by Fisher, Kari
Through Glass
The Through Glass Series, Book One
Kari Fisher
Through Glass
Copyright © 2015 by Kari Fisher. All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: March 2015
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-072-3
ISBN-10: 1-68058-072-8
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter One
I’m cold and afraid
I can’t seem to forget all the mistakes that I’ve made
There is nothing like a blank canvas staring you in the face. It doesn’t matter where I stand in my apartment, I can see it attentively observing me—judging me—wondering when I’m going to begin the piece of art I have been delaying for weeks.
I have a deadline, although deadlines mean nothing to me. They’re merely imaginary goals I set for myself that I know I’ll never accomplish. The sole purpose they serve is to stress me out even more than I already am, ensuring my daily intake is so ridiculously high that there’s more caffeine in my body than actual blood at any given time.
I sit in the study—okay, it’s actually my living room. Still, I own a ton of books, placed alphabetically on beautiful floor to ceiling shelves, so I feel as though I can justify calling it a study. Regardless, I sit here debating whether or not I should walk to the kitchen and make myself another coffee, inevitably making eye contact with the blank canvas again. I decide against it and mope for a couple seconds before I grab the television remote. As expected, there is nothing even close to enthralling on at this time. It seems television is just as uninspired as I am these days.
I briefly wonder if this is how other artists feel. I moved to this city six months ago and finally began selling off some of my work, but the process itself hasn’t gotten any easier. They were old pieces I had held onto, certain that no one would think they were worth anything. That was until two weeks ago when I met Oliver. He had persuaded me to list them for sale online one night after several glasses of Pinot Grigio at the restaurant just down the street. I highly recommend their mouth-watering center cut pork chops, grilled to perfection and served with house-made applesauce, a side of chipotle shrimp, and fresh seasonal vegetables. We had stumbled back to my place, where Oliver had seen the six canvases leaning against the wall in the hallway and proceeded to flip through them.
“They aren’t very good,” I had mumbled, as I walked up behind him.
“Are you kidding me, Lauren? They’re amazing. I had no idea you were an artist,” he had confessed. He spun around, looking at the floor, and then glanced at me sheepishly. I had the feeling perhaps he thought he hadn’t been paying attention when I mentioned it during our dinner conversation, but I hadn’t actually brought it up at all. I felt embarrassed about my seemingly unobtainable career goals, and I didn’t want this to be our last encounter just because he couldn’t picture a future with an actual starving artist. Instead, I told him I worked at a local grocery store as a cashier. While that wasn’t a lie, that was also not the reason I moved to the city. I needed to find inspiration. Much like now, I literally felt like I’d go insane if I didn’t start to paint again.
After a short explanation of how I got into art and why I decided to move here, he convinced me that I had nothing to lose by putting the paintings up for sale. He assured me the worst thing that could happen would be that no one would reply to the ad.
I was hesitant, but I could definitely use the money. Minimum wage certainly wasn’t paying the bills and my savings were running out. As soon as I agreed that selling them wouldn’t be a bad idea, he was taking pictures with his sleek-looking phone. Just like that, they were online.
Only twenty-five views later, I sold my first piece—surprising, considering I was asking a pretty penny. The remaining five sold soon afterward. Each time, the buyer showed up at my place to view the piece and I was positive they would ridicule my work once they saw it in person, walking away empty handed. I sold every piece for more than I thought they were worth, an estimation I based on the amount of time I had spent working on them. Thankfully, selling them paid my month’s rent, allowing me to live in the tiny one bedroom unit I call home for a while longer.
I finally give up and decide I cannot properly function without a coffee. My steps are quick as I walk by the canvas. Once again, I glimpse it in my peripheral vision and chastise myself for not having started yet, knowing I have to soon. I have three weeks to create something someone will think is magical, then sell it, so that I can pay my rent on the first of next month. Otherwise, I will be short a couple hundred and I’m not sure what I can do to make ends meet.
Two drops of banana essence flavor my coffee perfectly. I sit cross-legged at my small glass dinette table, holding the mug with both hands and appreciating the warmth. It’s almost winter—that miserable, awkward part of the fall when the weather isn’t sure if it should rain or snow or both simultaneously. This is a time of great confusion amongst the women of the city, some of whom still wear short-shorts no longer than their vaginas, while others dig their winter jackets out of their closets. Although I have the heat cranked up to a temperature that, besides myself, only a komodo dragon could survive, I feel cold. I dread the thought of going outside.
I am definitely not a fan of the local climate. I hate all two seasons here—“Miserable” and “Even More Miserable”—with a passion. I dislike the snow and I absolutely despise the rain. It isn’t peaceful or soothing as most people seem to feel it is. I usually sleep with my window open at nig
ht, but I have never been able to when it rains. I remember my inability to sleep when rain was falling on the metal roof of the house I grew up in. I’d lie awake until the wee hours of the night, counting sheep in my head, and I’d finally fall asleep once the rain let up. Those nights made for an extremely exhausted little girl the next day, barely staying awake at school and counting down the hours until my head could meet my pillow once again.
My utter distaste for this god-awful season called fall, autumn, harvest—whatever it is—ensured that I was not an outdoorsy person. I went camping once, and it was horrid. My ex-boyfriend and I, together at the time, had a queen-sized air mattress. He promised a weekend full of beach volleyball, fishing and getting tipsy on cheap beer. He assured me the six-person tent and propane heater would have me feeling like I was in a four star hotel. It was the exact opposite. By the time we arrived at our campground, the weather was already getting cooler. No one was playing volleyball, nor did they have any interest in joining us for a game. I didn’t want to do any fishing for sport, because the idea of hooking an animal just to let it go seemed cruel. So we drank, sitting in the tent by ourselves, playing cards. We stopped twice to have drunken sex, which was perhaps the only somewhat enjoyable part of the night. When it was time to go to sleep, we turned up our heater, piled on some blankets, and settled into our sleeping bags. Turns out it’s not a good idea to have an air mattress up on a frame in almost-freezing temperatures. We had nothing underneath us, so we froze. I literally did not sleep the entire night, because even with his body heat and the heater that proved to be far too small, I could not stop shaking. The next morning we woke up early and packed our stuff. It was still just above zero and the grass was wet, so the hour spent packing resulted in my pants being soaked up to my knees. With only one other change of clothes, damp and dirty from the day before, I found myself sitting in the car on the way home in only my underwear, uncomfortable and irritable. I’m not sure if that finally led to the demise of our relationship, but I’m sure it didn’t help. A couple of weeks later, when I found evidence that he was lying to me about unrelated things, I saw it as a good excuse to rid myself of a guy whose priorities seemed to lie in hunting, fishing, and four wheeling with his buddies rather than his time spent with me.
It was for the best, anyway. I haven’t known Oliver for very long, but I much prefer his company to my ex’s. We have far more in common. He’s quiet, and was very shy when we first met in person. We met online. I was never a fan of online dating, but I bit the bullet and decided to finally set up a profile shortly after my move to this city, where I had no friends. All the cool kids are doing it anyway, or so I hear. I thought perhaps if I were able to have a couple conversations with someone via email before we met, I’d have a better idea of what to expect from them, rather than continue smiling at boys wearing plaid shirts in coffee shops who just never seemed to build up the nerve to ask me on a date.
On our first actual date, I found out that Oliver was exactly who I thought he’d be from dissecting his profile—the tall, dark and mysterious type. He is artsy. As an aspiring author, he carries a notebook around at all times in case an idea comes to him while he is where he always is: the local coffee shop he owns, which he proudly named “Bean There.” Clever, no? At one point, Oliver jokingly told me that he was planning to open a bakery next to it, and calling it “Bean There, Bun That.” I rolled my eyes.
Bean There is the only coffee shop in town that also serves bubble tea, is open late, and has power outlets so the hipsters can plug in their MacBooks as they update their Tumblr accounts on the free wifi. Although the baristas serve some pretty mean lattes, I swear most of the women who frequent the place mostly visit in hopes of catching a glimpse of Oliver sitting in a corner booth, frantically scribbling notes, then tearing out the pages and crumpling them up. He is definitely delicious eye-candy. His gorgeous, fluffy mane stands up just perfectly on its own, without the use of any hair product. He has the right amount of unkempt hipster beard going on at all times, whether he trims it in the morning or not. His thick glasses outline his stunning brown eyes that could so easily make you melt if they meet yours. Regardless of whatever outfit he’s wearing, he always sports his signature red suspenders and black fedora.
And I was about to accidentally stand this beautiful man up. I guess I lost track of time, but I have less than ten minutes to get over the unpleasantness of going outside in this weather so I can meet up with him as he finishes work. I defiantly choose not to wear makeup or heels, since it’s raining or snowing, or whatever the hell, anyway. I toy with the idea of wearing sweat pants but I decide against it. I’m not ready for that point in our relationship just yet. I throw on a pair of jeans that I know my ass looks great in, and a simple black t-shirt. I just don’t have time to rummage through my wardrobe right now or I really will be late.
I glance at my watch as I lock the door to my apartment. I only have five minutes to get to the shop. Good thing it’s only a block away from my apartment.
It’s cold and I’m uncomfortable, but I survive the short walk down the street and I glance through the coffee shop window. Perfect timing; Oliver is just getting up from his usual booth. I’m glad I wore jeans and a jacket; the temperature inside the shop is not a heck of a lot warmer than outside, although you wouldn’t know it judging by the attire of the two women placing their coffee orders. Both of them are sporting miniskirts and furry boots. They stare at Oliver as he walks over to me, and one has the nerve to wave sheepishly. He nods.
“Hey.” He smiles and places a quick kiss on my cheek. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Sure,” I respond. Even though he walks me to the other side of the counter with his arm around my waist, I feel slightly jealous of the two girls still waiting on their beverages. Oliver and I are in no way ‘exclusive.’ We’ve only been on three dates and I think he’s interested in me, but it’s still too early to tell.
This is one of the reasons I hate relationships. I haven’t been in very many, actually. There was the guy who took me camping—that lasted a year and a half. There was a boyfriend shortly after that, who I thought was ‘the one,’ but six months into our relationship, it became clear that not only did we have nothing in common, he was also still attached to his mom at the umbilical cord. I disliked that woman and the way she felt the need to inject herself into every aspect of our lives. She lived alone in a tiny apartment, and had my ex convinced that he should never own a house—it was a bad investment, and houses only cost money. I agree to a certain extent, but I also have dreams of getting married and buying a cute little house to raise children in.
Then there was my ex-husband. I haven’t mentioned to Oliver yet that I was married before. We weren’t in love. I was young, stupid, and fresh out of high school. High school was awkward for me—I attended a tiny school and didn’t have very many friends. I focused on school work so I could go to a decent college. I never had a real boyfriend, so when Sebastien showed interest in me, I didn’t say no. We started dating while I was in college. I was with him for five years, and then I found out that for four of those years, he was also with several other women. He didn’t even try very hard to keep it discreet. I’d find out, and he’d lie to my face every time. I’d cry, because I knew what was going on—we’d fight, he’d finally confess, beg for forgiveness, and I’d give him yet another chance. It was a vicious cycle, and perhaps why I don’t trust easily.
Have I been ignoring Oliver? He stands in front of me, holding out my coffee and trying to catch my attention. I realize I’m staring at the two girls, who have now sat down in a booth across from where Oliver was sitting.
“Sorry.” I laugh nervously. “My mind was somewhere else.”
“It better be on that painting you need to start.” He grins.
Oh yeah. I had already forgotten all about it. He is an excellent distraction.
“Yeah, I need to get on that.”
“It’s already the first week of November,”
he reminds me—not that it wasn’t already obvious. He had shaved his facial hair to start over and grow just a mustache in support of Movember. His beautiful, manly beard was no longer. “It’s that time of year again where it’s a good thing I was too lazy to take down my Christmas decorations last year.”
I giggle. I love his eyes.
We’ve already been sitting for several minutes and I finally take my first sip of coffee. He always surprises me with a new flavor. We definitely share the tendency to consider ourselves coffee connoisseurs.
“This is delicious. Is it peanut butter?”
“Yes. Peanut butter blended with coffee, and then a bit of hot chocolate. I thought of it while I was eating Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups last night. I had bought a bunch of them to give out to my customers, but we weren’t very busy. It was Halloween—people probably had parties to go to. I’ve almost eaten the entire bag. At this point, I am probably more Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup than man,” he laughs.
“Hi Oliver, I’m Tara. We met last week,” a woman purrs, interrupting our conversation by leaning over the table. She glances over at me and nods. I am jealous of her glorious long blonde hair and I wonder how many hours she spends straightening it to perfection each morning.
“Hey, Tara, I remember you.”
She hands him her resume and explains that she’s still looking for a job. I don’t like her. I take another sip of my peanut butter coffee and stare her down. They exchange a few more words, shake hands, and she turns away.
“I’m sorry, Lauren,” he apologizes. “I talked to her last week about a job. I’m going to be short staffed by the end of the month since Frederick is moving to New York.”
“It’s all good.” I smile, even though I know I’m lying through my teeth.
I hope he doesn’t hire her.
I guess it might be different if we were in an actual relationship, but right now, I don’t want him to have any other possibilities.
