by Monica James
Nick almost springs from his seat with my suggestion, flagging the bartender down. “A bottle of your top shelf whiskey. We’re celebrating.”
“We are?” I ask, cocking an amused brow. “What are we celebrating?”
Nick wraps an arm around my shoulder and draws me to his side. “We’re celebrating everything and anything and nothing at all.”
Sounds good to me.
Two bottles of scotch later, I am utterly wasted. So much so, I’m almost contemplating joining Nick on the dance floor as he dances to some 70s disco tune.
I needed tonight. I needed to realize that no matter what happened with Carrie, you live and you learn. I accepted that we both fucked up and the time we spent together was indescribable. Maybe that’s why the writer’s block has returned.
Whatever the case, I will only look forward and hope I uncover the reason the universe decided to throw Carrie in my path.
Needing to go to the bathroom, I stagger through the crowd, seeking out where it is. As I search the room, however, I get more than I bargained for because my eyes lock with someone who I’ll never forget.
Those hazel orbs seem to have grown wiser, but her innocence is still there. She looks just as I remember—a ray of sunlight in a withering storm. My heart picks up the pace, and my palms begin to sweat. She’s here; she’s really here.
Standing feet away is Carrie Bell, the woman who has ruled my every waking thought since the first moment we locked eyes. I can’t help but think of our bumping into one another in Paris. Although that wasn’t coincidental, the relief of seeing her now is just the same.
No matter how much time we spend apart, my feelings for her never waver, they only seem to grow.
Everything around us fades into the background as we stand motionless, unable to look away. I’m transfixed, rooted to the spot, and if I died right now, I’d die happy because we’ve both changed. We’ve both grown.
She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, evoking memories of what those curls felt like in my hands. I want to say so many things, but where do I start? Sorry might be a good place. Sorry I didn’t give her a chance to explain.
But all chances of a reunion come crashing down around me when someone stands beside her. Our connection severs as she lowers her gaze to the floor. I don’t know who the man is, but it doesn’t matter. I got to see Carrie for the briefest moment in time, and it was enough.
She shyly lifts her eyes, leaving me breathless. If this were a movie, the swoony hero would swoop in and tell the heroine that he wants her to give him a second chance. But this isn’t fiction, this is real. So, in light of that, I do the only thing I can—I raise my hand and wave.
An olive branch as such, one she accepts when she returns the motion.
We stand, hands raised, unmoving, as a silent gesture can amount to a million words. In that simple wave, we express sadness, happiness, regret, but most of all, it’s a hello.
A burst of something explodes inside of me when the light catches the bracelet around her slender wrist—the bracelet I gave her. She’s still wearing it. Could it be, she still feels it too?
The guy beside her gestures that it’s time to go, and when she chews her lip, I know she’s torn. But I do the most selfless thing I can do—I let her go. With a final wave, I say goodbye…goodbye for now.
Her surprise is clear, but she nods with a smile and leaves me standing with my hand and head held high.
“Dude! Carrie just left!” Nick nudges me so hard, I stagger sideways, breaking my trance, but that seems to open a door that has remained shut for weeks.
Nothing about this makes any sense, but that’s how every good story begins…
Nick ceases with the violence, reading my response immediately. “I know that look. It’s happening, isn’t it?”
All I can do is nod, too afraid to speak because all the words I need are the ones in my head. Maybe sometimes, the good guy does get the girl.
Six Months Later
I’ve done this a thousand times before, but this time is different. So very different.
The night I saw Carrie stirred something in me, something I was too afraid to do—I wrote, and I haven’t stopped since.
Seeing her inspired me, reminding me why I was on this journey they call life. I could have called her, but I didn’t, and she didn’t call me. What we had was enough because it was the start of something new for the both of us.
“Nervous?” Nick asks, looking his finest in a gray pinstripe suit.
Pacing the small back room, I wring my hands in front of me. “I am now.”
“You’ll be fine. They’re here for you. If you fuck up, just sing Elvis. Everyone loves Elvis.”
“Not helping,” I quip, wiping my sweaty palms onto my torn jeans. “This was a bad idea. What if she doesn’t come?”
Nick grips my upper arm to stop me from pacing. “If she doesn’t come, she doesn’t come. At least you tried.”
He’s right.
This is by far the bravest thing I have ever done. I’m taking a gamble, but Carrie has always been worth the risk.
Karen pokes her head around the doorway, smiling. “You ready?”
“No,” I reply, but it’s now or never. People are waiting…waiting to see me. “How many are out there?”
“Two, three…” I exhale in relief, but it’s short-lived. “Hundred.”
I turn to Nick, cocking my head to the side. “How many people did you invite? I said small.”
Nick shrugs unapologetically. “This is small. I had to turn people away. I’m pretty sure tickets were selling online for five hundred dollars.” I don’t even want to acknowledge that claim because it does nothing to settle the nerves. “It’s your fault for being so secretive.”
“I’ll announce you, all right? They’re getting restless. Break a leg,” Karen says, excited I chose her bookstore to do this in. But it was never a question of where.
Exhaling, I nod. “Let’s do this.” Nick slaps me on the back and joins Karen, the proud agent that he is.
Tonight is opening night—the reveal of the new me, so to speak. Most know me as J.E. Sparrow, but that man is no more. Yes, we’re here to unveil my new book to the masses, but this book is different. My characters aren’t flawless. They don’t have an obscure name with perfect hair and deep blue eyes and a defined jawline.
They aren’t without blemishes or wardrobe malfunctions because none of that is real. In real life, people don’t wake up looking as though they just stepped off a runway in Milan. Real people have real problems, and those problems teach us life lessons. They make us. They break us.
Life is messy, but that’s the best kind of life one can live.
For months, I’ve wanted to write something different. I thought the manuscript I started in Paris was the different I was searching for, but it wasn’t. It was a good start, but to shed my skin, I had to start again—the rebirth of the real me.
“Put your hands together and welcome…Jayden Evans.”
Yup, that’s me. I may have made a name for myself as J.E. Sparrow, but just imagine what I could achieve by being true to myself.
With that thought as my compass, I walk out in front of the audience, head held high. The crowd erupts into applause. Karen wasn’t lying. It’s a full house. Some faces I recognize, some I don’t. And the one face I’m desperate to see doesn’t seem to be here. But that doesn’t matter. It’s because of her that this book exists, and it will honor her and honor us whether she is here or not.
I asked Karen for simple, and she listened. My stage is a wooden chair and a small round table piled high with copies of my book. Nick is standing off to the left, my forever supporter, cheering me on from the sidelines.
Taking a seat, I look out at the sea of people, so thankful they’re here to celebrate life. “Hi. Thank you for coming. My name is Jayden Evans. Some of you may know me as J.E. Sparrow, but that’s no more. This new book…it’s different. I know all authors say that about th
eir newest release, but this one truly is. There is a lot of secrecy surrounding this book because everything you’re about to read is true.”
Taking a breath, I can only hope she’s here to hear my confession.
“I know a lot of rumors have surfaced over the past few months about me. Some are complete fiction, but sadly, most are true. Which is why I’ve decided to pen my life, in my own words, and put an end to those rumors. Who needs rumors when you have the truth? I used to write fiction. Love stories that ended in a happily ever after. Well, this isn’t that. It’s an autobiography about a man, and that man is me.”
Gasps sound because this is shedding an image and starting again.
Reaching for a copy of my book, I open the page to the introduction. Here goes nothing.
“My name is Jayden Evans. I’m a thirty-three-year-old Sagittarius who used to write about the miracle of true love and finding your forever soul mate. I’m a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author with over twenty-five million copies of my books sold worldwide.
My first novel, Lost in Love, was written when I was twenty-two. It was inspired by my whirlwind romance with my ex-wife, Elizabeth Sparrows. By twenty-four, I was one of the world’s most beloved authors. All of this, all my accomplishments were because of Liz. She was my muse…but things change.
“That change came when I met someone…someone who didn’t just change my life, she changed me. We met when I was caught in a compromising position, one that I found myself in more times than I care to admit. Nothing but a cliché, I’m sure that’s what you’re all thinking, and you’re right. My wife cheated on me, and in turn, I became a man seeking inspiration in a world where I felt so lost.
“You see, I suffered from something every author dreaded—writer’s block. I couldn’t write a single word. I’ve done some deplorable things, ones I can’t take back, and at the time, I thought being a raging manwhore would unearth the inspiration I so desperately craved. But all it did was drive me further away from who I was.”
Pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose, I continue.
“I was caught at a crossroads as such…a crossroads in life. So when I met her, she brought with her the breath of fresh air I was searching for. But she had her own demons. Fuck, who doesn’t. But it appeared her demons danced with mine. A deadly combination, one I didn’t fully understand until it was too late.
“I thought she was my savior, that she was the reason I could write again. But when I lost her, I realized I was the reason, and that’s the only reason that should matter. Because how can you make someone else happy when you’re not happy with yourself? But I’m happy now, and I hope wherever you are, you’re happy too. I know it’s too late. Months have passed, but I need you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for judging you when you never once judged me.
“This entire time, you were searching for your Mr. Right, and finally, I can offer you that. I’m your Mr. Write.
“So this book is dedicated to you, dove. I wasn’t afraid of telling you that…I love you. I was afraid of what your answer would be. Thank you.”
I close the book, unsure how that went down because it’s so quiet, I can hear my racing heartbeat. Nick nods, his eyes glossed over with what appear to be tears. But that’s impossible; there is no way he would cry. But when the crowd stands, exploding in pandemonium, I realize that it’s very possible because this book…this book is a fucking hit.
The next few minutes pass by in a blur. Strangers congratulating me, and publishers begging for five minutes of my time. But I seek only one face, and as I scour the crowd, I don’t see her.
I invited Carrie because, regardless of everything, I wanted her here. I wanted her to know that I’m sorry and that I now know what that feeling I constantly questioned was…it was love. I have loved Carrie from the moment we met, and I’m a convert. Insta-love, love at first sight, although rare, exists. She is the one, the only one I want. But she clearly doesn’t feel the same.
“Jayden, it’s time to sign your books.” Nick shoos away the vultures, who couldn’t care less when I hung up my literary boots. But I showed them. Gerry was right. The publishing world is changing, and it’s time I caught up to pace.
Mr. Write, the name of my new book, is published by me. I’m now an indie author—I think that’s what they’re calling it. I oversaw the editing, formatting, cover, and everything else that goes into self-publishing, and it was bloody hard work. Anyone who thinks being an author is simply penning words to paper needs to spend a day in our shoes.
The bloggers may state they wanted this and that, but in the end, we write for ourselves. If anyone else likes it or connects with our words, then we are truly blessed.
I follow Nick to the table set up with piles of my book and endless Sharpies—an author’s best friend. The line is insanely long with budding readers, but the face I long to see isn’t among them. Nick sits beside me, slapping me on the back.
Somehow, he managed to secure foreign rights in twenty-one different countries. It’s still hard to believe my autobiography will be translated into Bulgarian. When I wrote this book, it was a form of therapy because I started from the beginning, and the end…well, I can’t give the ending away.
I didn’t know what I wanted to do with it, but the more I wrote, the clearer things became. I overcame this mental block. It wasn’t writers block; it was me afraid of failing. So with nothing left to lose, I wrote a story detailing what it’s like to be human. A story that translates in every language.
Nick passes me books as I sign each one, chatting with my readers. They express their excitement over my new work and share their own personal stories of love. The night is truly magical.
As I’m chatting with a reader who has been with me since day one, I hear Nick wheeze and kick me sharply under the table. I pay no attention to him as Jackie is detailing the ups and downs of her forty-year marriage, and I don’t want to be rude.
“Would you mind posing for a photo?” she asks while Nick kicks me once again. He’s gone mad.
Standing, I ignore his outburst and round the table to stand in front of a banner of my book. I smile for her daughter, who snaps a few pictures. As I’m thanking Jackie for coming, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. The air sizzles. I disregard it, however, as it’s probably the fact I’m in a room with hundreds of people.
Once I bid Jackie farewell, I take my seat. Nick passes me a bottle of water and an antacid. “I don’t need that,” I say, referring to the antacid.
“Trust me, you will,” he says, passing me a book to give to the next person in line. He clearly needs some fresh air.
“Hi.” However, my greeting lodges in my throat when I look up and see the one person I had given up on seeing ever again. I now understand Nick’s madness because, on cue, my heart begins to ache.
“Hi, Jayden.”
“Dove?” I ask in case my mind dreamt her up. She smiles while I instantly reach for the antacid. Nick passes me the bottle of water, which I gulp down in one mouthful.
During my mini meltdown, I hear hushed whispers.
“Is that the Dove?”
“Oh my god. The girl he dedicated his book to?” But I can only focus on one thing at a time.
“Congratulations. You did it.” She toys with the silver C hanging from her neck. I need a moment to speak as I take her in.
She wears her long dark hair down, highlighting the crimson on her cheeks. Her face is natural with just a hint of gloss coating her plump lips. She’s in a red summer dress and ballet flats. I notice her attire not only because she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, but because many seasons have passed since we last met.
“Thank you. Thank you for coming,” I add, suddenly tongue-tied. I want to pull her aside and talk, but I have a line of people waiting.
She notices my dilemma and takes a deep breath. “I won’t take up much of your time.”
I quickly stand. “Let’s go somew
here private.” But she waves me off.
“No, if I don’t do this now, I’ll lose my nerve. I should have done this months ago. I’m sorry, Jayden. I should have told you from the beginning about Donny. I was just so…ashamed of what I’d done. When you told me what Liz had done, I hated her because she was me. Not that it makes a difference, but I want you to know the truth.”
She has my complete attention, and it appears the room is also under her spell. “Donny told me he was married…” Gasps and murmurs sound, but I ignore them. “But he said they were separated. He only stayed because of the kids. Oldest excuse in the book, right? But I believed him because I wanted to. He said his marriage was over, which was the only reason I started the affair.”
“Carrie—”
“No, please, let me finish. This has been eating me up these past few months.” I nod, shoving my hands into my pockets to stop myself from reaching out and holding her. “I thought what we had was real. But when I found him in bed with Natalie, well, you know what happens next. I boarded that plane with the intention of never falling in love again. But then…I met you.
“I wanted to tell you so many times, but I was scared.” Her eyes twinkle with tears. “I was scared you’d never forgive me because I couldn’t forgive myself. Everything happened so fast, but the more time I spent with you, the more in love with you I fell. But I know I hurt you, and that it’s too late—”
“Dove, shh,” I interrupt, which catches her unaware. “It’s now my turn to talk.”
The masses coo and laugh, watching my book come to life.
“I forgive you because I’m sorry too. I should have told you I was staying with Liz. But it was only for one night, and I was doing it in hopes I could finish my book and prove her wrong. I needed to watch her to make sure she didn’t ruin your life as well. I know it was a stupid idea, but it seemed like the only solution at the time.
“So I want you to know that I understand why you did what you did. Sometimes, we lie to protect the ones we love. It’s not an excuse, but it is an explanation. And it’s what forced us both to let go of our demons and love ourselves again.”
