Staying For You
Jennifer Van Wyk
Staying For You
Copyright © 2019 Jennifer Van Wyk
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and event are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Please be respectful of the author’s work.
ISBN-10: 9781081177010
Cover Designer: Jersey Girl Designs
Cover Photography: Stock photography
Editing and proofreading services by: Julie Deaton, Kara Hildebrand and Kaitie Reister
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jennifer Van Wyk
All I Need
To the characters who’ve lived in my head for more than four years. You changed me, and for that I’m grateful. Liberty, Michigan (and The Escape), you will be missed.
This isn’t goodbye. This is see ya later.
To the tiny resort we stayed in while fishing on Rainy Lake in Ontario, Canada. You inspired The Escape and I stand by everything I said in my tearful goodbye.
Prologue
Cami
Since I was a little girl, all I’d ever wanted to do was pen stories. Make believe and give people a reason to fall in love with my escapes I give them. But lately, something is missing.
After all, how can a girl write about love if she’s never actually experienced it herself? That’s not entirely true, I suppose. I thought I’d experienced it but how so very wrong I was.
So. So. Wrong.
I’m running out of material to write about and it’s showing. One can only watch so many romantic comedies and… well, porn for those special scenes that I haven’t had personal experience with in so long I have practically forgotten what it’s like, before it all blends together and turns to mush.
Mush.
That’s what I’m writing right now. The equivalent of mushy oatmeal.
I wish I could blame it on my ex-husband, however it can’t be denied that my poor writing was happening long before he dropped the divorce bomb on me.
Sarah: I hate it. I’m sorry – that’s super harsh. Gah. I suck as a human. I DON’T PEOPLE WELL! Want me to pet your head and tell you you’re pretty? Because you SO are. But this book… My friends who have been reading my stories and giving me feedback for years open up in our Messenger group, my stomach sinking more and more with each message I read.
Jessica: What are you thinking?
Tiffany: Uh. I’m confused. Is this the real manuscript or is this some sort of joke?
Brenna: No. Just. NO. Come on, Cami. You can do better than this.
No, actually I can’t do better, thank you very much. My sweet, gentle, friends who are honest to a fault when they read through my chapters early are not my favorite people right now. However, they aren’t wrong. I’ve put out nothing but crap the last three books and I was hoping I could finally turn it around. Alas. Nope.
I read back through their feedback in my messages, wipe away a tear, stare out my office window and try not to panic.
My phone rings and I answer without looking.
“It’s fine.” The voice on the other end is from my best friend Gretchen from the time I was nine. She also reads everything I write before anyone else and gives me feedback and is in the group chat so read everything I just did. Brutally honest feedback.
“Should I remind you that the first words you said to me were that you hate it?”
“I didn’t mean that. Well, I did, but not really.”
I laugh at her trying to be nice but failing. “Gretchen, it’s fine. It sucks. I know it. You know it. I’ve lost my mojo. I’m washed up. Done.”
“Don’t say that. You know that’s not the truth.”
“Don’t I? Go take a look at some of the reviews of the last three books I’ve published and then try to tell me I’m lying.”
She pauses just long enough that I know she’s about to placate me with words to try to make me feel better all while not outright lying to me. As my best friend, she not only reads my books, she also reads almost every single review. She’s gone on tangents before when a reader made it loud and clear that they felt my last release was lackluster at best, a bore, snooze-fest, and that I should have given up my career in publishing years ago. “It’s just that your earlier stuff was so good, Cam-Cam.”
I groan at her childhood nickname for me. She only uses it when she’s trying to make me feel better. “Don’t Cam-Cam me, Gretch. It’s condescending and you know I hate it. I am fully aware that my earlier books were better. It’s not as if I’m an idiot. However, I don’t know how to fix this block.”
“Well, you know that Scott played his role.”
I shift the phone to my other ear and set my computer aside, stand up from my oversized chair, and go to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. “I can blame my ex-husband all I want, but you know as well as I do that this is on me.”
“If you won’t blame him, I will. Your crappy books started when he began pulling away.”
I fill up my tea kettle with water and set it on the stove, turning the burner on high. “So now they’re crappy books, huh? Please, don’t hold back on my account.”
She clucks her tongue. “I held my tongue for years, time for the honesty, hon.”
“Gretchen, what am I going to do?” I pick out a mint-flavored tea and set it next to my favorite mug that reads “I’m hot. Blow me.” Sitting down on one of the barstools next to my kitchen island, I rest my head in my hand, elbow on the countertop.
“You’re going to get control of your life.”
I scoff. “Right. And how do you suggest I do that?”
“Well, for starters, you’re going to kick your ex-husband out of the house. He was the one who wanted the divorce. The papers are signed. The house is yours. He’s just being a fucker who doesn’t want to leave. He’s like a squatter.”
I can’t deny that. Looking around the kitchen, I see his crap everywhere. When he came to me and said he wanted a divorce, I was shocked for about four minutes. Then the last two years came back to me and I remembered all the late nights, the secret phone calls, the fact that I could walk naked in front of him and he wouldn’t even spare me a glance. He’d been cheating on me ever since the we got back from our honeymoon eight years ago, but in the last two, he really kicked it up a notch.
Anger an
d resentment over the situation he put me in settles over me and it makes my blood boil. “He really is a fucker, isn’t he?”
“There’s my girl. Get pissed. But use that emotion in your writing.”
“Why was I such an idiot?”
“Wrong direction, my friend. Don’t get pissed at yourself!” she cries out. “He’s the ass in this situation. You supported him for years. Years! All while he claimed to be your ‘marketing professional’. Which, let’s face it, he did not do. He spent his days pretending to give a shit but really only cared about himself.”
The tea kettle starts whistling on the stove so I move it off the burner, drop my tea bag into the mug and fill it with hot water. “He…”
“Don’t even think about defending him or I’ll Cam-Cam the shit out of you.”
I giggle, blowing on my hot tea. “I wasn’t going to defend him. I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted me, that he’s a selfish prick. Period.”
“Oh. Okay then. Never mind. I have an idea, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Pull a Cameron Diaz in The Holiday. Get away. Find a place that you can escape to. Who knows, maybe you’ll find your muse.”
“Where would I go?”
“I don’t know. The beach? The mountains? Anywhere that can help you relax and get back to the Cami I love because, honey, we’ve lost you.”
I sigh, knowing she’s right. And it’s not an awful idea. I’m sick of these walls. It’s my home, but everywhere I look, I’m reminded of Scott. Of our failed marriage. Of the fact that I sit in this house every day, typing away some seriously boring stories.
I hear the back door open and slam shut and my stomach immediately knots. I don’t want to see Scott.
“I think Scott’s here,” I tell her and lean back in my chair so I can see if he’s about to come into the kitchen, which is his usual first stop. A beer in the fridge, a bag of chips, and then he’s off to the guest room.
“Kick his ass out of there.”
“I know. I know. It’s just…”
“You’re too nice of a person and he claims he would be homeless.”
He comes into the kitchen and tosses me a grin which makes my stomach turn. “Right.”
“Let him sleep on the streets. Or… better yet, with whoever he’s been screwing all these years.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Really?” She sounds like she doesn’t believe me one bit.
“Really. I gotta go.”
“Call me later,” she says right before I hang up.
“I will.”
I hang up and slide my phone into the front pocket of my hoodie. As crazy as it sounds, if Scott has access to my phone, he’ll go through it like he has any right to be nosey about my life. In reality, I should have been doing the same thing to him.
“Let me guess. Gretchen?”
“Yup.”
He rolls his eyes and grabs a beer from the fridge, pops open the top, slams the door shut, and leans against the counter as he guzzles down a large drink. “She’s so obnoxious.”
It used to bother me that my best friend and husband (now ex, thankfully) didn’t get along. Now it just makes me laugh.
“She loves me,” I remind him with a little dig about how he didn’t love me. Never in the way a husband should love his wife. He only loved me for what I could offer him. A life where he could do whatever he wanted all day long with no responsibilities.
“Yeah. A little too much,” he mutters.
That was always his reasoning. He claimed that Gretchen has always been in love with me, even though she’s happily married — to a man — with three kids.
“Jealous?”
He scoffs as if that’s the most insane idea he’s ever heard. “Hardly.”
“Right. What are you doing here?”
“I live here?” He’s genuinely confused as to why I’m asking. I know his lawyer has received notice from mine regarding him moving out. I’ve been nice enough about it for the last two months. I’m done.
“Not since we signed our papers that officially granted me the house and you with, well, nothing.” That’s not entirely true. He didn’t end up with nothing but I have a kick ass lawyer who was relentless in making sure that Scott got what was coming to him after discovering the numerous affairs he’d been having.
“You know that’s bullshit.”
“Why is it bullshit? Just because you and I were married? What did you contribute to our life together?”
“Plenty,” he grunts then sucks down more beer.
“Oh, yeah?” I cradle my warm mug in my hands and take a sip. “What were those things? Aside from, you know, cheating on me every chance you got.”
“Don’t start.”
“No, really. I’d love to know what this whole ‘plenty’ adds up to. We don’t have kids to care for. Not even pets. We have someone who cleans the house, groceries and anything else we need are delivered, I do the cooking and work. You told me that you would help me manage all my administrative and marketing duties but you didn’t, instead told me to lean on my PR company for that. Which, thank goodness I did because they’re geniuses. So, tell me, Scott… you do what exactly?”
“I put up with your ass for the last eight years.”
Exactly as I’d expected him to answer. Finally. “There you go. At least you’re finally honest with me.”
He’s silent for a moment before he mutters, “You knew my feelings.” Ahh. His feelings. Otherwise known as: he thought he was doing me a favor by marrying me because no one else could possibly ever love me.
Finishing off the last of his beer, he sets the can on the counter, crosses his ankles and rests his hands on the counter, leaning back. The picture of casual. But I know him. He’s far from it. He’s pissed. Defensive. Ready for a fight that he can’t win.
“It’s time to move out, Scott.”
“And where do you suggest I go?” His voice is hard while his posture remains relaxed.
I barely hold back the hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble out of my throat. “Like I care. Didn’t you meet enough people, and by people, I mean women you fucked, over the past few years that you could stay with?” I ask, single eyebrow rising. If there was ever a time for the use of the single eyebrow gesture, it’s now.
He narrows his gray eyes at me. I used to think they were so pretty. Unique. Oh, how wrong I was. They’re nothing but boring and void of emotion. “Give me a break, Cami.”
My eyes flare. “Nah.”
“Fuck, you’re a bitch.”
I smile, sip on my tea, and hum under my breath, tapping out a rhythm on the counter with my fingertips. It’s a gesture I know grates on his nerves, which is why I’m doing it. To him, it’s the equivalent to if I were dragging my nails down a chalkboard. I was never a petty person but he treated me like shit for so many years and I no longer care. “I doubt it would be much fun to live with a bitch. Here’s me giving you an out. It’s my home. Gather your shit and leave. If you’re not out before the end of the day tomorrow, I’ll have my lawyer get involved again.”
He stands up straight and takes a menacing step toward me, raising a finger and pointing it in my direction. “You can’t even fight your own battles anymore? You insist on throwing lawyers into the mix at every turn!”
“No. That was all you the day you started putting your dick into other women. Don’t fuck with me, Scott. You don’t have a leg to stand on here and you know it.”
He stares me down for sixty-two seconds. I count each one. He always does this, thinking it’s a power play. But I know him well. He’s trying to think of how to sway me, butter me up. Use his charm for his advantage.
I hold his stare and bite back a grin when he’s the first to break. “So, this is how it’s going to be, huh? Eight years together and you’re tossing me out on the streets? What about all those moments where you needed me to hold you and tell you what a great author you are. When I would have to make
sure you had the special kind of creamer for your coffee and that certain brand of handbag and underwear. You had these crazy expectations that no person could live up to and you know it.”
I throw my head back and laugh. He’s said this for years. That I was high maintenance and hard to please. Those crazy expectations he claims I have? Those brands I like so much? You can pick them up at Target. Not necessarily expensive or hard to find. Unless you consider my size seven panties hard to find. He’s such a jerk. “You’re the one who did this, Scott. Go stay with your parents. Your sister. One of your girlfriends. Or, gee, I don’t know, get your own place like most grown men do. Wherever you go, I don’t care.”
“And you wonder why I cheated.”
Hysterical laughter pours out of me. He’s such a moron I can’t stop myself. For months he’s denied that he had affairs throughout our marriage. Even when my lawyer had proof – statements from women he’d slept with – even though we didn’t need them. It was just our way of reminding Scott that he was the one who destroyed our marriage.
“What’s so funny?”
I wipe a tear from under my eye. “You and your lack of being able to own up to your mistakes. I’ve been pretty damn generous with you, Scott. There is nothing in our divorce decree that says I have to let you live here. This is out of the kindness of my heart so that you could have had time to find a place of your own. But since you’re not even trying, it’s clear that isn’t going to happen. Think of me kicking you out as a good thing, Scott. I’m giving you the push you need to actually be an adult for the first time in your life.”
Staying For You Page 1
