99 Percent Mine

by Sally Thorne

  I won’t let Jamie off the hook. “Nope. Diana is yours. Every evil genius needs a fluffy cat to stroke.” I give him a final squeeze and release him. When I look up, my brother is looking at the crowd.

  “Wait, isn’t that—”

  “My second surprise for Darcy.” Tom tucks my hair behind my ear.

  “Holy crap,” Jamie laughs.

  Through the crowd, I see my second gift. It’s Truly, and she’s got a suitcase big enough to stuff a dead body into. She has heart-shaped sunglasses on top of her head. She can’t get through this throng of people. She stands on tiptoe, waves, and makes a frustrated face.

  “Here’s the girl who’s gonna drink whiskey with you before lunch,” Jamie says. His eyes are that bright cornflower blue that belies his excitement and pleasure. I think of him dragging Truly past a jewelry store. I can’t believe I’m admitting it, but I think Jamie will get his way one day.

  “Tom.” I want to cry. “Too perfect.”

  Jamie transfers me into Tom’s arms. “I’ll help her.” He walks through the crowd, like the blond artillery tank that he is, and extricates her suitcase handle from her grip. She takes it back. They argue and Jamie begins to try to charm her into a better mood. His fingertip touches her sunglasses. His hand cups her elbow and squeezes. She laughs out loud, unwilling, and when the music they’re piping through the cruise ship terminal changes, Jamie begins to dance, silly and mock-sexy.

  There’s chemistry oozing out of them in pink clouds, and now Tom and I aren’t the only hot couple that people can’t take their eyes off.

  Tom’s gently amused. “I really am a smart guy.”

  Jamie and Truly assemble next to us, and again I feel a little bit of their vulnerability as they both stare at Tom’s arms around me. They feel like they’re intruding.

  “My best girl is here.” I lean into Truly. “How’s Holly working out for you?” Our joint resignations to the bar was such a high-five moment. Holly and I walked out of that place side by side, bought a cake and ate it on the hood of my car.

  “She’s fabulous.” Truly says with a kiss on my cheek. “I owe you big-time. Remind me to show you my garment tech packs later. I’m getting closer.” Her dream of upscaling her business is so close we can taste it.

  “When that happens for you, I’ll be able to die happy.” I smile at her.

  “You can live happy,” Tom corrects me. “Hey, did you bring that thing I asked you for, Jamie?”

  My brother is taken aback. “You want to do that here?”

  “No more secrets from this point forward.” Tom takes out a velvet jewelry box and my heart drops out of my body. But before I can process it, Jamie does the same. They swap boxes. I recognize the one that is now in Tom’s hand.

  “Is that—” It’s Loretta’s sapphire. I know it. The patina on the old leather box is as familiar to me as the skin on my hands. “Tom, gimme it.” I jump for it but he’s holding it above his head, and he’s six-six, stretched up forever.

  “You swapped, for Megan’s ring? Oh, pretty.” Truly looks in the box Jamie has snapped open to show her. “But that’s tacky of you,” she amends.

  “Tacky? How? I got a good deal on this,” Jamie protests. “The clarity and cut on this are phenomenal. Tom’s got good taste,” he finishes with his usual lack of tact.

  “But this belonged to someone else, and she loved it,” Truly chides him softly. “Whoever you marry one day will have someone else’s ring on her hand.”

  “That’s not a practical way of looking at it,” Jamie argues back. “Darce, stop jumping.” He stuffs Megan’s ring in his pocket. “Now you’ve made me think,” he says to Truly, grouchy. “Tom, maybe I want to swap back.”

  “Sorry, a deal’s a deal.” Tom is completely unrepentant. He’s crowded me against the pillar again. Behind my eyes, every time I blink, I see sapphires. Black sapphires. Refracting, dark and mysterious and brilliant. I want them. I need them.

  I want the name Valeska on me so bad I could scream, and I think he knows it from the way he’s looking at me.

  “Oh, that’s us,” Jamie says as boarding is announced. “Let’s go and get elderly.” He gathers up Truly’s bag and begins to herd her toward the gangway.

  “I want it.” I touch my fingers to the square lump in Tom’s pocket.

  “I know. That’s why I did a deal with the devil.” His eyes shine in amusement as people begin to stream past us. The sound of a thousand suitcase wheels is deafening. “Now, are you sure you want to live in a tent with me when we get back?”

  “Very sure. I’m deputy site manager, after all. I need to be on hand.”

  He still can’t conceive of it. To him, princesses don’t sleep on the ground. “Because the moment we find a house that you want to keep, I’ll make it your home. Everything you want it to be. It’ll have a photography studio, and—”

  “Come on, guys, you can make out on the boat!” Jamie turns and shouts at us. “We’re going.”

  “I want it,” I repeat. I mean the house, the ring, and him. The future. “I love you and I want it.”

  Tom leans down to kiss my pout. “Have you earned it?”

  I falter. I shake my head automatically. “How can I possibly earn you?”

  He removes my tremor of doubt as only he can. “You earn me daily. Come on. You know I give you everything you want. Just relax. Let me spoil Darcy Barrett a little, for the rest of her life. Let me get a taste of that feeling.”

  All I can say is, it tastes sweet.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the following people for not bludgeoning me to death during the process of writing this book.

  My husband, Roland, always responded You can when I wailed I can’t. Thanks for being right and for supporting me when writing unexpectedly changed my life. My mother, Sue, is my number one fan. My pug, Delia, is my second biggest fan.

  Taylor Haggerty from Root Literary is my agent and my lighthouse across the sea. She has cheered me on with unfailing positivity. HarperCollins has been so patient with me as I found my feet again after the unexpected success of my debut. Carrie Feron is my editor and her calm confidence in me has meant the world.

  Thank you to my friends, but these two in particular: Tina Gephart messaged me every afternoon to see if I was having a good writing day. Spoiler: I usually wasn’t, but Tina would still check in the next day. Thank you for being a friend and mentor. Thank you to Christina Hobbs for that long Skype call. I picked myself up off the floor one last time, and now I get to write this.

  The Flamethrowers are a group of wonderful readers who found The Hating Game and loved the hell out of it. I wrote this book for all of you.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  * * *

  Meet Sally Thorne

  About the Book

  * * *

  Behind the Book Essay

  Read On

  * * *

  99 Percent Mine Epilogue: 1 Percent More

  The Hating Game Epilogue

  About the Author

  Meet Sally Thorne

  SALLY THORNE is the USA Today bestselling author of The Hating Game. She spends her days climbing into fictional worlds of her own creation. She lives in Canberra, Australia, with her husband in a house filled with vintage toys, too many cushions, a haunted dollhouse, and the world’s sweetest pug.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  About the Book

  Behind the Book Essay

  They say if you stare into the abyss too long, the abyss stares into you. Well, I’m here to tell you that the abyss they’re talking about is a blank Microsoft Word document.

  When I wrote my first book, The Hating Game, I didn’t even know I was writing a book. Ha ha, I thought, grinning to myself as I tapped away whenever I felt like it. How enjoyable, how droll! How did I do it? Who knows, but it’s printed with a cute cover! What was next?.

  I opened a
new document and I stared

  Picture me, propped up in bed like Beth March from Little Women, slowly fading away from Second Book Syndrome. My expert nurses during this crisis spoon-fed me broth, and assured me it was a very common disorder for new authors and I would survive. I didn’t believe them and honestly thought I was a goner. I doubted my creativity, talent, and skill so intensely that I nearly gave up roughly ninety-nine times.

  But I loved my book title. It gave me goose bumps on my forearms. 99 Percent Mine. I’d say it to myself until it became a mantra synonymous with Don’t give up. The outside world faded away and I began to laugh at myself again, as I typed. Ha ha, how droll.

  I learned a very hard lesson that I’m sharing with you now. That important, impossible thing that you have nearly given up on ninety-nine times? Finish it. Whether it’s a success or a failure, no one can take your The End prize away from you. Finishing is the most important thing there is. It’s proof of how hard you tried. This book is printed with environmentally friendly tear-based ink that I cried into a vat, but I wouldn’t change it.

  The first time around, I was astonished to realize that I’d written a book.

  This second time around, I know I wrote a book. I was there for every single ugly gritty moment of it. Whether it’s going to be a success or not is beside the point. I finished something that was impossibly hard for me.

  I would now like to thank everyone who asked me how they could read more by me. Readers eagerly searched for my back catalog, and then were stumped to find out The Hating Game was all she wrote. To thank them for waiting for so long, I am so happy to include two additional pieces here.

  The first is a glimpse into the happily-ever-after of Tom and Darcy. I’ve called this piece “1 Percent More.” I really felt that after a lifetime of loving each other, they deserved this extra moment.

  And the second—containing more spoilers than I can count—is the short epilogue I wrote for The Hating Game. This is the number one thing I’m asked for, over and over again: more. There has always been more. I wrote an epilogue in my original draft of the book and I’ve always known how things turned out. At the time of publication, we decided to end the book where we did so that the reader could imagine their own ending. I am happy to now share this extra little snippet with you.

  It’s one last peek into that world before I say goodbye to it. Lucy and Josh changed my life, and I am very grateful to everyone who loved them.

  Read On

  99 Percent Mine Epilogue: 1 Percent More

  I get dressed alone in the dawn light. My shorts from yesterday aren’t too dirty, so I tug them on, along with my Valeska Building Services shirt. It’s so splattered with paint and grout that it’s close to retirement. In the tight confines of the tent, I work my boots onto my feet, pull my hair back into a short ponytail, and walk through a puff of perfume.

  These days, I sleep like the dead. I wake like I want to live forever.

  We’re in a nice neighborhood at the moment. As always, we have the worst house on the best street. I go through the empty master bedroom to my favorite bathroom. It’s got to be the best one Tom’s ever done. The lighting he chose makes me love him more; it’s so flattering my skin looks almost iridescent. I’ve got candy-pink cheeks and my lips are kiss stained. A night with Tom Valeska is the kind of cosmetic that can’t be bottled.

  I’m more beautiful than I’ve ever been in my life. I know it because Tom tells me, and wherever I go, people fall in love with me. I walk around in a cloud of sex and happiness. I’ve got a grateful squeeze-ache in my pelvis and a light within. Even Colin has told me I glow.

  Every second delivery guy asks me if I’m free tonight. I laugh and say, No way, are you kidding? I’m busy tonight. Tom overhears and smiles to himself. Then later he’ll say in my ear something like, DB, I’m planning on being extremely busy tonight. Then he’ll walk off, his phone will vibrate in my pocket, and I’ll do battle with my active imagination. The guys are cheeky when they grin at Tom as they pack up in the afternoon.

  Have a good night, boss.

  We’re potent to be around. Everyone can smell the pheromones mixing into the chlorine on Tom’s skin—his testosterone, passion, and obsession. No matter where we are, what new crews are put together for our houses, Tom reclaims me as his in calm and subtle ways. In return, I’m shameless, pushing him against walls whenever I have a chance. We fog up building sites without even looking at each other.

  Because of this cloud I’m enveloped in, I’m inspired. Everything’s beautiful. My camera has earned me a nickname with the guys—the Paparazzi. Tom told them at one of our pizza Fridays that I haven’t been like this since I was sixteen, and it’s true. I’m in love with Tom, but I’m also back in love with my camera, and it’s forever this time.

  Tom submits to my obsession with his face and as the sun goes down we sit, knee to knee, in the garden of whatever house we live behind. I use my favorite lens and I take photos of his perfect face. His eyes change with every blink. These photos are my favorites, and I shoot him compulsively.

  He wants me. He needs me. He breathes for me. I capture it all.

  I look around the bathroom. It’s honestly perfect. Whoever buys this place will love the fittings he chose. I think I admired this sink at a showroom in an offhand way—How gorgeous is this? Then the next thing I know, it’s being installed. I buff my fingerprints off the faucet. I swear, with each house, Tom outdoes himself. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to find my dream combination of paint, fittings, flooring, and address.

  Ugh, the lighting in here is so damn good. I kind of hate whoever buys this house.

  There’s a mug that says #1 ASSHOLE on the marble kitchen counter, and it’s steaming. Tom’s laptop is beside the mug and I begin to go through our emails. There’s one from a shipping company we use.

  “They’re claiming the front window panel on insurance,” I say, not raising my voice. I can’t see him, but he’s got to be close by because Patty is here, asleep in a sunbeam. She’s always within a few feet of him. “Apparently it was broken before it got out of the state.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He’s not pleased, wherever he is. “Can you call the supplier and—”

  “Make someone apologize profusely and give us a partial credit on our next order? Already did it.” I sip my coffee.

  “Damn, you’re good. What’s the deal with the floor sanding? I thought it was happening on Friday.”

  “It is, but unless I do it before I go to the studio, we’d be better off renting the sander on Monday. I don’t think I can sand an entire house in one morning. Unless we get Alex to help.”

  “He’s on—”.

  “Oh, yeah.” We’re increasingly using shorthand with each other. Alex is going to be up on the roof installing the solar panels on Friday. He’s been promoted from general shitkicker. I try to rearrange the remaining team in my head, but nothing works.

  I’d offer to reschedule my studio time, but I know Tom won’t hear of it. Besides, I’ve got a really interesting elderly lady sitting for a portrait with me. She’s a tarot reader that I tracked down with an old address book of my grandmother’s. That’s another series I’m working on: all portraits of fortune-tellers. This year, I’m going to enter the same portrait competition I won all those years ago. I want to see if I can re-peak my career.

  “The floors aren’t going anywhere,” Tom says like he knows what I’m thinking. “They can wait to get sanded. You still want the original floors, right?”

  “Yeah, I love them.” I don’t know what these floorboards are, but they feel just right when I walk with bare feet. Wood from a magic forest.

  I open the kitchen cabinet nearest me a few times—silent, sturdy, and impossible to rip off in the heat of passion. The handle fits just right in my fingers. I’m having a weird sense of déjà vu; this house is more perfect than any other we’ve done.

  “How are we going to top this? There’s no way we can do better than this plac
e.” He doesn’t reply but I feel his pleasure at this comment hum through the wall.

  I sip my coffee and change a few prices from suppliers in our master spreadsheet. It’s sad that I get a tiny adrenaline rush every time a price comes down. I must be my brother’s sister after all. It’s a further rush to know that I am good at this. So, so much better than my twin would be.

  I hit save. “Can you believe that guy gave me such a good discount on the sandstone pavers?”

  “Yes, I can, actually,” Tom says, with an edge to it that makes me go in search of him. I walk into the living room and find him at the top of a ladder. He’s got a screwdriver in one hand and the base of the ugly light fitting in the other, which he drops on the floor. It’s destined for the trash. “You were very charming.”

  I take another mouthful of coffee. I know I shouldn’t, but I love this game. “I’m a charming gal.”

  “He probably would have given them to you for free, if I’d given you another five minutes.” He gives me a glance that is equal parts amusement and irritation before stretching up to press his thumb to the crumbling screw holes in the ceiling. He’ll patch and sand them. You won’t believe it now, but after some white paint it’s going to be a perfect ceiling.

  “I think you get off on flirting with guys in front of me,” he adds offhand.

  I let my eyes drift up his body. I know what I get off on. I’ve seen him stand on every rung of that ladder but it will always affect me the same way: a hot feeling in my throat and a watery weakness in my thighs. When he stretches up, I can see a sliver of the waistband of his Underswears. That sliver isn’t enough.

  A memory from last night drops through my body like a coin. Ripples spread through my stomach, shimmering down.

  “I had a good time last night.” We didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. We ate dinner, wiped the marble countertops, unzipped our tent, and took each other’s clothes off.