never in place; strands are flying everywhere, and she’s forever running her fingers through them to make them behave. Her blouses are always wrinkled, which she hides under her corduroy jackets. She talks fast, and sometimes things she says aren’t very therapist-like.
“So?” she prompts, giving me her full attention. I want to tell her that her glasses are tipped to one side, but I don’t; she is less intimidating this way. My heart doesn’t need any more threats than what her degree represents.
“Um, I took walks, mostly.” I shift in the cushioned chair, tucking a strand of my loose hair behind my ear. “Watched Netflix. Went to the gym.”
Lies. All lies. I binged on Christmas candy my mom sent—or rather her assistant sent, because my mom didn’t want me to come home for the holidays. I sat on the couch all day and watched porn while sucking on Twizzlers and listening to Lana Del Rey in the background. I’m addicted to that woman. Seriously, she is a goddess. Every word out of her mouth is gold.
I’m not addicted to porn or Twizzlers, however. Those are just for when I get lonely…which is most of the time, but that’s beside the point.
“That’s great. I’m glad.” She nods. “You didn’t feel lonely without your friends, then? It was all good?”
Now, this is what I don’t get: why is she smiling at me? Why are her eyes curious? Is she trying to dig deep? Is she trying to fish for answers?
Her questions could be a cover for other loaded questions, like, Were you good, Layla? Were you really good? Did you do something crazy, like calling him in the middle of the night? Because you’ve done this before when you were lonely. So, did you call him, Layla? Did you?
The answer to all of this is a big fat no. I did not call him. I haven’t called him in months. Months. All I’ve done is stare at his photo on my phone—the photo no one knows about, because if my mom knew I was still pining after him, she’d send me to a real therapist, a real live one who would ask all sorts of questions rather than disguising them with euphemisms.
So no, I did not call him. I have only stared at a stupid picture like a pathetic lovesick person. There, happy now?
I shift in my chair and open my mouth to tell her exactly that when I realize she hasn’t even asked the question. I’m only thinking she has. It’s all in my head. I tell my anxious heart to calm down. Relax, would you? We’re still in the clear.
I exhale a long breath and answer, “Yeah, it was good. I kept myself busy.”
“That’s great. That’s good to hear. I don’t like when students have to stay back for holidays. I just worry about them.” She laughs and her glasses become even more crooked. This time she straightens them up and folds her hands on the desk. “So have you given any thought to what electives you’ll be taking this semester?”
“Sure.”
Of course not. I’m not made for education. The only reason I agreed to college was because I was given the choice between school in Connecticut and the youth rehabilitation center in New Jersey, and I’m not setting foot in New fucking Jersey or going to a rehab center.
“Well?” Kara raises her blonde eyebrow in question.
I lick my lips, trying to think of something. “I think I’m gonna stick with the regular courses. College is hard as it is. I don’t wanna pile on new things.”
Kara smiles—she’s always smiling—and leans forward. “Look Layla, I like you. In fact, I think you’re great. You have great potential, and to be honest, I don’t think you need these thinly disguised therapy sessions with me.”
I sit up in my seat. “Really? I don’t have to come here anymore?”
“No, you still have to come. I’d like to keep my job.”
“I won’t tell anyone. It could be our secret,” I insist. I don’t like to keep secrets, but this one I’ll take to the grave.
“It’s tempting, but no. Cookie?” She chuckles, offering the chocolate chip cookies sitting on her desk, going all friendly on me again.
She gives me whiplash and sometimes I want to ask her, Are you here to analyze me or not? Not that there is anything to analyze. I’m a simple girl, really. I hate winters, Connecticut, and college. I love the color purple, Lana Del Rey, and him. That’s all.
I reach out to take one cookie but then change my mind and take three instead. I never say no to sugar.
Kara watches me carefully and I am about to snap at her when she speaks up. “So as I was saying, I think you have great potential, but you need set goals and you need to work on impulse control.” She gives me a pointed look as I take a bite out of my cookie. “You don’t have any, or at least, what you have is very little.”
“Huh.” I sag back in the chair. “Well, I knew that already.”
Kara threads her fingers together on the desk. “Great. So we’ve already conquered the first step: acceptance. Now we need to work on the next step.”
“And that is?”
“How to control it.”
I hold up my finger. “Way ahead of you there. I’ve totally got it under control.” Kara raises a skeptical brow and I continue, “I’ve been going to all my cla
sses even though I wanna walk around aimlessly all day, and I’ve got C’s across the board even though I hate college. Not to mention, I’d kill for a drag or a drop of Grey Goose, but I haven’t touched any of those things. I don’t even go to parties, because we all know parties are just breeding grounds for pot, alcohol, and sex.”
I shoot her an arrogant smirk then finish my cookie. She can’t get me after that. I’ve been good. I’ve busted my ass to be good.
“That’s commendable. I appreciate your restraint, but that’s also the bare minimum. You shouldn’t be drinking and partying it up anyway.” She pushes her glasses up. “College is your time to learn, to discover yourself, to see what kind of things you like, and for that, we have electives. So, I ask you again, any thoughts?”
Sighing, I look away. I’m back to staring out the window. The grounds are white and the trees are naked. It’s all desolate and sad, like we’re living in a post-apocalyptic world where things like electives are mandatory.
“What are my choices?” I ask.
Kara beams at me, swatting at a wayward curl that’s getting in her eyes. “Well, we’ve got a great writing program. Maybe you should try some of the writing classes.”
“You mean, like, writing writing?” At her nod, I shake my head. “I don’t even like reading.”
“You should probably pick up a book sometime. Who knows, you might end up liking it.”
“Yeah, no, I don’t think so.” I sigh. “Do you have anything else? I don’t think I’m cut out for writing.”
“In fact, I think you’d be great at it.”
“Really?” I scoff. “What do you think I should write about?”
This time her smile is both sweet and sad. “Write about New York. I know you miss it. Or maybe something about winter.”
“I hate winter.” I wrap my arms around my body and hitch my shoulders to huddle in my purple fur coat. Another thing I like: fur. It’s soft and cuddly, and it’s the only thing that can somewhat keep me warm.
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