Eleven Weeks
Page 20
Kate’s dad.
“Rain dance time!”
He’s standing near the door, one hand on the handle, Deborah clutching his arms with her lips pressed so hard together, she could roll pasta through them.
“Come on.” I grab Michael’s hand and we push through the crowd, trying to get closer to the door.
“Raaaaaain dance.” Paul races outside into the pouring rain, his arms spread wide, welcoming the damp.
Voices still as everyone focuses on the man with the disease in the rain. A few cameras flash.
“Hmph! Crazy,” a woman says near me, nudging her friend’s arm. I give her a right good elbow to the waist. She gasps, and I tilt my head to the side and shrug. Manners, people.
Then something happens that makes my heart explode with pride. Kate grabs her mum’s hand, and together they go racing out into the rain, joining Paul there.
Water drenches their clothes, sticking them to their skin. Kate’s hair is plastered against her head, but she has this big, ridiculous grin on her face.
I don’t know if she’s ever looked more beautiful in her entire life.
“Rain,” Paul calls, and he strips off his jacket, letting it rest in the gutter in a wash of dirty water.
Seeming not to care, Kate grabs his hand offers it to Deborah. They share this look so intense, so full of freaking love, that I swear something inside of me melts. Even though they’ve gone through this crazy illness, this crazy disease, they’re still in love.
Michael squeezes my hand. I shoot him a grin.
What was the point in fighting it?
“Kate!”
We’re in the doorway before I know what I’m doing, and then we’re running through the rain. I squeal as the first drops hit my face, then twirl around, embracing the feel of the warm drops as they land on my skin.
“Woo!” I scream, throwing my hands up in the air, a smile on my face.
I spin and am taken by the waist and twirled through the air, the hands then pulling me close so that Michael can plant a kiss on my cheek.
“We can do better than that,” I whisper, grabbing his jaw and pulling it close to my face until his lips press against mine and we’re kissing. His tongue pushes its way into my mouth, duelling with mine, and my hands search his back, desperate to feel his well-defined muscles again. The water causes our clothes to stick to us and it only makes it easier for me to feel his erection through his pants, and it somehow makes me want him all the more.
When we pull away I see that Lee Collins is out here too, talking to Kate, and I look over then glance back at Michael and grin.
“Right?” I ask.
“Right.” He grins, and there’s a look in his eyes that signals that he gets it. He gets how excited I am that Lee is talking to Kate, seeing how insanely beautiful she is in this moment.
He gets that Kate deserves a second-chance with this guy who Michael clearly approves of, because when you’ve been friends with someone for as long as Kate and Michael have, you don’t let new people walk in and trample over your mate’s life.
Michael gives my hand a squeeze, and the look in his eyes—lust, desire, but something more—something like love?—it hits me, straight to the core.
He gets me.
And I freaking love that.
I glance at my watch, grinning like a maniac as the clock strikes past midnight.
“You know it’s been eleven weeks to the date since I kissed you for the first time?” I smile.
“But it’s been five years since I first fell in love with you.”
Five years.
Eleven weeks.
A lot can happen in a short period of time: pain, heartbreak, love, loss … and sometimes, something can grow from those ashes. It can rebuild you, heal you in ways you never imagined possible. It can find scars you’d forgotten, rip them open and cover them anew.
That’s who I am today. I dove to my lowest low in order to become Stacey, but healed. Stacey, but accepted. Stacey, but loved.
Sometimes, you just gotta let the rain in.
Read other books by Lauren K. McKellar
The problem with crazy is that crazy, by itself, has no context. It can be good crazy, bad crazy ... or crazy crazy—like it was when my ex-boyfriend sung about me on the radio.
Eighteen-year-old Kate couldn’t be more excited about finishing high school and spending the summer on tour with her boyfriend’s band. Her dad showing up drunk at graduation, however, is not exactly kicking things off on the right foot—and that’s before she finds out about his mystery illness, certain to end in death.
A mystery illness that she could inherit.
Kate has to convince everyone around her that her father is sick, not crazy. But who will be harder to convince? Her friends? Or herself?
The Problem With Crazy is a story about love and life; about overcoming obstacles, choosing to trust, and learning how to make the choices that will change your life forever.
Praise for The Problem With Crazy …
“Heartbreaking, life-affirming—one of my all-time favourites.”
Glass Paper Ink Book Blog
“This story is beautiful, heartbreaking and will leave you thinking about it for days to follow.”
A.K.A. The Book Harlots Review
“McKellar pushes all of your buttons as a reader.”
Fab, Fun & Tantalising Reads
The one thing he can’t forgive.
The one thing she can’t forget.
The problem with heartache is that you can dream about the could have—the should have—but when you wake, nothing will console you.
Because seconds later, you remember he’s dead.
And remembering is the worst pain possible.
Kate is running from her family. It’s intertwined with everything that went wrong. When she lost her career. When she lost her sense of self.
When she lost the boy she loved.
Now, she’s got a second chance, travelling with rock-star Lee Collins and his band, Coal, on the road. She wants to forget, and she wants to fall in love.
Now.
Lee will do anything for family. It’s why he hired Kate. It’s why he donates thousands of dollars every year to the foundation that supports his father.
It’s why he keeps his secrets; and it’s why he cannot, will not fall in love. Not with Kate—not with anyone.
Ever.
Read on for more of The Problem With Heartache ...
THE PROBLEM with heartache is that you can’t mourn forever. You can’t walk around the streets, wearing black, carrying holy water on your person in the hope that you’ll stumble upon a miracle, be able to use it and bring that person back. One day, you’re gonna forget that tiny vial, and you’re not gonna realise until it’s too late.
“Are you done?” Mum enunciated each syllable like it weighed a ton.
“Give me a second.” I threw my arms behind my back, fiddling with the straps on the bra.
A solution for heartache, however, appeared to be running. Or, it seemed to be for me. I’d been jogging on the beach every day for six months now, and slowly but surely, I was getting better mentally, becoming able to function again.
Even if it meant that my boobs were getting smaller. Hence the new sports-bra shopping trip.
“Are you having fun?”
I cringed. Really, Mum? Fun?
My fumbling finally resulted in success and I shook the bra off, quickly shrugging my normal one over my shoulders and throwing my T-shirt on top of that. It hung loosely over my hips, the grey speckled material suiting my mood to a tee. Ha. See what I did there?
Making bad jokes to yourself: a potential symptom of heartache. Thankfully, not a symptom of Huntington’s disease.
I grabbed my purse from the little seat the staff at the lingerie store so kindly provided its change room patrons, and walked to the front of the store to the checkout area, sports bra in hand, ready to make the purchase.
The guy in f
ront of me at the counter was taking a really long time. He had six different sets of lingerie to put through. I couldn’t help but check around his arm to see what. Black lace, red silk, black pleather … and was that something with fur I could see?
“Stop stickybeaking.” Mum slapped my arm, and I snapped my head back to my chest.
“It’s a public place,” I whispered. The transaction in front of me continued. Hopefully, underwear-fetish guy hadn’t heard.
“People don’t like you to look at their knickers, Kate.” Mum tutted quietly, shaking her head.
“Well maybe people shouldn’t buy quite so many pairs. And besides,” I hissed, raising my eyebrows at her. “We don’t know that he’s going to wear them all at once.”
“Ahem.”
Of course. You whisper three fairly innocent sentences, but the one about the guy in front of you being a cross-dressing lingerie wearer, he hears.
“Sorry.” I studied the ground.
The man turned around to face me. He had maroon leather shoes, scuffed, like they’d seen better days. My gaze travelled up his black jeans, over his red-chequered shirt with the triangular collar, the black scarf around his chin, covering his lips, his nose—but not his eyes.
Holy hell, did the man have eyes.
“Kate.”
I blinked. What? How did this guy know my name?
“Yes?” Mum replied, and I jabbed an elbow to her ribs.
“That’s me.” I smiled brightly. “Sorry about the panties-wearing comment.”
“To be fair, this does look a little weird,” the guy said. You can say that again … “We just have this film clip tomorrow, and the stupid wardrobe guy said the models won’t fit any of the … you know …” The man jerked his thumb toward the counter, indicating the underwear the checkout chick had now finished ringing up.
Cogs clicked in my head. This wasn’t—
“Lee?” I silently added freaking-Collins. If he was going to the trouble of wearing a bad scarf by way of disguise, I doubted he’d be keen on me screaming his full name in a crowded shopping centre.
“Yeah?”
Silence.
“Kate’s just so happy to see you, is all,” Mum said. She took a step closer. “Hard to recognise, behind that scarf there.”
“That’s kind of the point.” Lee gave her a wink. I swear, my mother blushed.
“Well, we’d love to have you over for dinner sometime, since you’re in town,” Mum was saying, her hands clasped together. She opened her mouth to continue speaking.
“But being a really busy guy, we wouldn’t actually expect you to come.” I overlapped.
“Well, if we invited you formally, we would,” Mum said, giving me a strange look.
“I mean, I could.” Lee spoke the words softly, taking a step closer. “So long as you don’t tell anyone about my secret identity.”
Mum giggled like a schoolgirl. Help me, God.
I looked past her, past the stands of bras and the occasional naughty dress-up item and into the shopping centre and—
Him.
I dropped the sports bra and ran, shouldering Mum as I surged forward, out the doors of the shop.
Left?
Right.
I could just make out the brown hair bobbing in the distance.
I bolted, as fast as my legs could carry me, darting around mothers with prams, old people supported by walking frames, and teenagers making their way to the food court in an achingly slow fashion.
Turning the corner, I could see the hair again, but it was still too far away. My knees rose higher, my feet hit the ground harder, and I gave it all I had. I couldn’t let this opportunity get away. I had to take it. I had to make it.
This time when I turned the corner, he was almost within arm’s reach. Ignoring the stares I was getting from the lunchtime food-court crowd, I dove, reaching out and grabbing onto the denim of his jeans as I fell.
I hit the ground, hard. Tiles smashed into my ribs, my knee, the side of my jaw. Everything went black for a few moments, and I blinked, trying to clear my vision.
When I could focus again, I looked up. Faces hovered over me, voices yelling things, asking things that I couldn’t quite make out.
I need you.
Then I saw him. The blue jeans, the white shirt. The brown floppy hair.
I blinked, and concentrated all my brainpower on focusing on his face. His face, Kate. Look at his face.
“Lachlan?”
I blinked again. An old man wearing a chocolate-coloured beret looked back at me.
Shit.
I’d like to thank the Academy, and … okay, my acknowledgements may not be quite as lengthy as that Oscar’s speech, but they do have a tendency to go on, so I’ll try to keep it brief!
To Kim, my lovely cover designer, thanks so much for your patience with me when I asked if we could try this or that again. Your patience and talent know no bounds, and I love you for it!
To Marion, for editing my work, putting up with my silliness and also, being able to count. Seriously, how’d you get good at words and numbers? That just doesn’t seem like a fair distribution of talent!
Emily, as always, you make my books so pretty! Thanks for putting in the hard yards.
Before any of these people got to see my book, however, and before I even thought I could publish, I had it beta read. I am fortunate enough to have some of the best and probably most good-looking beta readers going! A huge thanks to Simone, for scaring me then not even being as nasty as you made out; to Kristine, for inspiring me to make a change; to Jennifer, for your awesome notes and incredible turnaround time; and to Stacey because even if I know it isn’t true, I love it when you pretend that one day I could be like Colleen Hoover. Who could get better encouragement than that?
To every single blogger who reviewed The Problem With Crazy, I cannot thank you enough. In particular, I need to send my utmost love and a zillion unicorns to Kellie, Kristine and Jodie. You all made me cry with your nice words! I can’t believe I was lucky enough to have such awesome ladies as you say nice things about me. If you haven’t already, you have to check out A.K.A. The Book Harlots Review, Glass Paper Ink Book Blog and Fab, Fun & Tantalising Reads. Seriously, people!
A big shout-out goes to my lovely Chandelle, because I can’t remember ever writing a book without bombarding you with a zillion medical-related questions. You’re the best fact checker, doctor and friend I know. Love you!
To Mum, Kristy, Andy, Mitch, Marg, Jeff, Lisa, Paul, Scott, Danger and Berry … I love you all. And humans, come on, stop sulking at sharing your acknowledgment with the puppies.
SydVegas, baby! S, C, JJ and K, you girls make my day, every day. You’re always there for me, and I #FLAYFF! Thanks for being awesome, for letting me pretend I can be an editor and an author, for keeping me sane, for giving me advice, and for Batman. And Pringles. Because, der.
Of course, I have to thank my husband (hehehe … husband) for letting me talk about writing all the damn time, and for the heart-monitor line. I love making things up with you, and being your wife. You’re freaking awesome, and the best thing I have.
Finally, and most importantly, to you. I can’t begin to express how stoked I am that anyone would read even a few chapters of my work, let alone a whole novel. Thanks so much for taking the time to check out my work. You’ll never know how much it means to me.
Lauren K. McKellar is a writer and editor of fact and fiction. She loves writing and reading, and hopes her books make you feel all the things—or some, at the very least.
Lauren loves to write for the young and new adult markets, blogs with Aussie Owned & Read, and is published both as an independent author and through Escape, Harlequin Australia’s digital-first imprint.
In her free time, Lauren enjoys long walks on the beach with her two super-cute dogs and her partner-in-crime/husband.
Connect with Lauren
Website
Facebook
Twitter
> Goodreads
Tsu
And if you’d like to join my street team, my e-newsletter or even my writing goals group, don’t hesitate to email me.
Copyright © 2014 Lauren K. McKellar
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical re- views and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
If you are reading this book and have not purchased it or been gifted a copy via an online retailer, it has been pirated. Please delete this eBook and support the author by purchasing a copy from one of its many distributors.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-9924524-2-1
Cover copyright © K. A. Last of KILA Designs
Editing by Marion Archer of Marion’s Making Manuscripts
Ebook designed and formatted by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Week One
Week Two
Week Three
Week Four
Week Five
Week Six
Week Seven
Week Eight
Week Nine
Week Ten
Week Eleven
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE PROBLEM WITH CRAZY
THE PROBLEM WITH HEARTACHE
Copyright Notice