by Emma Scott
I looked at my fifteen-year-old daughter, wise before her time. I’d always thought it was the divorce. It’d been rough on all of us, but once Giles and I finally agreed our marriage was over, I had room in my life for something besides anger and frustration. And our daughter saw it.
“I guess I thought it would be too hard for you to see me with someone other than your dad.”
She put her arms around me from behind where I sat at the kitchen counter, blueprints for my next project hovering in front of us.
“What’s hard is seeing you lonely and unhappy,” she said. “You’re too much of a hot commodity to be sitting at home alone, scrolling the entire Kindle romance library night after night.”
“Not the entire library…”
She laughed and kissed my cheek. Outside the window, an empty car glided up to the curb.
“My ride’s here.”
“Have a good day at Demo.”
“I will,” she said, then made a shooing motion. “And you. Go.”
I laughed. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll go and get a coffee and see what happens.”
“Ooooh, coffee. Sexy.” She blew me a kiss and went out.
Through the window, I watched her go down the front walk. The batwing door of the electric car opened, and she climbed in. It glided away, taking her to Demonstration Complex #387, where she and her classmates would have to show that they could apply that week’s data in physical space.
I initiated a conference call with my team of architects, their faces appearing on the screen in front of me, and we went over the plans for the new recycling center. It was the biggest one yet and yet not big enough. After high tides had swept Los Angeles into the ocean eighty years ago, it finally dawned on humanity that we were in serious trouble. Recycling plants began to pop up all over the world. Some said it was too little too late, but I didn’t believe it. I believed in second chances.
Maybe even for myself.
When the meeting was over and the screens were shut down, I tapped my temple and called for a ride to the closest coffee shop to our housing complex. On the way over, I linked my order, and my cappuccino was waiting for me when I got there. I managed to find a table in the crowded café; the rest were occupied with people who looked like they were staring off into space, scrolling their Links.
Except for one man at the next table. He looked to be about my age, early forties. He kept himself in good shape—his dark clothes fit him well, and his black hair was thick and rich. Almost as striking, he had an actual book in his hand. Cutting down trees had been outlawed more than fifty years ago, but this was the real thing. He flipped real pages of words written on real paper. An antique. I was surprised he risked taking it out in public and nearly commented to that effect.
A little voice told me to keep my mouth shut, drink my coffee, and mind my own business. That this beautiful man didn’t want me bothering him.
Those voices had been loudest in the worst months of my disintegrating marriage, telling me to stay, telling me that I was a failure if I put my happiness over the family unit. But when I stopped listening to them and filed for divorce, it felt as if a huge weight had been lifted. As if my life had been on pause and was now resuming.
I leaned over. “I’m sorry to bother you, but is that an actual book?”
The man looked up and the smile that broke over his face made my heart stutter. Light brown eyes met mine. They were soft with kindness yet sharply intelligent. He took in my suit, my face. Maybe it was just my imagination, but his gaze lingered on my own dark blue eyes, with a spark of something like recognition…
“It’s real.” He held up the book’s cover. From the Back of the Room: The Collected Poems of Weston Turner.
“Oh wow, I love that poet,” I said. “He’s a favorite.”
“Yeah? Mine too.” The man extended a hand. “I’m Cyrus.”
“Lilith.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lily,” Cyrus said, then gave himself a shake. “That’s not what you said. I don’t know where that came from. Pleased to meet you, Lilith.”
We both realized at the same time he was still holding my hand.
He let go self-consciously. “Am I just batting a thousand or what?”
“You’re doing all right,” I said, grinning. An actual grin. I smiled for my daughter, for colleagues, at strangers to be polite, but it seemed like I hadn’t grinned in years. “Have we met before? You seem awfully familiar.”
“You read my mind,” Cyrus said. “But I didn’t want it to sound like a line. You might get up and walk away and I don’t want you to get up and walk away.”
“You’re in luck,” I said, my cheeks warming. “I don’t want to get up and walk away either.”
It’s literally the last thing I want to do.
His answering smile was gorgeous, not only because he was a handsome man, but because of how personal it seemed. Intimate. As if he saved that kind of smile for private moments, warm mornings spent wrapped in bedsheets…
Oh my God, you really do need to get out more.
“I’d like to buy you a coffee,” Cyrus said. “But you already have a coffee. So how about dinner? Is that too fast?”
“Oh, um…”
“It’s too fast. Never mind.”
“No, I’d love to have dinner with you,” I said quickly, cringing at the naked eagerness in my voice. “But I have to check in with my daughter.”
“Oh yeah? How old?”
“Aria is fifteen,” I said and waited for the spark of interest in his eyes to fade. But he smiled wider.
“No kidding? My son Garrett is fourteen.” Cyrus shifted in his seat. “I should check with him too, actually. Since when do the kids give the permission?”
“In my case, it’s a side-effect of divorce.”
“Same here. How long?”
“Two years ago. You?”
“A year.” Cyrus held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. “You can still see the tan line where the ring used to be.”
I nodded. “I find myself touching my finger all the time, as if I were careless and lost mine somewhere. Then I remember and…” I shook my head with a small shrug. “But it was for the best.”
“I’m sorry,” Cyrus said, then thought for a moment. “But I’m also not sorry. Maybe it makes me a selfish ass, but I’m pretty damn glad you’re not with someone else. It’ll make our dinner so much less awkward.”
I laughed out loud. “True. And I’m not sorry, either. About my divorce, I mean. It was hard but necessary. Giles, my ex, is a good man and a great father to our daughter. But I always felt like I was missing something. Always looking over my shoulder for who was walking through the door next. And that was so incredibly unfair to him.” I glanced up, realizing how much I’d said. But Cyrus was listening. Nodding.
“I feel the same,” he said. “I’ll always love Kaylah—she’s the mother of my kid. But I never felt…”
“Complete?”
“Yes. I never felt that way they say you’re supposed to feel.”
“Like how they do in the stories,” I finished and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “And I’m glad you still have love for her. I think that says a lot about you.”
He smiled ruefully. “Thanks, that’s nice to hear. I’ve been feeling like a grade-A asshole. Like I failed at life.”
“Me too,” I said and suddenly felt shy. “We have a lot in common.”
“We do,” Cyrus said. “Poetry and failure.”
I laughed again. “You know, I’ve laughed more in a handful of minutes with you than I have in years. Thank you for that.”
“It’s not by accident. I’m trying my best.” He grinned. “I like your smile too much.”
A soft moment fell, and I felt myself getting lost in Cyrus’s eyes. The depth of them that was enticingly new and somehow ancient too.
“Well I guess we should exchange codes,” he said.
“I think it’s the thing to do, but I’m no expert. I
t’s been a while.”
“Same. But how about we try something else instead,” he said. “Do you know the little Italian bistro on Trebek Boulevard?”
“That’s a favorite.”
His smile was almost perplexed. “Mine too. I’ll link us some reservations for 8 o’clock.” He slid the book across the table to me.
I stared. “Are you giving this to me?”
Cyrus’s eyes widened with mock alarm. “My favorite Weston Turner? Never. No, take it and get reacquainted. Then give it back to me tonight at dinner and we’ll compare our favorite poems.” He smiled. “We can pretend we’re in the olden days when people didn’t download each other’s history but got to know each other face-to-face. Does that sound all right?”
It sounds perfect.
“What if I don’t show up?” I teased.
“Are you going to steal my book, Lily?”
“No, Cyrus,” I said, and just saying his name sent a pleasurable shiver all through me. “I’ll be there.”
“I hope so,” he said and rose reluctantly. “I’ll see you tonight at eight.”
“See you.”
Cyrus left with a parting smile that took half my heart out the door with him.
Oh stop. Don’t be so dramatic.
But I watched him go until there was no sign of him, then opened the book and flipped through the pages. Carefully. I couldn’t believe Cyrus trusted such a valuable relic to a total stranger.
Because we’re not strangers.
I flipped to a random poem called “Time Bends” and read, my heart thudding louder and harder with every word.
There’s blood in my beer.
I drink it down
and wipe away tears.
Nothing makes the past gentle
Or easy to swallow.
The night comes like
a thunderclap.
Blackness drops like blindness.
Time bends.
It folds the years
and suddenly I’m there
on that dusty, bone-choked field.
It was two years ago.
It was yesterday.
It was last night.
Dreams become memories,
become now.
So what is real?
This moment,
this breath…
I close my eyes
and time travel
To the place where I died
The sand soaking up my blood
I wring it out,
drink it down.
It goes down hard,
grit in my throat,
a weight in my lap
I can’t stand up
and walk away.
But I can be anywhere
Any when
I can kiss you for the first time
Again and again
All I have to do is
sleep.
I’d read the poem before—about Turner’s time in the Army, serving in Syria many, many years ago. But now it seemed like it was talking straight to me. Lines jumped out, ripe with new meaning.
Dreams become memories,
become now.
I can kiss you for the first time
Again and again
I closed the book and held it to my heart. In a world of data and downloads, it felt solid and real. Cyrus felt real too in a way I couldn’t explain. As if a piece of my dreams had taken shape and form, at long last…
The little voices in my head tried to talk me out of it.
A man that beautiful and perfect has to be a figment of your imagination. Maybe he’s one of those new dating holograms…
The rest of the day crawled.
At eight o’clock, I stepped into the restaurant. Cyrus was already there at an intimate table for two. Instantly, my heart felt full and warm when it had no business feeling either. He stood up when he saw me, his face breaking into a devastatingly handsome smile of happiness and something like awe. I moved toward him as if drawn by an invisible white line tethering us together.
He took my hand and held it, his dark gaze roaming over me.
“There you are, Lily,” he said softly. “It’s about time.”
But I wasn’t late.
A strange joy—the feeling of something deep inside me falling into place—swept over me. My hand in his tightened and held on.
“I was about to say the same to you.”
The End
Bonus Material
For more of Cas and Lucy’s HEA, plus more of Cole’s artwork, deleted scenes, and behind-the-scenes research, click here.
Author’s Note II
While a lot of this book is purely fictional, some unfortunate facts are all too real. This beautiful planet of ours needs our help if we’re to keep it beautiful for this lifetime and every one of our lifetimes to come.
oceana.org
theoceancleanup.com
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to my Gal Friday, Melissa Panio-Petersen, still retaining her title as Most Thoughtful Person Ever. I thought of you many times as Lucy came to life on the page. She has a lot of your kindness and generous heart. Love you.
To my amazing husband, Bill, my partner in all things, who saw this book when it was a spark of an idea and wouldn’t let me blow it out. Thank you, my love, for everything you put into it and everything you give to me every day as we journey through this lifetime together. All my love.
To my beta reader, Marissa D’Onofrio. You slogged through a version of this book that was a pale shadow of its true self, but your sweet encouragement and love for the rough collection of words helped see me through to the end. Thank you.
To Lori Jackson for hitting it out of the park in one try (and reminding me with your artistry why I’m an author and not a graphic designer). Thank you for bringing my sweet Casziel, in all his winged glory, to life.
To Mary Ann Martinez. Thank you for bringing Cole’s drawings of Lucy to life and for sharing your incredible talent with me and this book.
To Nina and her team at Valentine PR. Thank you for sticking with me through the hard times, for granting me the space when I needed it, and for being there for me when I was ready. Love you!
To Teresa Reif. Your love and friendship through my hardest moments is really astonishing to me. Thank you for standing in the heart of my worst storms and holding my hand through them until they passed. All my love.
A very special thanks to James Barrett Morison and his Tumblr blog on the Sumerian language. Without this valuable resource, I wouldn’t have been able to give Casziel his voice. (Although all mistakes and liberties taken are mine.)
Every demon in this book is “real” thanks to Theresa Bane and her Encyclopedia of Demons, from which I was able to cast this motley crew of infernal bad boys and girls. I’m grateful not only for her extensive research into the underworld, but for every new or crazy idea for the book that came with it.
To the members of the Entourage. I cannot convey how many times you give me the strength, love, and energy to keep going when I feel like I can’t. I get so tired of posting about my hard times, not wanting to let you all down, and every single time you share your love with me and lift me right back up. Thank you for that. It means more than I can say.
And to Robin Hill. You truly never fail to amaze me with your generosity and friendship that I cherish so much. The time you give me, and the love and support, feel like a bottomless well. But I never want to take for granted all you do. You touch my heart every day. Love you.
And to the readers, bloggers, and members of this romance community. This book is for you. It’s my entire heart on the page, it’s my journey with Izzy, it’s what grief can look like in dark moments, it’s my father’s despair and ultimate peace. It’s me being as authentic as I can for you. Because you deserve no less. But it’s also for us, the romance lovers who constantly find our genre maligned and belittled. Time and again, we are called to defend books that celebrate love in all its forms, and
that, to me, is just plain crazy. This book is a testament to what I’ve survived and continue to survive, but it’s also every bit my thank you to this romance community that has lifted me up time and again and who doesn’t need to defend a thing. We know that the most powerful experiences in life are told in this genre better than any other.
And that love always wins.
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About the Author
Emma Scott is a USA Today and Wall St. Journal best-selling author whose books have been translated in six languages and featured in Buzzfeed, Huffington Post, New York Daily News and USA Today’s Happy Ever After. She writes emotional, character-driven romances in which art and love intertwine to heal and love always wins. If you enjoy emotionally-charged stories that rip your heart out and put it back together again with diverse characters and kind-hearted heroes, you will enjoy her novels.
Visit: www.emmascottwrites.com
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