“We should keep the house,” Teller says, watching people walk by our table. The tip of his nose is red from the cold, and his eyes are glassy with it, too.
We’ve left the house, afraid if we didn’t, no one would ever see us again. My brother might have sent reinforcements. Maby might have just shown up herself. Now we’re having breakfast at a small sidewalk café in the middle of town, wearing something besides our pajamas and reacquainting ourselves with society.
Annie said time alone is okay. She said it’s normal to shut everyone out for a couple of days. She also said we shouldn’t make a habit out of it because we’re co-dependent.
Before we left, she said, “You don’t think you need other people in your lives, but you do. Stop taking advantage of your support systems.”
It might be too late for Teller and me to change. We’ll do this counseling thing. We’ll do this family thing. We’ll repaint the walls of my childhood dysfunction, and he’ll tell himself every single day that he won’t be like his father. But who knows? The only thing we can do is try, and try again, and then try again if we must.
“I don’t want to get rid of it either.” I cup my glove-covered hands around my mug of tea and bring it to my lips.
I haven’t seen or heard from my mom since she drove by the open house all those months ago. That might have been the last time I’ll ever lay eyes on her, but I’m not ready to completely shut the door on that part of my life yet. By keeping the house, there will always be a way for us to find one another.
“We can live here, if that’s what you want.” Teller’s green, green eyes look away from me and down into his coffee cup. “I can open a practice anywhere.”
That’s not what he wants. It’s not what he already has in motion. He’s searched for investors, and permits, and lots in cities that need his help the most. Sure, it’s early enough that he can change his plans and open a family practice in St. Helena, but his calling isn’t here.
Shaking my head, I say, “No, let’s stay in L.A. I like it there, and our lives are there. We can come here for long weekends and weeks in the summer.”
He sets his coffee on the table and opens his arms for me. “Come over here, Smella.”
Baby Reddy is easy on me today, staying clear of my rib bones and tender nerves he usually likes to beat up. Maybe he’s sleeping, or maybe he knows I was in desperate need to feel like myself for one morning.
I half-expect the chair to collapse beneath us when I sit on Teller’s lap, but it holds true and fights the good fight.
“How’s my boy today?” Tell asks. He rubs my round belly.
“Behaving,” I say, resting my hand over my husband’s. Our wedding rings shine in the rising sunlight. “But if he’s anything like his dad, he’ll be up to no good in no time.”
Teller laughs, but he won’t think it’s too funny when our son grows up as stubborn as he is. Payback is a bitch. Or so I hear.
“Do you still want to name him Mason?” Teller asks. He kisses the spot right below my ear, and I melt into him.
“I think so,” I say softly, wondering why we ever left the house in the first place. “What do you think?”
Teller moves his lips lower, and my breathing goes higher.
“I like it,” he says. “But I get to name the next one.”
I snort. “Don’t hold your breath, prick.”
In less than twenty-four hours, we’ll board a plane and head back to Los Angeles, back to our lives and responsibilities, back to our families. We’ll wait out the birth of our son, Mason Reddy. We’ll wait out the beginning of the new chapter of our lives to start.
Nothing about marriage is easy. Not one thing about Teller or me is simple. We’re complicated people, with complicated behaviors, and complicated pasts. We love too hard, and fight too loud, and that’s how we like it.
He is wrecked, and I am damaged.
But together, we’re going to be okay.
Before we head back to our lives, I ask him once more, just to hear the words again, “Tell me what this is.”
And without hesitation, he says, “This is everything.”
Mary Elizabeth is an up and coming author who finds words in chaos, writing stories about the skeletons hanging in your closets.
Known as The Realist, Mary was born and raised in Southern California. She is a wife, mother of four beautiful children, and dog tamer to one enthusiastic Pit Bull and a prissy Chihuahua. She’s a hairstylist by day but contemporary fiction, new adult author by night. Mary can often be found finger twirling her hair and chewing on a stick of licorice while writing and rewriting a sentence over and over until it’s perfect. She discovered her talent for tale-telling accidentally, but literature is in her chokehold. And she’s not letting go until every story is told.
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“The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.” —Jeremiah 17:9
Last year, I battled every writer’s worst nightmare: writer’s block. Sever was initially scheduled for an early 2017 release date, but here we are early 2018. To be transparent, I didn’t think this book would ever be completed. There was a time when I hid my laptop from sight for months because I couldn’t stand the sight of it.
I wasn’t uninspired or out of ideas. I was completely blank and unwilling.
It wasn’t until October 2016 when I felt the desire to write again. Slow going at first, by January 2017, I’d written more in three months than I had the entire previous year. But it wasn’t without sacrifice and a lot of encouragement from my team.
Acknowledgments at the end of a book is usually a simple way to show appreciation for the people who helped during the writing process and to say who did what, like movie credits. But I can never thank the ones who helped me push through this challenging time enough. This book would not exist if it weren’t for the following individuals:
My husband, Jason. Thank you for staying up with me while I finished a chapter, even when you had to be up early the next day for work. Thank you for your encouragement and never-ending support. Thank you for believing in me.
Catherine Jones, you’ve been by my side since the very beginning. You’ve experienced every up and down with me, and you’ve never asked for anything in return. I am so grateful for you.
Misty Walker, you came into my life and took control when I needed you the most. Thank you for making my life easier and thank you for telling me over and over that I was capable of anything.
Jill Mac. Girl. Seriously, girl! I can say without a doubt, I wouldn’t have finished this book without your help. Thank you so much for the daily text messages, the notes of reassurance, and for being my friend.
Paige Smith, you have a heart of gold. Thank you for your patience.
Ellie McLove, thank you for your help, from the cover to edits, and for just being my friend.
My Little Lambs, thank you for not giving up on me. In an industry that moves and evolves so quickly, I often felt like I was going to be left behind and forgotten. You didn’t let that happen. You, the readers, are the driving force behind all of this.
Sever (Closer Book 2) Page 20
