I looked into her brown eyes. One last Hail Mary. “Tia, please. I know I’m a project. It’s also not on you to fix my problems for me. The only thing that I want from you is another chance. I’m all in this time. I won’t run again. Tia, please, rip up those papers. I don’t want a divorce from you…I’m on my knees… begging you… give me one more chance. I will spend the rest of my life doing everything I can to make you happy. Please.”
More tears welled up in her eyes, as I felt my heart sink. Violent sadness drummed inside my head, pulling me down, pulling me under the waves.
Then, like a lifeline, her words stopped my freefall.
“I only need…you to love me, Andrew. I need you to take a chance on us and choose us every single day. I need you to believe in us. When you’re scared that you’re screwing up or when we’re fighting or when whatever random situation is thrown at us, I need you to still believe that we are strong enough to get through it. Together. I need you to believe that you can lean on me, as I will lean on you.”
How could ordinary letters strung into simple words have the power to rescue me? Demolishing all of the remaining walls and excuses within me, I promised, “I will try, as long as you’re with me.”
With hope soaring in me, I pulled Tia, my Tia, into my arms. When her arms wrapped around my neck, relief flooded my body, drawing out the remaining tension. Pulling back just far enough to look at her, I vowed solemnly, “I want you. I need you. I love you, Tia. I love you so much.”
A huge smile spread across her beautiful face, as she whispered back, “I want you. I need you. I love you, Andrew. Thank you for loving me more than you are scared of us.”
Laughter bubbled up. “I might be slow on the uptake, but after twenty years of loving you, I think I’m finally ready for us.”
Reaching for the pocket on the inside of my jacket, I pulled out a small box. “The last time I was in Chicago, I grabbed something that I had been holding on to for a while. I’d like to return one of them to you.”
“Are those—”
I stared at the thin, white gold band in my palm, next to a wider, larger band. “Ten and a half years ago, we got married with these rings and proceeded to make a muck of it the first round. I’d like to start anew. Tia, will you please be my wife again?”
“Yes!” Eagerly, without waiting for me, Tia grabbed her ring and slid it onto her finger. It still fit. It was a simple, understated ring with no diamonds. I had used up all of my savings to buy her that ring and had carried shame that I couldn’t get her anything fancier. Yet, seeing the thin band on her finger, there was a rightness to it. And this time, I didn’t let myself wonder if it was enough.
“I love you, Andrew,” Tia said, leaning in to kiss me.
I savored the feel of her. The softness of her lips, the intensity of feeling as if I had come home. Finally. “I love you, Tia.”
“Do we start our happily ever after now?” she whispered between kisses that soothed over past pain and carried us kiss by kiss forward.
“What will we do with ourselves now?” I teased. “What do people do after they get everything they’ve ever wanted?”
“Enjoy themselves,” Tia said firmly. Smiling at my wife, I scooped her up and carried her to start our happily ever after.
Epilogue—6 years later
Andrew
October 4, 1999
Hi,
I’m Andrew. What’s your name?
Andrew
October 5, 1999
Hi Andrew,
My name is Ting. Do you want to be my friend? You’ll be my first friend in the US. I like letters, but tomorrow, we can also talk during lunch or play during recess.
Ting
“Congratulations! Today is your day. You’re off to Great Places! You’re off and away! You have brains in your head—”
“Daddy, Daddy, what are brains?”
“It’s an organ in your head that helps you think and tells your body what to do. Let’s see, ‘You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go. You’ll look up and down streets. Look ’em over with care. About some you will say—”
“Daddy, Daddy, why does Mickey Mouse wear gloves? Does he have teeth? Goofy has teeth.”
“Hmm, good questions. Um … Mickey has cold hands—”
“Daddy, why does he have cold hands? Maybe he should wear a sweater.”
“That’s a good idea, Cecelia. Should we read a different book?”
My four-year-old daughter ruffled through the pile of books on her bed and delightedly pulled out a thin book with kids playing and Chinese characters on the cover.
I was tired from work and from convincing a charming, outrageous toddler that broccoli was indeed healthy despite it looking like a tree. Now, we were about to start book number six. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except despite having read the books multiple times before, each page still generated questions, and each answer generated more questions.
Yet, as I looked at the adoring brown eyes of my daughter as she valiantly tried to hide a yawn, I had never felt this lucky. Batting away my own yawn, I opened up the book. “Cong qian, cun zi li you ge lao ren, ta ji shi nian lai, kao zhe ti ren…”
“Daddy, why does your Chinese sound so silly? It doesn’t sound like when Mama talks. Or when Yeye or Nainai talks. Did you forget to practice your Chinese today? Mama says you need to practice more,” Cecelia’s little voice reminded me.
I smiled. Even at this young age, she had a clear grasp of who was boss in this house. It wasn’t me. And I was completely okay with being wrapped around Tia and Cecelia, and soon, my baby son’s fingers.
“How about I read it instead?” Tia’s voice came from the doorway. She was two weeks away from her due date, and it still amazed me that her body was growing our son.
She had been scared and anxious, and anxious about being too anxious, throughout the pregnancy with Cecelia and now this one. I didn’t like feeling helpless, and I didn’t want to add myself as another burden for her to worry about. So I did my best to supply her with an endless amount of lemon squares at all hours of the day, doing chores, and taking Cecelia on field trips to give Tia time to nap. I hoped it was enough.
“Yay! Mama, snuggle with me.” Cecelia shoved aside two frilly pillows, one of her five blankets, and expectantly patted a little space next to her.
Smiling, Tia shook her head. “Your baby brother is getting too big for me to lie down. I might not be able to sit up again.”
Pouting slightly, Cecelia asked, “When is he going to come? It’s been soooo long. Why is he soooo slow?”
“Soon, darling,” I said, as I patted her shiny, dark brown hair. “When he is born, you’ll be a big sister. You’ll have to look out for him and protect him.”
“Just like my sister, Joy?” Yawning, Cecelia rubbed her eyes, as she pointed vaguely above her head.
“Yes, darling.”
“Can you rub my back, please? I don’t think I’m tired. But I’m going to rest a little bit. Just a little bit?”
“Sure,” Tia whispered, turning off the lights in our daughter’s room.
We sat there in the dark, with me patting Cecelia’s back as her breath deepened, my other hand reaching out to hold Tia’s, as her head came to rest on my shoulder.
In the past six years, Tia and I had our share of fights, disagreements, hurt feelings, and miscommunications. But there were many, many more moments of happiness. Vacations, reading and drinking tea together over rainy days, laughter bordering on sleep-deprived hysterics the first few months after Cecelia was born, and taking family walks after dinners.
I had turned out not to be a crappy husband (I was still happily married, right?). To my bigger surprise, I had turned out not to be a crappy dad. No amount of books could have prepared me for Cecelia, but we quickly learned that she didn’t need much. She didn’t seem to mind when my attempt a
t pigtails was a lopsided disaster, or that I fed her too many chicken nuggets. Cecelia simply needed my love…and that I had an overabundance to shower on her.
There were so many big, joyful moments and so many little, mundane moments of happiness that had brought peace for me. There were also moments when I was so happy that I became terrified that something would happen, that I would screw up. But those moments were becoming increasingly infrequent, with the help of therapy as I learned to process my past. And every day, Tia and Cecelia patiently showed me that love wasn’t about loving perfection, but rather loving the whole of someone, including the weirdness and flaws.
So, no, our happily ever after didn’t consist of a castle or the serenity that movie and book characters floated off into. Our happily ever after was a work in progress, sometimes messy, often wondrous, but always the one in which we chose each other, we believed in each other, and we loved each other.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading this! I’m so thankful that you chose to spend some time with Tia and Andrew. Hopefully, you enjoyed them, as much as I adore them.
I’ve had stories running around in my head for years. I even “published” an illustrated book of poetry when I was in fourth grade. It was really bad, and hopefully has disappeared to the same place that socks go.
However, when I thought about writing a “real” story, that thought scared me. I procrastinated by writing an endlessly long outline, googling random facts, and thinking that I can’t. In early 2018, while on maternity leave, I thought I’d give this writing a real shot, especially since my baby was a great daytime sleeper (note the word “daytime”). I wrote the first couple of chapters of the best Regency novel ever and even managed to have an agent take a look.
Turns out, it was not meant to be the best Regency novel ever. It sucked.
But, one thing that I learned, just by writing those chapters (which will also never see the light of day), was that it wasn’t the story that I was meant to write. Instead, Tia and Andrew are who I was supposed to write about. In contemporary times …
I’m still holding out hope that someone will eventually write that best Regency novel ever. Because I spent a lot of time, coffee, and avocado toast on the world’s longest outline.
This story wouldn’t have happened without some amazing people. To Penny, Fiona, and Brooke for taking this chance on me, telling me not to panic, and working through the story with me. To Sarah M. Anderson and Maria Vale for your feedback and being reader #1 of a partially written story and reader #2 of the full story. To Michelle and Judy, thank you for your thoughtful suggestions to help make this book so much better than what it started as. To all of my fellow Smartypants Romance authors for your support, reading my story, and late-night questions—I feel privileged to be part of the sisterhood.
To my husband for playing endless rounds of catch-me-as-I-jump-off-the-couch with the kids while I wrote, making me coffee while I typed at night, and not judging me when I fell asleep before the kids.
To my kiddos, yes, I’m sorry, this book took a really long time and has no pictures. But in seriousness, despite whatever guilt I felt whenever you caught me writing, I believe so strongly in following your dreams. So I hope, my little Baozi and my little Jiaozi, that you will chase after your dreams too.
About the Author
Nanxi Wen thought she was going to write the greatest historical novel. Turns out, her characters decided that they want to be in the 21st century with modern plumbing, online shopping, and reality TV shows. Her first book comes out in February 2021 – Give Love a Chai.
She lives in New England with her husband and two clingy monkeys (aka toddlers). When she is not despairing over word count, she enjoys reading, snacking, drinking coffee, sitting by the fireplace, hanging out with friends (far apart and with masks) and daydreaming.
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Read on for:
1. Sneak Peek: Weights of Wrath by M.E. Carter, Cipher Office Book #4
2. Smartypants Romance Booklist
Sneak Peek: Weights of Wrath by M.E. Carter, Cipher Office Book #4
Joey
We need to talk.
That’s all the text message says. No name. No indication of who it is or who they’re trying to reach. Hell, it could be that automated chick Michelle Warren trying to trick me into talking to her about my federal student loan again.
Joke is on her. I don’t have a federal student loan. I have an associate’s degree from Downtown Chicago College and half those credits came from dual credit high school courses. In the case of my education, thrifty was the way to go.
All I ever wanted was to be a personal trainer. I fell in love with weightlifting in high school. I love the burn of my muscles and pushing my body to its limits. The eight-pack I’m sporting isn’t a half bad side effect either. More than one pair of panties have fallen in my direction because of it.
Yet another perk of my job at Weight Expectations. Not only am I living my dream, but there is no short supply of women either. Which means Michelle Warren and her student loan can fuck right off.
“That depends on who is asking and if it’s really me you’re looking for,” I quickly type out.
Muting my phone now that I’ve sent my reply, it’s time to get back to work. With a full-time job and the local Strongman competition only about six months away, my plate is full. I have no time for random games from random texters.
But first, I need to get my favorite group of dames through their class.
“Okay, ladies,” I say with a clap of my hands. “How are we doing? Feeling good about pushing ourselves to the limit?”
A chorus of groans, mutters, and a grumble that sounds suspiciously like an “Up yours” comes from my 65-plus fitness class. Not that I’m surprised. They love me when they first get here in the morning but always threaten to cut me by the time it’s over. I refer to it as their little love dance.
Never in my wildest dreams of having this job did I anticipate teaching a bunch of elderly women how to be fit would become my favorite time of day.
“I can’t do so many overhead presses. It activates my arthritis,” one of my regulars complains.
“We discussed this, Harriet. You have to do the modifications. And why are you using such heavy weights?” I ask, pulling them out of her hands.
She shrugs. “I like the color orange.”
“Again, orange means they’re ten pounders. You need five-pound weights at the most. Those are purple.”
“Purple is so cliché for a woman to use,” Harriet says with a roll of her eyes.
“No one is judging the color of your weights.” I hand her the correct dumbbells despite her scowl at me.
“Edna is.”
“You’re damn right I am,” Edna yells from where she’s sitting, doing a really bad rendition of bicep curls. “Purple is for wienies!”
“I’d much rather someone be a wienie than in the hospital, so let’s stop looking at the color of the weights, okay?” It’s a weak attempt at getting them back on track, but it’s all I’ve got with these firecrackers.
Edna hrmphs and drops her weights on the ground, slowly pushing herself up to move to the next station. At eighty-seven, she’s my oldest client and also my grumpiest. There is not one exercise she enjoys, not on
e person she cares to talk to, not one situation that has ever made her crack a smile. She’s a hoot. And frankly, I think it’s her bad attitude that keeps her so healthy. She’s wildly motivated to come in every day, even if it’s just to insult us all.
If only she did the exercises correctly, she could be one of those success stories we read about every once in a while, like, “Ninety-two-year-old woman starts working out and becomes Olympic gymnast five years later.”
Okay, that’s a stretch, but we’ve all seen those wild stories before. Unfortunately, the only success story I’ll probably see with Edna is that she outlives us all out of spite.
“Careful with your arm placement, Edna. Control your kickbacks a little more. I don’t want you to throw your shoulder out.”
“And I don’t want you to throw your neck out carrying that stupid man bun around, but we all have our crosses to bear.”
I could respond, but instead, I chuckle. All I want is Edna to control her movement a little more, which she is. If she has to insult me to get it done, so be it.
“Okay, ladies. Just a few more minutes before our cooldown. Give it your last push.”
“I’ll give you a push,” Edna grumbles, but keeps moving.
I just shake my head and grab my phone, still curious about who’s texting me. From the indicator at the top of my screen, it looks like I’m about to get my answer.
It’s Cherise from The Pie Hole. We had a one-night stand a couple months ago. Like I said, we need to talk.
Cherise. Cherise… I rack my brain trying to remember which one she was.
Oh yes! Tiny little thing with big boobs. Hot little tramp stamp at the base of her spine that got me in the mood. Flexible and feisty, that one. We had a good time. I could go for seconds.
Give Love a Chai (Common Threads Book 2) Page 27
