Prude

by Hilaria Alexander

  “You are serenading me with ‘Dear Prudence’? You might have reached a new level of corniness altogether,” I tease him shamelessly.

  I’m lying, of course. I fucking love the song. My mother used to sing it to me when I was little. Although, this is the Jerry Garcia cover, which I have never heard before.

  It goes on and on and it ends in a jam, like all the Grateful Dead's songs. It's quite different from the original, but I really like it. It's almost more vibrant than the original, in a way.

  He holds me and keeps swaying with me.

  “Shhh, you are ruining the moment. Besides, stop lying. Your eyes are telling me you love it, sweetheart.”

  I smile at him, so stupidly happy. His lips are about to touch mine, but I can't hold back and I say, “Yes, masteeeeeeer,” in my best Gollum voice.

  He tries to give me a smoldering look and keep his face serious, but his façade shatters as he starts cracking up, his face mere inches from mine. He holds me tighter and we both start laughing and can't stop.

  When the laughter subsidies, he says, “You, my dear, have just reached your maximum level of nerdiness allowed.”

  Epilogue

  HE SITS on the edge of his desk while I’m signing the contract.

  Four months have passed since our Thanksgiving reunion. Ben was ready to make me sign a contract weeks ago, but I have been busy promoting Archived Catalog, which has become my bestselling novel. The book seems to have benefitted a lot from word of mouth; of course, I feel that Matt’s music was part of the draw too.

  When it reached No. 1 on The New York Times Bestseller, I had another bouquet of flowers waiting for me at the front desk of the hotel where I was staying.

  This time it was red roses, and they were from Ben.

  I have been gone a lot, which he has been complaining about. He says he is ready for me to work on my next book, at least that way I will have to focus and will be forced to stay more in New York. I playfully remind him he once told me I could write anywhere, so that really isn’t a guarantee for me not to travel. Besides, I don’t mind it so much, because when I come home, the reunion is so much sweeter.

  “So, have you started working on anything new? Do you think it will be something you were already working on, or do you want to start from scratch?” he asks.

  He’s been trying to stay out of the way, letting Lauren handle everything when it comes to me. And when we are together, we really don’t talk about work.

  Except for today.

  For some reason, he wants me to sign the contract in front of him. I don’t know why it is so important, but I just go along with it.

  “I still want to finish Elise's story, at some point, but it hasn't come to me yet. But, while we were apart, I started writing bits and pieces of this other story. The female protagonist is a cello player. She just quit the band she was part of with her ex-boyfriend, and she is trying to find a balance in her life. She has a hard time finding work, and then she gets hired to record some tracks with some broody, reclusive musician. There’s a spark, they go on tour together . . . you know the rest.” I say, not even looking at him, my eyes focused on the contract.

  He bursts into laughter. I lift my eyes to meet his.

  “What’s so funny? Do you think it sucks?” I ask, perplexed.

  “Always musicians, huh? Do I need to worry?” I smile and shake my head no, surprised by the question and the nervousness in his voice.

  I look down at the paperwork and keep signing and writing my initials where required.

  “Who knows . . . maybe one of these days I will write about a hot book agent who also doubles as a surfer. He makes heads turn and all the ladies swoon,” I say in a sing-songy voice.

  A smile spreads across his face and he says, “Nah, who would ever want to read that?”

  I raise my hand, saying, “Me! And about a million other women, I guarantee you!” I go back to putting the last set of initials on the contract.

  “There!” I say, glancing one last time over each page. “All done.”

  “You know,” he says, casually grabbing my left hand, his brows furrowed, “maybe next time you and I sign a . . . contract, it could be something more . . . permanent. What do you think? Would you . . . like that?” he asks nervously.

  Why is he nervous? And what does more permanent mean? I just signed a contract for seven books. That's a pretty big commitment. What could be more permanent than that? I look at his face, confused, and he looks at me like he’s expecting an answer, or a reaction, at least. Contract. Permanent. Oh. Ohhhhhh. Is that . . .? Is that what he really means?

  We stare at each other, my heart racing, my cheeks flushing. All the blood rushing to my head suddenly makes me feel lightheaded. I frown and I’m about to tell him to stop kidding around, when he kneels down on one knee, my hand in his, and he kisses it.

  His eyes are dancing with excitement when he gives me a brief speech about the reasons why we are perfect together, adding that we should stop wasting our time.

  “I don’t need to read the whole book, Prudence, to know how I feel about it. I knew you were the one ever since I read the first chapter,” he says, repeating what he said the first time he told me he loved me.

  I blink away the tears, a warm fuzziness filling my chest. The dazzling smile he gives me when he formally proposes and pulls out the ring is enough to make my heart stop.

  “Yes,” I breathe out and nod. “Yes, I would love that.”

  Acknowledgements

  A big, huge thank you to Mandi Harder Little who read this story when it was just scraps and was there every step of the way! You don’t know how much your support and encouragement meant to me!

  Thanks to Lauren Traynor, for sacrificing her own vacation time editing this novel! I was afraid you wouldn’t like this story and you don’t know how happy it makes me that you loved it! You did a wonderful job! Thank you for always telling me “just read it” when I’m skeptical about a book and for persuading me to go to one of the best shows ever!

  Thanks to my family, especially my husband, for being patient when I isolated myself in another room, evening after evening, headphones in, trying to finish this story.

  A special thanks to my parents and my brother, for the continual love, support and encouragement.

  Lauren Muraco, thank you for whipping out the cover I wanted with such short notice!

  Emily, thank you for your support and for reading Prude all in one sitting and helping with editing. Melanie Hays, thanks for offering help during the busiest time of the year!

  Tracy Dailey and Beverly Rodriguez Rousch, words cannot express how much I adore you! I cherish your friendship and I envy your organizational skills! I can only hope to be one day half as good as you are. Heidi Guss and Michelle Ornat, thank you so much for your encouragement!

  To my friends, near and far, especially those I speak to every day thanks to the Internet: you make me laugh, you give me so much joy, and for this I am thankful.

  Thanks to Spotify: your catalog helped me discover so many artists I fell in love with, which I would otherwise still be oblivious to (and yes, I bought their music as well).

  A special, heartfelt thank you to Colleen Hoover for opening my eyes and more importantly my ears three years ago: my life wouldn’t be the same had I not read Slammed. It led me to meet so many wonderful people who are now dear friends. I will forever be in your debt.

  About the Author

  Hilaria Alexander lives in Oklahoma City with her husband and two kids. When she is not working, she is probably reading, making up storylines in her mind and listening to an obscene amount of music. She is a self-proclaimed concert addict.

  Catch up with her on Facebook and Twitter or send her a message on her website.

  Also from

  Hilaria Alexander

  This Love

  Running off to Amsterdam is the best decision Ella ever made in her life. In just a few months, she’s been able to put her past behind an
d has found a new family and friends. She can almost ignore the voices in her head telling her this idyllic scenario is temporary.

  When Lou Rivers shows up in Amsterdam, he’s the constant reminder of the life she led and the mistakes she made. As the two of them embark on an emotional and musical journey across Europe, Ella will have to face her own insecurities and make a decision that might break them apart forever.

  FU Cancer

  Lucy has always been a good girl. The most hardcore thing she's done in her life was falling for a divorced man ten years her senior.

  But he was the love of her life, and she married him. When her Peter Pan of a husband decided to divorce her, she thought it was her chance to start anew. That was until she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Besides looking like Britney circa 2007, she is taking it well, real well. You might see her walk around the hospital during chemo sessions with bright colored wigs and outrageous t-shirts that seem to shock the most conservative employees. One of them reads FU CANCER.

  FU Cancer

  There is always that defining moment in your life. The moment when you feel things are about to change: you are going to get a new job, or a promotion; you are going to meet the man of your dreams and fall in love. Some people might even be too distracted to recognize the moment their life is changing. As for me, I could think of a few ‘defining moments’ that changed my life. I remember clearly when I fell in love with my ex-husband, and when I found out I was pregnant for the first time. I vividly remembered the feeling. It was as if I could feel something in the air: the imminent change was almost palpable. It had been a long time since I had one of those amazing, brief and exhilarating moments, but I could still recall every detail and the overwhelming feeling of excitement.

  Unfortunately, today I was out of luck.

  This was not one of those “good” defining moments. It was the complete opposite.

  This was the defining moment of “my life is going to shit, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.”

  “I’ll see you next week, Lucy. You’re going to be fine, don’t worry,” my doctor said to me. I nodded and told her goodbye, walking towards the elevator like a woman who had been given a death sentence.

  Yes, my life was definitely going to shit.

  On top of everything else, I was late. I had thirty minutes to get across town, and I was most likely not going to make it. I didn’t have to deal just with life-changing shitty news, but in this very moment I had to deal with stupid, idiotic people, who stood in my way.

  The obstacle between me and the elevator?

  Six to eight men. Doctors, probably, considering where I was. They stood in front of the elevators, chatting, looking like they just had come out of a meeting: they were too busy talking to notice me trying to get through them.

  I couldn’t even circle the group to get to the elevators.

  “Excuse me,” I said, trying to get their attention. It didn’t work. “Excuse me, sir,” I continued, but my voice was not loud enough, overpowered by their booming voices. “Excuse me, gentlemen!” I yelled, exasperated. “Can you get the fuck out of the way?”

  That finally got their attention.

  It still took them a moment to get over their state of shock and move. I guess they weren’t so used to people cussing around here, which I found odd, considering the amount of bad news they most likely delivered on a daily basis. Did people not cuss up a storm when they were met by life-altering news? I met the eyes of a couple of doctors, and registered the look of annoyance on their faces.

  Whatever. Get the fuck out of my way, people.

  Finally they moved, allowing me to walk through. I strutted to the elevator as if those few feet of space were my own catwalk. I held my head high, and glared at a few of them.

  No, I wasn’t sorry.

  The doors opened, and I made my way in, but before the doors shut, someone else got in. I just caught a glimpse of a white doctor coat. I could smell the aftershave immediately. It was a man.

  Great.

  He probably had been right behind me and witnessed the whole scene. He might even be one of those people who were blocking the way to begin with. I pressed the button for the ground floor and moved to the side. The doctor pressed the button for another floor, and I got a good glimpse of him. Fuck, he was handsome. I didn’t know if I had ever seen a doctor this good-looking.

  If my doctor that day had been that handsome, I might have been slightly less pissed off than I was. Maybe looking at his gorgeous face would have sweetened the blow.

  But no such luck. My OB-GYN had recommended me to a female oncologist.

  To be completely honest, I was grateful for that. Getting your tatas palpated by a woman was still weird, but slightly less uncomfortable than having a male doctor do it.

  Either way, this doctor was quite the vision.

  If Beverly were here with me, she’d be whispering some joke, and we’d giggle like schoolgirls. I had to hold back my laughter just at the thought.

  This doctor was entirely too good looking to be hanging out with a bunch of sick people; then again, who knew, he could have just been the Holy Grail around these parts. Just the sight of him would help you feel better. He noticed me staring, and I pursed my lips, scrambling to find an excuse.

  “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

  He laughed softly and his eyes locked with mine. A small smile spread across his face, and he shook his head. Was I flirting with him? I couldn’t remember the last time I flirted with anyone. It must have been a long time ago.

  “I usually don’t curse like that,” I continued.

  “You don’t, huh?” he asked, a tone of amusement in his voice.

  “Uh-uh. I just cuss a lot when I get diagnosed with a touch of cancer.”

  He frowned and gave me a nod. I didn’t know if he was an oncologist, but the look on his face told me he understood where I was coming from.

  “I’m sorry,” he exhaled. I could tell by the way he looked at me that he was sincere. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to add something, but he didn’t. I could have used some encouraging words right at the moment. I sighed.

  The elevator stopped, and the doors promptly opened. He started to leave, but turned around, stopping the elevator with one hand on the metal door.

  “Who’s your doctor?” he asked.

  “Dr. Rouse,” I replied.

  “Rest easy. You’re in good hands. Great hands. Good luck,” he said, flashing a smile so good and so inviting he could have been in a toothpaste commercial.

  More people were trying to get on the elevator, so he gave me one last nod and walked away. For a moment, thanks to Dr. Beautiful Eyes and Perfect Smile, I forgot everything, including the “my life is turning to shit” defining moment and how late I was.

  ***

  I finally got where I was supposed to be. I had to go through downtown in rush hour traffic, and it took me longer than usual. But now that I was here, I couldn’t get myself to step out of the car. I knew that before I did anything else I needed to get myself together. It was time to put my pity party on hold. There was an eight-year-old boy out there who was waiting for me to show up, end of story. Nothing else should have mattered. Not even the fact that I had just been diagnosed with cancer. I looked at my face in the rearview mirror to dry my tears and fixed my make-up. I blew my nose and applied some concealer.

  It was the start of soccer season. This was Carter’s second year. He loved playing last year, and was quite good at it.

  Of course, I might have been biased. I was his mother, after all. My two boys, Carter and Noah, were my entire world and the only good thing left of my shattered marriage.

  As I walked to the bleachers near the soccer field, I tried to look for a spot.

  Possibly on the opposite side from where my ex-husband was sitting. No such luck, though. He saw me and waved. Now I had no choice but to go and sit with him, all in the name of being pleasant.

  Goddammit, why did h
e have to be so good looking? His hair was getting grayer, but it suited him. He had a few more wrinkles, and his face looked slightly rugged, but he was still so damn handsome, although not as drop dead gorgeous as he when we first got together. Part of me hated him with a passion, yet another part of me was still stupidly attached to what we had together. I wanted to smack him on the back of his head for walking out on us every time I thought about it.

  Our relationship pre and post-divorce was far from the blissful conscious uncoupling of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin, and something told me we were “a galaxy far away” from reaching that status. Maybe the reason we weren’t more cordial was because I didn’t have a hot rebound like he did.

  Alas, he wasn’t alone. He was sitting with my younger lookalike. Ten years younger to be precise. The fucker had brought his new girlfriend, Aurora.

  God bless, Patrick, are you wearing the midlife crisis cologne?

  See? We were no Gwyneth and Chris. Well, at least I was no Gwyneth. That was obvious.

  I gave Aurora a glance. The blonde, beautiful, fresh and perky Aurora.

  The first thought I had when I heard her name was “Who the fuck names their kid after a Disney princess?” Yes, it was a beautiful name, but it sounded so pretentious. I knew my bitterness towards her was all just because she reminded me a little bit too much of my younger self. I hated that.

  I had tried to accept the fact that Patrick had moved on, but the reason I was so peeved was because Aurora and I looked so similar, we could have been mistaken for relatives. I always knew my ex-husband had a type, but this was too much.

  Because of our resemblance, I identified with her and I remembered how I was at her age: beautiful, fun, and uncomplicated.

  There was a side of me that was deeply jealous of her, and another one that worried she’d make the same mistakes I made. I was just as young and naïve when Patrick and I got together. What if he filled her head with the same promises he made me years ago?