“‘2-in-1 is a bullshit term, because 1 is not big enough to hold 2. That’s why 2 was invented.’ ”
Sam had pulled out her phone and was poking around, probably on Facebook. She said, “Okay, here” and looked up.
“‘If it was 2-in-1, it would be overflowing.’ ”
“You said you were here until the fifth. That’s tomorrow.”
“‘The bottle would be all sticky and shit … ’”
Sam started snapping her fingers in front of his face. “You still here?”
“Yes. Now I’m done. Tomorrow. Should we try and get together?”
“I work tomorrow,” she said, frowning.
“So casual sex is out.”
Sam shrugged, but didn’t laugh. The waitress brought the check back, and they stood. For the briefest of moments, they both began to extend their hands, but that was stupid. The moment broke, and they found themselves in a hug.
When they separated, Zach had a hard time letting go. His arms flinched toward her, and she saw how hers flinched toward him. He nodded and said, “It’s been great to see you, Sam.”
“You too, Zach.”
“I … ” But he stopped himself. He couldn’t think of a single sentence strong enough to end this. And the way things were going — with her trotting the globe on assignment and him touring with the exhibition, not exactly rich and famous but nonetheless making a living without really working — it felt more like an end than he wanted to admit. This was much more like a goodbye than a see you later.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” he made himself say.
“Me too, Zach.”
But neither of them had asked if the other was happy, and neither had volunteered it in as many words. So he asked himself, Am I happy? And the answer came back, I think so. Sam was jamming his radar. There was too much history here, too much fog. Nostalgia fell like a hammer … but at least now that he’d seen her, he felt reasonably sure that what he felt was nostalgia instead of regret. And for now, that was enough.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
Her thumb flicked at her engagement ring. She seemed to think for a moment. “Yes.”
They leaned forward again, embraced in another hug.
“Take care of yourself, Zach.”
“Take care of yourself, too, Sam.” His eyes wanted to mist, but he fought it back. He was a bigger man than that. And so to prove it, he glanced at her ring and said, “Make sure that husband of yours takes care of you, too. And your kids.”
She smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “I don’t have any kids.”
He watched her walk away, feeling something amiss. He remembered the book in his satchel, pulled it out, and flipped to find where she’d signed it, but the signature wasn’t what bothered him. He looked toward the top of the page, to the dedication Zach had assumed referred to Sam’s new husband.
To the Father of my only child.
Something wet ran down Zach’s cheek. He blinked to clear his vision. He closed the book, feeling a sudden need to be gentle. He hefted it in his hand, wondering at its weight in pounds and ounces.
He remembered a girl in a meadow who’d admitted, just for the day, to feeling starry-eyed, as if any dream was possible. He remembered that girl’s big blue eyes, her summery dress, and her schoolgirl’s promise to love him forever.
He looked down the page, to Sam’s slim, feminine signature.
Below it was an inscription that read, “She has your I’s.”
AUTHOR'S NOTE
My cover designer had a fantastic, very solid idea for this book. It would show a photograph torn down the middle, with a woman (that would be Sam) on one side of the tear and a man (Zach) on the other. The people in their halves of the photo would be smiling, because it was shot during a better time in their lives, when they were happy. You, as the reader, would look at the cover and immediately get the message: things were once rosy for the people in this book, but now those good times were over … except that those cherished times weren't just over; they were destroyed. Decimated. Ripped down the middle, sundered forever.
By contrast, the cover I wanted — and which I proceeded to fight for through a long series of emails one Saturday between me, my designer, and a writer friend who knows a lot about selling books — would be less sensational: a man and woman embracing, wistful or sad. I wanted it to be sexy but not overtly so. I saw something defeated, not spiteful. I wanted the reader to see the cover and feel like there was an ending … not necessarily a breakup.
From a sales perspective, my idea was less compelling. The others thought it didn't leap off the shelves at all. They said the cover I wanted wouldn't sell as many copies because it wasn't catchy or overtly emotional. I argued:
A “destroyed” cover doesn’t fit the book’s tone; Sam and Zach's tale wasn't one of fighting and bickering. It’s two people once in love, growing apart. The others said it didn't matter. The marketing hook mattered more. “You should sell the sizzle, not the steak,” they agreed.
I resisted, they volleyed back. Alternative ideas followed: burned roses, a couple fighting, photos with faces removed or speared with darts. I hated them all. But what was worse, I began to feel emotionally crushed. I took well-reasoned arguments personally. It didn't feel like they were disagreeing with my marketing. Instead, it felt like they were insulting me on a personal level, ripping apart and burning one of my own memories.
Even at the time, I was shocked by how much this stupid cover debate bothered me, and how much it started to matter that I got my way. I've never fought for a cover. In principle, it seems petty and self-centered. I’m gifted with words. Others get visuals. I tell them what I like and they suggest what they think will work, but if those two perspectives clash, I always back down. I know my stuff, and hire them to know theirs.
But I couldn't let go for Together Apart, and soon realized why: I wasn't fighting for my cover. I was fighting for Sam and Zach, like they fought for each other.
Together Apart was, without question, the most emotionally wracking story I’ve written to date. I cried while writing. And again while revising. I had to stop twice for solace because I couldn't take the intensity. Once finished, I had to rest as if I'd run a race. And then, for weeks afterward, I kept returning to this story in my mind. I couldn't stop thinking about Zach and Sam. I’ve spent many hours sharing their lives (not precisely creating their lives; when you write good characters, they wake up and start acting without the writer's conscious will, and often in defiance of it). They are like my friends.
I felt so bad for my friends. Not only do I know some of their most intimate secrets, I was their architect. What happened to them was all my fault. I gave them life, thrust them into unwinnable conflict, watched them fight for their love, then threw more obstacles in their way the second they started to climb from the muck. By my hand they suffered. I couldn't let some cover designer who didn't even know my friends disrespect all they'd been through. It would be like letting a dispassionate organizer discard a childhood teddy bear because it clashed with the decor. Sure, tossing that bear might make the house tidier ... but sometimes love matters more.
I've never been divorced. But that doesn’t matter, because the book you're holding isn't really about a divorce. It's about love. And growing up. It's about realizing that sometimes, what used to make you deliriously happy no longer fits. Those things, I've felt as much as anyone.
I told my designer and my friend that I didn't care if Together Apart sold fewer copies with my inferior cover. I owed it to Sam and Zach to respect the love they'd tried so hard to salvage. I asked: when you grow up and your childhood teddy bear no longer feels right in the crook of your arm as you sleep, do you tear it in half and throw it away? Or do you protect it as you set it aside — reserving a special place on your shelf so you can forever cherish what it once meant?
I don't always order print copies of my own books, but will order this one. I'll set it on my shelf, in a special place
, to be cherished for the time I spent writing it, and for the memory of a bittersweet love affair I’ll remember forever.
Together Apart cover may not have the POP! of something more sensational, but I did my job. I took care of Sam and Zach … because even after they'd gone their separate ways, they would still take care of each other.
I Write My Stories For YOU …
This was the most difficult book I’ve written so far. Not the writing itself, there were times when the words poured out. It was hard because of the emotions. I held nothing back, and put a hundred percent of myself onto the page.
I hope that you enjoyed the story I told you. If so, I would really love it if you took the time to review Together Apart on Goodreads or Amazon.
Indie authors like me survive by the strength of our reviews.
Thank you so much ahead of time!
~ Lexi Maxxwell
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Together Apart: Change is Never Easy Page 16
