You are the Story (The Extra Series Book 7)

by Megan Walker

  Unfortunately, while I’m sure Ben didn’t mean to do all that, I can see it. “Has he told Ben that?”

  “I don’t know,” Anna-Marie says. “I suggested he tell Ben he can come home under the condition that they talk about it. He said he would think about it. Apparently he’s sleeping with one of Ben’s shirts. I said that made me want to come home and curl up with your shirt, and Wyatt was like, ‘Girl, you have a Josh. Go jump him.’”

  I smile. “So you did.”

  “Yes, I did.” She snuggles into my side. “Also, Wyatt was wearing this shirt that looked like it belonged to one of the Three Musketeers. When he arrived, he asked if it was Prince: The Good Years, or Evil Prince Charming, and I told him it definitely had a Once Upon a Time vibe to it.”

  “Yeah, well,” I say. “Getting Ben back isn’t going to help him with fashion advice.”

  “He was wearing it over some strategically-ripped leather crocodile pants, though. And I could see those working with a different shirt.”

  I shake my head. “And this is the guy who says I wear the blue suit too much.”

  “Yeah, well. I’ll take the blue suit over crocodile pants. You look hot in it.”

  I lie down beside her again and run a hand through her hair. “I will never get tired of hearing that.”

  She smiles softly. “And I’ll never get tired of saying it.”

  We lie there for a bit, hearing each other’s breathing and the light babbling of the fountain in the background. The rug in our front room isn’t exactly the most comfortable spot in the house, but it feels so good just to be here with her. I know we still have a lot of things to work out, and I don’t want to ruin this moment by bringing the other stuff up again.

  But I know that I need to. “I made a goal for myself today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Felix was talking about the difference between his music and Jenna’s, that classical is all about being perfect, and that Jenna is more about being in the moment.” I shake my head. “He put it better than I am.”

  “Okay,” Anna-Marie says.

  “But hearing him talk about it made me think that I want to be more like that,” I say. “Worry less about being perfect, and be more present in this beautiful mess of our lives together. Like, let myself believe that I don’t have to get everything right all the time for us to be happy.”

  “Because you don’t.”

  “I know that, logically.”

  She smiles. “That sounds like a really good goal.”

  That should make me feel good, but instead, I feel exhausted. Like I’ve worked myself to the bone trying to hold everything together this last year. “It doesn’t fix anything,” I say. “I think I’ve worn myself out trying to be strong all the time. And maybe that’s not even what you need, but I’ve done it now, and I still feel like it’s inevitable that I’m going to fall apart.”

  Anna-Marie presses her lips together, probably chagrined by the idea that this isn’t me falling apart. That there can possibly be more. “I’m going to be here for you,” she says, and now her fingers run softly through my hair and down along my jaw. “Like you’ve always been here for me.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t feel like I’m doing a great job of that, now.”

  “Yeah, well,” she says, elbowing me. “You can let me take a turn on occasion.”

  “I want to. I want to be okay with being a mess, with letting you down, with not being able to make everything better all the time. But right now I’m not.”

  Anna-Marie leans over and kisses my shoulder. “I’d say it would be nice if all demons were real live monsters that you could just slay and be done with it, but I can’t even handle a rattlesnake, so I don’t want to know what I would do if a demon showed up.”

  “Probably scream,” I say. “‘Josh! Get it out! Get it out!’” She swats at me and I pull her close. “Though the idea of you going all vampire slayer on some demon is incredibly hot.”

  Anna-Marie sits up. “How have I not done this?”

  “Gone out slaying demons? Or dressed up like a sexy slayer?”

  “The second one,” she says. “And you could be a broody vampire. Or a snarky vampire.”

  “Unfortunately, I think I’m more of a watcher, being a Ravenclaw and all.”

  “Mmmmmm,” she says. “A sexy watcher!”

  I laugh. “This does it for you? Like, I’m a stodgy librarian from England?”

  Anna-Marie grins at me. “A young, hot, tightly-wound stodgy librarian from England.”

  From the hungry look in her eye, I know that this is happening. And I can’t say I’m unhappy about that. “But our love is forbidden,” I say, falling easily into the game. “Because of the oath that the watchers take, plus you’re a slayer, and going to die, and I’m afraid of getting too close—”

  “But we run into each other in a graveyard while I’m on patrol and can’t control ourselves any longer.”

  I laugh. “Are we doing this in an actual graveyard?”

  “I think so,” Anna-Marie says. “If you’re up for it.”

  “Oh, I’m up for it. Literally. But I need a name. I can’t be ‘Josh the Sexy English Librarian.’”

  Anna-Marie pauses to think. “You should be Marco, and I can be Scarlet, sexy rebel slayer out to seduce her hot watcher and turn him on to her wicked, wicked ways.”

  “Ah,” I say. “So more Faith than Buffy.”

  “Yeah, but underneath it all, Scarlet has a heart of gold.”

  I roll over on top of her, and she smiles up at me. “Okay, yeah,” I say. “We’re doing this. Let’s make a date of it.”

  “A date where we break into a graveyard in the middle of the night in costume?”

  “Yes,” I say. “As long as you’re up for it.”

  “I am,” Anna-Marie says, then frowns. “But we should find a graveyard with a low wall. No way am I climbing a chain link fence in my Tamara Mellon stiletto boots.”

  “Done. I’m going to Google this immediately.” I look down at my wife, who wraps her long legs seductively around me, and I feel like maybe embracing this—our marriage, messy and complicated and challenging as it is—isn’t going to be so hard, after all.

  Twenty-two

  Felix

  When Ty and I get home from the studio, the house smells like smoke. There’s a package waiting on the porch and a pie tin soaking in the sink, but no sign of Jenna and Rachel.

  Ty bounds into the kitchen to grab himself a snack, and I survey the array of costumes spread out across the table, several of them with new seams sewn in unlikely places.

  “Rocket!” Ty calls, and the dog scuttles down the stairs with his tail tucked between his legs.

  I’m guessing Jenna had an interesting afternoon, but nothing seems to be on fire, so I leave Ty and his dog and head upstairs.

  I find Jenna huddled in bed, wearing one of my t-shirts over a pair of her cotton pajama shorts, with Rachel sucking her own fist beside her. Jenna looks up at me, and her eyes are red-rimmed, but she half-smiles. “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey,” I answer. “You okay?”

  “Yes. But I burned a pie.”

  I smile. “Yeah, okay. There are worse things.”

  “And Rachel launched a volley of poop so far it covered my shirt and my arm and my eyebrow.” She looks at me dubiously as I wrap an arm around her, lying down beside her on the opposite side as Rachel, who coos softly when she sees me. “And I still haven’t showered.”

  I laugh. “Well, you’re the sexiest poop-covered woman alive.”

  “Just what I want. You to find me attractive covered in feces.”

  I kiss her on the cheek. “Sorry you had to deal with that alone. I introduced Ty to Axel and they compared notes on their sexual educations, so there’s that.”

  Jenna cring
es. “Rocket got into Ty’s costume box and ripped up most of his favorites.”

  “I’ve got you beat. I’m pretty sure I got fired.”

  Jenna closes her eyes. “I flashed and then propositioned a UPS driver.”

  “I think I may have ended Axel Dane’s career—wait, what?”

  “And Rocket ate the control Twinkie.”

  “The control Twinkie? No.”

  Tears slide out of the corners of Jenna’s eyes, and I scoop her into my arms. “Hey,” I say. “We can repeat the experiment. It’ll be fine. What was that about a UPS driver?”

  Jenna looks up at the ceiling, and tears run down her face. “I took my shirt off when Rachel pooped all over it, and then the pie burned, and Rocket ate the Twinkie, and then the doorbell rang and I answered it—”

  I hold back a snicker. It isn’t funny. I mean, it is. But it isn’t. “And you forgot about the shirt.”

  “And I answered the door and my bra barely fits because my breasts haven’t gone back to normal, and then I asked him to see the package—”

  This time I do snicker, and thankfully, a tiny laugh escapes her, too.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not funny. It’s awful.”

  “I slammed the door in his face,” she says, which explains the package on the porch. “Did you seriously get fired? And end Axel Dane’s career?”

  “I haven’t been officially fired yet. But after Ty informed Axel that our music is all about sex and Axel taught Ty what a sperm donor is—”

  Jenna groans. “We are unfit parents.”

  “Not as unfit as Axel’s mom. But then Ty decided to tell Axel all about how he wants to be a motivational speaker when he grows up—”

  “He does? He knows what a motivational speaker is?”

  “Apparently. And I’d say he has a strong future in it because he then gave a motivational speech to Axel about how he doesn’t have to be a star if he doesn’t want to, because people should do what makes them happy and that matters more than money and oh yeah, his mom is a big star and she quit and made lots of people mad but it’s all worth it because now she’s doing what she loves—”

  “Oh, no.”

  “And then Axel called his mom in and announced the joyous news that he doesn’t want to be an actor anymore, and he wants to quit.”

  “And they fired you?”

  “No,” I say. “I grabbed Ty and booked it out of there. I’m only assuming they’ll fire me once Axel unspools the whole story of where he came up with this brilliant idea.”

  “Oh,” Jenna says. “I’m so sorry.”

  I shrug. “I’m not. It wasn’t exactly the most fulfilling job. And clearly I should be here more, instead of there.” I pull her closer.

  Jenna curls in on herself, but she doesn’t pull away. Rachel kicks her legs up in the air and rolls onto her side, a feat she’s just learned to accomplish, and mostly on soft, sloped surfaces.

  “If that’s okay with you, of course,” I say.

  Jenna nods. “Of course. I’ve missed you.”

  And god, I’ve missed her, too. “I really am sorry about your day. I didn’t mean to laugh at it.”

  “No, it’s funny. It’ll just . . . be funnier when it’s farther away. And when Ty is old enough not to cry over his costumes anymore. Or his science experiment.”

  “We have plenty of time to soak another Twinkie.” I have no illusions I’m going to be able to convince him to let the control Twinkie go, just this once. On the plus side, I think he’s actually learned something about the scientific method, which is more than I ever did on a science fair project. “Do you know what possessed the dog to rip up the costumes? Have we been remiss in laundering them?”

  “No,” Jenna says. “I mean, probably yes, but Ty has apparently been hoarding granola bars in the bottom of the trunk.”

  Ah. “Yeah, okay. Can’t blame the dog for going after those. And it’s probably not the end of the world for Ty to experience some consequences for breaking the rules about taking food to his room.”

  Jenna doesn’t look convinced, and I’m debating whether it will make her more or less sad if I point out he’s been wearing the costumes less and less lately. For me, it’s definitely the former. Like the end of an era.

  “Bah!” Rachel says, and I peer over Jenna to smile at her, and she smiles back.

  “Why don’t I take the munchkin,” I say to Jenna, “and let you get that shower. Not that I can tell that you’ve been covered in human feces, but I can’t imagine it feels all that flattering.”

  Jenna looks up at me, but she doesn’t move. “I said some more of those things to myself. Things Grant used to say to me.”

  My heart aches. I reach up and stroke her hair. “I’m sorry. But thank you for telling me.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear about it? I feel like you should hate me for saying those kinds of things around your daughter.”

  “Never,” I tell her. “We’re going to figure this stuff out. And get you help as soon as you’re ready.”

  Jenna nods and wipes the tears away. “I think I’ll take that shower,” she says, and I release her and let her up, and then roll toward Rachel and blow on her belly.

  Rachel makes a happy noise, and Jenna takes a look back at the two of us on the way to the bathroom.

  “You look so sexy in my shirt,” I tell her. “No amount of poop is ever going to change that.”

  She smiles at me and slips into the bathroom, and I hear the water starting. I wish I could join her, but I need to take care of the kids, so she can have some peace.

  I’m just glad she’s talking to me now. I can’t help but feel like we’re going to be okay.

  As long as we’re together, there’s nothing we can’t survive.

  Twenty-three

  Jenna

  I sit on the edge of my bed, comforter bunched up in my fingers, showered and taking a turn with Rachel again while Felix attends his evening NA meeting. Rachel lies in the middle of the bed, kicking her legs up, one of her little fists partway in her mouth. Happy.

  Happy.

  So why can’t I be?

  Why can’t I, who has everything in the world to be happy about, be fucking happy?

  I wince. I’m trying to swear less in general, but it’s been getting worse lately. In my head, out loud. Grant’s words, my words.

  It’s not the swearing that’s the real problem, though, or even saying out loud the things Grant or other guys would say to me. It’s so much more than that.

  Rachel makes a little cooing sound and my eyes burn with unshed tears. My fists bunch and unbunch the fabric of the comforter; at once it’s like there’s this weight pressing down on me and this nervous energy flooding through me. Nervous, restless, helpless.

  I want to go. I don’t know where, but anywhere.

  And that’s the real problem. I’m a mother who wants to run away from her child. From her family. A mother who can’t hold her baby in her arms and feel the bliss of having created this perfect little person, but instead wants to run far, far away. I did that before, with Ty. Not run away, really, but just . . . failed to show up. Ditched him with my parents and went back to the parties, the booze, the boys. Anything to avoid being there for my child.

  Anything to avoid failing him.

  I can hear a burst of his laughter from downstairs—he’s watching Phineas and Ferb, his current favorite show. Or maybe that laugh of his is for Rocket, who he forgave for eating his control Twinkie, after a few tears and a stern lecture to the shame-faced dog on respect for the scientific process.

  I should go down there and sit with him. We could watch together, Ty and Rachel and me, and laugh and snuggle. Felix will be getting home from his meeting in an hour or so, and he’d see us there, and he’d smile that incredible smile of his and flop on the couch with us an
d we’d all be together, our perfect little family.

  I desperately want that.

  Except.

  Except it would be a lie. Because really I’d be watching it through that window. Trying to smile and laugh while I’m drowning and drowning.

  Fighting not to beat against the glass because I’m afraid to break it and drown them, too.

  God, you turned out to be so fucking melodramatic. This doesn’t sound like Grant; no, this is my own voice. Mine but not mine.

  Mine from a different life, one I’d put long behind me.

  I can almost see her now, the Jenna from years ago. She’d be standing in this deceptively casual way—maybe leaning with her hip against the dresser over there, glaring down at the stacks of sheet music scattered across the top of the dresser, with one of Rachel’s pacifiers sitting on top. Picking at her fingernail polish like she’s bored, but there’s anger coiled in every muscle.

  She’d be dressed in black, heeled boots—better to make her short legs look longer—and a short skirt. A silver chain belt, maybe, and a black corset. A sexy look, actually, and one I more or less kept—though softened, and made a bit more age­-appropriate—as I got older. Her hair, though. No red streaks, not yet. No, she’d have some insane look going on there, like that year in high school where her hair was always worn in these two big, spiky buns on top of her head—seeing what she could get away with and still have guys wanting to fuck her.

  Lots of makeup. Dark-rimmed eyes, cherry red lips. A smile that was sad or sardonic or coy, but never really happy.

  “Yeah, like you’re so happy now,” she’d say, lifting a dark eyebrow.

  “But I have been,” I say. “I have been so happy.”

  I know it’s not a lie, rationally I know it’s not, but it seems like it, because I can’t really remember how that feels. To be so purely, unreservedly happy. To be joyful.