Mad Love

by Colet Abedi

  MAD

  LOVE

  by Colet Abedi

  “When love is not madness, it is not love.”

  –PEDRO CALDERON DE LA BARCA

  Copyright © 2014 by Bird Street Books, Inc

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publishers.

  First edition 2014

  EAN/ISBN-13: Paperback: 978-1-939457-13-4

  eBook (ePub): 978-1-939457-10-3

  eBook (mobi): 978-1-939457-11-0

  eBook (PDF): 978-1-939457-12-7

  Book Design: Hagop Kalaidjian, Shawn Tavassoli

  Layout: Dovetail Publishing Services

  Jacket Photos: iStockphoto / Michael Langhoff

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Note to the Reader:

  Mad Love

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  The sequel to Mad Love

  1

  For my husband

  I love you madly

  Acknowledgements

  My special thanks to Lisa Gallagher, my amazing agent and friend, for her love, support and encouragement. You are a true gem and I feel blessed to have you on my side. I hope you think of me and laugh when you hear our “special” word.

  To my editor, Jane Cavolina. Words can’t express how incredibly lucky I feel to have met and worked with you. I don’t know what I would have done without your guidance and wisdom. I wish I could superglue you to my side! PS- If you don’t mind, I’m keeping you.

  To my family. Mom, Dad and Jasmine you’ve always encouraged and taught me to believe in my dreams. Love you more.

  Mina. I’ll never forget the trip to the library with you where I checked out my first romance novel. That was the moment I began to dream.

  Giuliana & Bill. I don’t know how to thank you both for all that you’ve done for me. I will never ever forget it. I love you guys.

  To the real life Erik & Orie. Sophie and I are so grateful to have you in our lives #forrealz #forever.

  My friends. In no particular order … Cathea, Andrea, Nicky, Carlton, David, Sally, Rana, Amal, Giannina, Christina, Shawn, Mary, JD, Tana, Jorge, Bob, John, Lauren, Annalynne, Angel, Ally, Rob, Rick, Brandee, Ariana, Cori, Matt, Toby … Each one of you is so special to me. Love you all long time.

  To my publisher, Jay McGraw, and the team at Bird Street Books: Josh Stein, Hagop Kalaidjian, Andrea McKinnon, and Lisa Clark for believing in Mad Love and making sure that it gets out there for everyone to see. You guys are wonderful. I’m lucky to be in your hands.

  And in the words of my brilliant agent, Lisa … Here’s to being madly in love, and loving madly, forever …

  Note to the Reader:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any and all product names referenced within this book are the copyright and/or trademarks of their respective owners. None of these owners have sponsored, authorized, endorsed or approved this book in any way. The author and publisher specifically disclaim all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly in relation to this book.

  1

  I am in complete darkness.

  I panic for a moment, forgetting where I am. The quick jolt of turbulence instantly reminds me. Right, I’m thirty-two thousand feet in the air on my way to a vacation that people only dream of. The Maldives. One of the world’s most beautiful and remote destinations. I try to get excited. But right now the feeling is nonexistent. I grimace as reality starts to wash over me like a tsunami. Try to be grateful, Sophie, I silently snarl to myself. Who wouldn’t trade places with you right now?

  I flip the eye mask off my face and stretch out in my seat. The cabin is darkly lit and a quick look at the television monitor tells me that we are still a few hours away from Male. I click the button on my chair and move from the flat bed to a seated position. Yes, I know I’m lucky. To be in a window seat in first class and not crammed in coach is a blessing. I used to appreciate these kinds of moments more, but now I’m just bone weary. I feel older than my twenty-three years. But then, so much has happened in the past few weeks. So much has changed in my life. Some for good, some not so great. I try not to dwell on negative thoughts, but it’s hard. I can’t seem to help myself.

  I force myself to think about the self-help and spiritual books I’ve read and downloaded on my iPad to help me become a more well-rounded person. There’s The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle, who teaches you to live in the now, which I personally find really hard to do. I mean honestly, who can always be present besides Buddhist monks in remote villages in Thailand? I realize my cynicism is getting the best of me. I need to be fair. I used to believe you could live in the now. Maybe you can. Try now, Sophie, I think to myself. I take a deep breath and focus on the seat I’m sitting in, the television screen in front of me, the sound of the plane humming through the sky. That’s the now, right?

  Then my inner voice chimes in. This vacation is costing you a fortune, it says. And, I ask myself, your point is? The point is, Do the math. Your bank account can’t handle this.

  Whatever!!

  Okay, so living in the now is really not working at this moment. I continue to mentally flip through the catalogue of books. What about Don Miguel Ruiz’s The Four Agreements? That’s a good one. What are the agreements again? Oh yes, Never Make Assumptions, Do Your Best, Be Impeccable with Your Word and Don’t Take Anything Personally. Well, shit. I’m sitting here right now because I’ve taken everything in my life personally. And if I consider the rest of Mr. Ruiz’s agreements, I’ve definitely made a lot of assumptions. According to my parents, I’m not so impeccable with my word, and I can’t honestly say that I’ve always done my best. Umm, that’s zero out of four.

  Yikes. I clearly need to do some spiritual work on myself.

  I sigh and grab the remote for the television. I’m just so tired. When did this happen? How did this happen? I’m only twenty-three, for the love of God. I shouldn’t feel like I’m carrying a five-hundred pound weight on my back. I expected this general feeling to occur later, when I’m married with four kids and have a mortgage I can’t afford and am drowning in credit card debt. I fidget in my seat in agitation.

  There is just so much going on in my head, so many different problems I need to sort through. This vacation is supposed to be my saving grace, my salvation from all the real-life drama I’ve faced in the past few weeks. My family is angry with me for becoming “a stranger overnight,” as my mother so dramatically said. First, I broke up with Jerry—the man they wanted me to marry—because he never kissed me with the passion that I’d read about in romance novels. And then I dropped out of law school to pursue a career in art. Lord Almighty, just thinking about it makes me break out in a sweat. No wonder my mom tearfully told me that she was going to disown me, that she didn’t know who I was, and that I had disgraced the family.

  I hit the call button for the flight attendant. It’s a good time for a drink, right before panic starts to envelope me. In a second the flight attendant leans over me. I can’t believe she looks so good after fourteen hours in the air. Bu
t then I was told that Singapore Airlines has the best looking and most accommodating flight attendants in the world.

  “Gin and tonic, please,” I whisper in a voice, slightly embarrassed that I’m asking for a drink at what is breakfast time in Los Angeles. If she disapproves, she doesn’t show it. She simply nods and hurries off to get me my drink.

  I guess if I’m going to have my own eat, pray, drink vacation, I think with some amusement, I should do it with a bang. I used all my precious air miles to book the first-class ticket. I even cajoled my best friend and his boyfriend to join me on my extravagant vacation—except they didn’t need to max out their credit cards to find themselves, my mind annoyingly reminds me. I’m instantly angry with myself for going down this dark path. I hit the button on the remote to find a movie.

  “Did you just ask for a gin and tonic?” Erik asks me as he rolls over on his flat bed to look at me. He pushes the blanket off his body and runs a hand through his thick hair.

  “Yep.” I can’t help but smile at how gorgeous he looks.

  His blond hair is slightly tousled and his big blue eyes are earnest in his handsome face. Why can’t he be straight, I ask myself for the thousandth time. He moves his seat into an upright position and studies my somber demeanor.

  “Are you going to cry again?” He’s clearly afraid of my answer.

  “No,” I say, but my voice wavers. God, I hope not. The amount of crying I’ve done in the past few weeks should be a crime.

  “Honestly, Sophie, if Orie and I are going to have to cajole you out of bad moods the whole vacation I’m going to be really pissed off.”

  I laugh. His candor is biting, but real. Okay, borderline offensive, but what can I say? I love the guy.

  “It’s not like I don’t have anything to cry about,” I say a bit defensively.

  “The only thing you should be crying about is that outfit you have on.” Erik checks out my pajamas, courtesy of Singapore Airlines.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “There’s a reason they’re free. And given to you in a small plastic bag.”

  “Oh, please. They’re comfortable. And besides, who’s seeing me on this plane?”

  Erik turns his overhead light on and looks straight at me.

  “First of all, I’m seeing you. Second of all, and almost as important, you should dress every single day, every single outfit, as if you’re going to die in those clothes.”

  It’s hard not to laugh out loud but I want to be considerate to the sleeping passengers. The funniest part of the conversation is that Erik is dead serious.

  “Trust me when I say you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in that.” He points at me and turns the overhead light back out.

  “You’re obsessed.”

  “And? You’re the girl who was wearing boot-cut jeans until last year. I found jeans in your closet that you used to wear in high school. The only reason you don’t have them on right now is because I threw them out!”

  “If you love me you won’t talk about those four years of hell.” The thought of high school makes my skin crawl. I so didn’t want to relive Sophie Walker’s Wonder Years. Because seriously, there really wasn’t anything wonderful about them.

  “If you didn’t want a reminder of how completely uncool you were, why keep the hideous jeans?”

  “I loved them,” I tell him honestly.

  “Sophie, that offends me. On every level.”

  I lose the battle to stay silent and burst out laughing. Erik is a stylist to the stars in Hollywood. He’s considered to be one of the best, and every celebrity he works with instantly falls in love with him and can’t get enough of him. I don’t blame them. He lives and breathes fashion. His love for clothes, handbags, shoes, and accessories comes a close second to his love for Orie. And sometimes, depending on what designer he has on, he might even love the outfit more.

  Before I can answer, the flight attendant brings my drink.

  “May I get you anything else, Miss Walker?”

  “This is great, thank you,” I say politely.

  “I’d love to have one of those as well,” Erik asks her with a smile. She nods and walks away.

  “Are we drinking our sorrows away?”

  I stir my drink and shrug. “Maybe.”

  “Sophie, your parents are assholes.” Erik just rolls right into it. I know what’s coming next so I take a giant sip. ”Instead of supporting their daughter and her dream of being an artist, they act like pricks.”

  The thought of my parents makes me sick to my stomach.

  “I mean, look at you. Not at this moment, of course. I’m talking in general. Your parents should be so proud of you. Of how brave you are. Of being so confident in your ability as an artist. I mean, it’s your choice if you wanna be poor,” I almost smile. Erik looks so indignant. “Your mom should support your artistic endeavors. She was a dancer for God’s sake! Your dad is a stiff lawyer, but your mom? She’s got a lot of nerve to be pissed at you.”

  I bite my lip and hope my face doesn’t betray the pain of his words. I wish I made my mother proud. Instead, I’m the cause of her anxiety and heartache. But then I could never be as perfect as her. When my father first set eyes on my mother she was a ballerina in Swan Lake—of course, she was the swan queen. He watched her perform and was instantly smitten. He had to meet her, so he bribed his way backstage and came face to face with my mom. They both say that when they set eyes on each other they knew instantly that they were meant to be together forever. And to this day, they are still madly in love.

  They compliment each other in every way. My mom is small, petite, perfect. My dad, a former football player in high school, is the epitome of the all-American, with his wholesome good looks and easy smile. My mom quit the ballet company and followed my dad to Los Angeles, where he was enrolled in law school at USC.

  Now he has a successful criminal law practice and my mom is his rock. She has dedicated her life to him. They never had any other children so all they do is focus on me. Obsessively, I think. They expected me to pursue a career in law and take over the family business. And being the pleaser that I am, I dutifully did as I was told and applied to law school—in Los Angeles, because my parents couldn’t bear the thought of me leaving them. I got into my dad’s alma mater and was on my way to following in his footsteps. That was the plan. Was being the operative word.

  And then there’s Jerry. Perfectly coiffed, immaculately dressed, and knowledgeable about everything, he is the perfect man. And he looks like George Clooney. I’ve known him since I was five years old; we played hide and seek when we were kids. He taught me how to ride a bike, spit like a man, and catch frogs. We drifted apart in high school because of our three-year age difference, but we always talked and always remained friends. When Jerry came back from Harvard Law—where else?—he started working for my dad’s firm—of course.

  I interned there almost a year ago, and one night when we were both working late, Jerry looked at me seriously and said, “Should we just give it a go?”

  “Give what a go?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Us.” He smiled at me, showing perfect dimples. “It seems kind of natural, huh?”

  My heart dropped. What was I supposed to say to him? We were friends. I didn’t want to lose that.

  “I don’t know—“

  He leaned in quickly and kissed me softly on the lips. I was frozen.

  “We’re perfectly matched. Our families know one another and like each other.” He shrugged as he brushed his hand across my cheek. “It just feels—comfortable.”

  Comfortable? Huh?

  Before I knew it, I was in a comfortable relationship with comfortable kisses, comfortable handholding, and nothing uncomfortable about it.

  Two weeks ago. Erik made me see the light. I may not have been ready to have sex with him, but I at least wanted to know that the man I was going to marry at least wanted to. I tried to break up with Jerry via text, I was so chicken shit
. But Erik made me do it in person, and even drove me to Jerry’s house. He waited down the street while I took a swig of vodka from a flask, a first for me, and walked up to Jerry’s house at three a.m.

  I rang the doorbell and after a moment Jerry opened it, his hair disheveled from sleep but still looking good in sweat pants and a t-shirt. He was immediately concerned, which made me feel even worse.

  “Sophie? What’s wrong? Do you know what time it is?”

  “I’m breaking up with you,” I blurted it out like projectile vomit.

  It took a moment for him to register this piece of information. Then he said, “What?”

  “I hope we can remain friends,” I said and turned around to run straight back to Erik’s car, but Jerry took my arm.

  “What is wrong with you? We are not breaking up!”

  “Yes, we are, Jerry.” I pulled my arm away and mustered up what little courage I had. “You can’t really tell me that you want this for the rest of your life.” I pointed at my body for dramatic effect. I knew I was insulting myself but I didn’t care.

  “I do. I want you.”

  “No, you don’t,” I told him, shaking my head emphatically. “You can’t even bear to kiss me! Am I going to stay a virgin forever?!”

  I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was mortified by my question, but then I was humiliated that I even had to ask.

  “I was trying to be considerate.”

  “Considerate?” I practically shouted at him. “Do you know how completely horrible that sounds to me?” He’s Just Not That into You popped into my mind. Clearly I could have been a case study.

  “Yes! There’s a family relationship here, Sophie. I’m being respectful. Try to get a grip and understand.”

  But I felt like sex-starved nymphomaniac.

  “There’s no passion between us.”

  He looked so offended by my words that I felt even worse than before.

  But for once, Jerry was quiet. How could he deny it? There was no way he could.

  “You know I’m right,” I rushed out. “I love you like a brother. And if you’re honest with yourself, you only love me like a sister.”