In The Moment

by Alison G. Bailey

  In The Moment

  Copyright © 2016 Alison G. Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9914744-9-3

  Interior book design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  Edited by Christine Estevez

  Cover design by Murphy Rae Hopkins, Indie Solutions

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  LITERARY AND FILM RIGHTS MANAGMENT

  Alison G. Bailey is represented by Bookcase Literary Agency

  Film and Foreign Rights

  Flavia Viotti

  flavia@bookcaseagency.com

  Meire Dias

  meire@bookcaseagency.com

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  STARING AT THE two black suitcases evoked no emotion in me whatsoever. A normal person would feel something watching their twelve-year relationship pack up and walk out the door. But not me. The last time I felt any sense of normalcy was that moment, two years ago, before I discovered the lump in my right breast.

  It didn’t matter how much distance I gained from that day, the memory was as vivid as if it had taken place yesterday. With each pass of my hand, I applied more pressure. My fingers dug into the area several times before I allowed my brain to register the sizable mass. Standing in the shower frozen, I let the hot water pelt my numb skin and tried to think of every logical reason why this couldn’t be breast cancer. I was only thirty eight years old with no immediate family history of any type of cancers. I ate healthy, exercised, and got yearly checkups.

  When the official diagnosis came down, the doctors put a plan quickly in motion. For the first four months, they pumped seven different highly toxic drugs every three weeks into my body for six cycles. The chemo wasted no time stripping away my femininity. Each morning more of my honey blonde hair clung to my pillow. My eyebrows, lashes, and nails vanished, leaving me looking and feeling like a grotesque alien creature. I avoided the mirror at all cost. But on those occasions, when I caught my reflection, my lungs gripped my breath, and I wondered where Cadence Fletcher was.

  After chemo, a lumpectomy followed. The doctors kept saying how lucky I was that the tumor was contained and hadn’t spread throughout my entire breast. My brain understood I was fortunate. But in my heart and soul, it was hard to count my blessings while bent over a toilet puking my guts out. I did my best to exude a positive attitude in public, waiting until I was tucked away safe and alone in my bathroom before letting the sobs take over my body, my heart, and my spirit.

  One month of radiation was up next on the menu. The treatments were quick and painless. The worst part was the meltdown I had when my breast turned completely black. I expected the side effect but to see firsthand a part of my body change color right before my eyes was a total mind fuck. Fortunately, the darkness faded after a month, and my skin returned to its normal pale color.

  The toll the disease had taken on my relationship with Michael was slow and steady. So much so, that once I noticed there was really no turning back. But like a champ, Michael was by my side every step of the way. During times of depression, he worked hard to lift my spirits. When I had little to no appetite, he’d go to the ends of the earth to find something that my stomach wouldn’t reject. He was an attentive boyfriend. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way the boy disappeared and all that remained was a caring friend. He no longer saw me as the woman he’d been in love with. I’d become more of an obligation in his eyes. I didn’t fault him in the least. I wasn’t the woman he met and fell in love with anymore. And as much as I wanted her to return, I knew she wouldn’t.

  For the past year, we tried to repair and reconnect our relationship. Once I felt well enough, I went back to my job as a financial analyst at the bank and began the process of reentering the land of the living. Michael and I made a point to schedule date nights and even took a couple of weekend getaways in hopes of rekindling our hearts and bodies.

  Like any long-term relationship, we’d had our peaks and valleys. Before my diagnosis, affection between us had waned. After all, we weren’t kids anymore. Plus, we both had careers that we loved, me with the bank, and Michael with his architecture firm. But we still managed to have a good sex life. Then my diagnosis hit leaving me with no desire and a vagina that was drier than the Mojave Desert. Toss in my less than sexy appearance and you got yourself one limp sausage biscuit. We made attempts to make things work. We figured going through the motions would cause nature to kick in and take its course, eventually. At first, sex was just too painful for me physically and then became too painful emotionally.

  Our last-ditch effort was on the advice of my doctor, who suggested lubing up with a coat of good old fashion Crisco. We were both willing to try anything at that point. But the faster Michael pushed into me, the more my mind drifted to visions of golden fried chicken. Then mashed potatoes and coleslaw. By the time Colonel Sanders popped in my head my stomach was growling and the mood was shot to hell. So last week after celebrating my one year anniversary of being cancer free, the man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with and I agreed to cut the cord.

  Heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor snapped me into the present. Looking up, I was met by sad green eyes. Even though the breakup was mutually agreed upon, saying goodbye to the person who’d been in your life for so many years was difficult. At least it should be if you had an ounce of emotional energy left, which I didn’t. But I attempted to convey just as much heartache in my eyes as Michael. The last thing I wanted to do was humiliate him by showing how devoid of emotion I really was; he deserved better than that.

  “I guess that’s it,” he said, giving me a faint smile.

  Michael had rented an apartment closer to his firm and had been moving boxes over there all week.

  “Just let me know if you think of anything else you want or need.”

  “Caddie, are you sure about this?”

  “We’re both sure about this.”

  His jaw clenched as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know, but it feels weird walking away from you.”

  I stepped toward him and cupped the side of his face. “You’re not walking away. We’re letting each other go. You’re a good man, Michael. You deserve to be happy.”

  “I care about what happens to you.”

  “Same here.”

  “Is it okay if I call sometime?”

  “I’d hunt you down and kick your ass if you didn’t.”

  He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Take care of yourself, Caddie.”

  I wrapped my arms around his waist, giving him a slight squeeze.

  Picking up his suitcases, Michael and I exchanged one last smile before we finally said goodbye to us.

  “THE PAPERCLIP INDUSTRY has come a long way. A lot of people still think the clips only function is to hold paper together. But they’re sadly mistak
en.”

  I was sitting in a nice French restaurant across from Stan Krieger, the self-proclaimed paperclip king of the southeast. My best friend and co-worker, Grace, was sitting to my right, staring at her date, Norm Nixon. I wasn’t sure what Norm’s claim to fame was because he’d not said a word since introducing himself.

  It had been a month since Michael had moved out and Grace thought it was about time I stuck my toe back into the dating pool. I couldn’t have agreed with her less. Without my knowledge, she had set up my profile on an online dating site. During a drunken girl’s night at my condo, she clicked on Stan and then Norm’s profile. After several blurry emails negotiating the terms, I ended up in this nightmare of a double blind date.

  With my eyebrows raised, I turned to Grace. “Did you hear that, Grace? They’re not only used for holding paper together.”

  “Oh, I heard it and find it utterly fascinating.” Fortunately, her snarky comment was tempered by her British accent.

  Stan’s beady eyes lit up with excitement. “Oh yeah. Say, the hem of your dress or pants comes unraveled. Just slide a paperclip over it, and no one will be the wiser. They also work well for missing buttons or cufflinks. The young people love to wear them in piercings. You can pick a lock with them. And ever since the whole Fifty Shades craze…” He leaned forward as if he were going to tell me a secret. “They make fantastic nipple clamps.” A smarmy smile crept across his thin lips as he sat back, rubbed his nipples with the tips of his fingers, and tossed me a wink.

  At first, I thought it was my imagination. Surely this grown man was not feeling himself up in front of me. I blinked a few times hoping to clear the visual. Nope. He was, in fact, rubbing his nipples.

  “Will you excuse me?” I pushed away from the table. “Grace, ladies room.”

  “Right behind you,” she said.

  I didn’t even bother checking the stalls to see if anyone else was in the bathroom before turning on my heels to face my giggling friend.

  “It’s not funny.” I snapped.

  “Oh come on. It’s a little bit funny.”

  “The only reason I agreed to this is because of you. I know your heart is in the right place, and you’re trying to help me. But I can’t do this. I’m not ready.”

  “You’re not going to get ready sitting in your office or home alone. I admit our first venture into online dating did not produce top-notch candidates, but there are plenty of fish in the sea.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t belong here.”

  Grace grabbed my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “You are smart, charming, and sexy as hell.”

  “I feel as if I have a giant letter C hovering above me. Like everyone can tell that I’ve been sick.”

  I’d always been fairly secure in my five foot seven, curvy frame. But cancer had turned me into an asexual creature for the last two years. Not being able to keep anything down during treatment and then not having a big appetite even a year after irrevocably changed my appearance. No matter the clothes I had on, how I wore my hair, or the number of compliments I got, when I looked in the mirror, I saw the chemo ghost looking back.

  My hair had grown back but with more gray and no curls. I hated it. After Chad, my hairdresser, worked his magic, I looked less like an old lady. He covered up the overabundance of gray, cutting lots of layers through the short style, ala Meg Ryan. Since my closet contained mostly work clothes, yoga pants, and T-shirts, Grace came over earlier and did a makeover. She made a stab at getting me to wear something more form-fitting but in the end didn’t push. I felt comfortable and covered up in the sage green, short sleeve maxi dress she’d brought over. Fortunately, I had a pair of beige sandals and chunky jewelry to complete the outfit. Once Grace applied my light makeup and styled my hair into what she called a sexy messy do, I had a Bohemian thing happening.

  “Let’s get out of here. There’s a dance club a block away. We can slip out and be looking at hot people grinding against one another before Nips and Mute clue in.”

  “Let’s just go back to my place. I have popcorn and wine.”

  “We’ll only go for a few drinks and get lost in a crowd of strangers for a little while.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. I haven’t been to a dance club in ages,” she whined, tugging at my arm. “Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t go.”

  “Because we’re both forty years old.”

  “If you don’t go with me, then I’ll be forced to tell Stan how hot it would make you to run your fingers through his comb-over while he recites the history of the paperclip.”

  I shudder with horror.

  “Alright, I’ll go but only for an hour.”

  Clapping her hands, Grace bounced up and down. “Oh, goody!”

  We were able to slip past our dates and out the door without being detected. At first, I felt guilty for ditching the guys. Then suddenly the image of my fingers in Stan’s two strands of hair entered my brain and knocked the guilt right out of me.

  ARM IN ARM, Grace and I made our way down the street toward the big neon green sign glowing with The Mynt.

  The closer the club got, the sweatier my palms got, and the tighter my chest got. I prayed Grace kept her promise and didn’t try to make something happen for me with a complete stranger. I had to do things in my own time.

  “Now remember, once we go through those doors we’re no longer Grace and Caddie, financial analysts who work at TransSouth National Bank.”

  “Then who are we?”

  “We’re Francesca and… um… Isabella, two wealthy European heiresses in the states to cut a ribbon or break a bottle of champagne on a ship.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I glanced at her. “You should have never had that second glass of wine at dinner.”

  My pounding heart synced with the deep base of the loud music as it vibrated onto the sidewalk each time the club entrance swung open. Millennials lined up, waiting for the signal that they were deemed worthy to pass through the velvet rope. Grace and I were going to stick out like a couple of sore old thumbs among this crowd. There was no way we were getting in this place.

  The line moved quickly and before I knew it Grace and I were at the head of it being waved in by a wall of muscles. I stepped toward the entrance and froze. Young bodies eager to get inside jostled me as they passed. From behind, a pair of hands gripped my upper arms as Grace pushed me forward into the great unknown.

  Flashing multi-colored strobe lights hit my eyes immediately, causing them to remain in squint mode while Grace guided me further inside. As we weaved through the sea of bodies, “Close” by Nick Jonas filled the air. I didn’t know what shocked me more, that I recognized the song or that I had actually let Grace talk me into coming here. Between the lights, the loud music, and the grinding bodies, I almost collapsed from sensory overload. I needed a drink, and I needed it quick.

  From what I could see through my partially closed eyes the club had four bars. We headed to the one that stretched the length of the back wall. The lighting was dim but not seizure inducing, so my eyes were able to adjust and stay open.

  “Two Fireball shots!” Grace said, as she leaned toward the bar.

  Within seconds a pair of tattooed arms placed the amber liquid in front of us “Here ya go, ladies.”

  Reaching in my small cross body purse, I grabbed my debit card and placed it on the bar. “I’ve got these.”

  Waving me off, Grace said, “Put that away.” She turned to the buff bartender. “Run a tab, hon.”

  He flashed her a big smile and a wink before walking away.

  Grace held up her shot glass. “It’ll take the edge off.”

  Mimicking her, I raised my glass. “Cheers!”

  The second the whisky hit the back of my throat a shiver ran down my spine. Another shot appeared as if by magic. The combination of the two shots and the two glasses of wine from earlier had given me a nice case of the fuzzies.

  Grace turned facing the crowd. “It loo
ks like a cluster fuck.”

  “I don’t think you’re using the term correctly.”

  “Well, they’re all clustered together and look like they’re fucking. I just hope neither of us got pregnant walking through that.”

  Laughter, as well as a hiccup, flew out of me.

  “Yay, Caddie’s having fun.”

  “Thank you for dragging me here.”

  “It’s the least I could do after Stan-Stan the nipple man.”

  Grace whipped back around, threw up her hand, and ordered us two more shots.

  I turned away from the bar and scanned the room. Everyone looked firm and gorgeous. Most appeared to be in their twenties. Realizing I was old enough to be the mother of any one of the party people was all it took for my insecurities to kick back in.

  “Grace, I think we should go.”

  She handed me a third shot. “We just got here.” Raising her glass, she recited, “Here’s to me!

  Here’s to you! Here’s to the guys we fuck and screw!”

  In unison, we tossed the drinks back.

  Grace slammed her glass down on the bar and announced, “Time for a real drink!”

  As I turned back to face the bar, the bartender placed a bright green drink in front of me. I glanced up at the beautiful brunette in a pair of booty shorts and tight T-shirt with The Mynt scrolled across her big chest.

  Leaning in, I said, “I didn’t order this.”

  “The guy at the end of the bar did.”

  Grace waggled her eyebrows at me.

  “Then you need to give it to him.”

  A look of confusion crossed the girl’s face. “He ordered it for you.”

  Looking down toward the end of the bar, I tried to decipher who the mystery man was.

  Grace pointed at my drink. “I’ll have one of those!” Turning to me, she said, “God, we haven’t been here a half hour, and already guys are sending drinks.”

  I stared down at the glowing concoction. “I can’t accept this.”