A Storied Life

by Leigh Kramer

  Even the hospice social worker had cautioned me about making any big changes before or after Gram's death. “It could seem like a great decision at the time but when the emotion clears, you might come to regret it,” she'd said. I ignored that this logic could be applied to breaking up with Reagan.

  I'd played a part in our relationship's demise. The circumstances surrounding me may have changed but it didn't excuse me from putting the burden of the relationship on him. There were too many days I hadn't asked about him or his work, too many discussions I didn't want to have, and too many times I needed more than I gave. It was a miracle he'd stuck by me at all.

  That's why I didn't understand his persistence. He'd stopped leaving gifts and coming by the apartment since the week after the fateful exhibit. But every so often he'd text something funny he'd seen on the Red Line or to say he was thinking of me. He kept the lines of communication open, even if I didn't reciprocate.

  What if I did? What if I opened my heart back up and took a chance?

  My heart began to hammer inside my chest. I missed him. I couldn’t excuse what he’d done but I could forgive him and if I could do that, then there was no reason we couldn’t be together again. The love for him I’d buried down deep surged to the surface.

  I wanted Reagan back. No matter how scared I was, no matter what else life threw at me, I wanted Reagan at my side.

  Was this the story Gram always talked about? I didn't know from this vantage point but I'd never find out if I stayed seated.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Unfortunately, I didn't know how to make a grand gesture in this particular case. I'd never tried to win anyone back before. I didn't know whether to go to his apartment and apologize or set up some elaborate romantic scheme and suggest we start over. Despite what everyone said, I feared Reagan would reject my efforts in the end.

  I went back to what I knew—painting.

  I debated on the painting for a while, starting several times only to scrap those ideas. I wanted to show Reagan exactly how I felt about him.

  I flipped through pictures of us while we dated. Shots at Sox games, family birthday parties, various concerts, and finally, a candid moment caught by a friend. It reminded me of the picture I'd used for Gram's painting. In it, Reagan and I were staring at each other and smiling, me looking up and him looking down. Moments after the picture was taken, Reagan had leaned down and kissed me. The picture spoke of promise—exactly what I needed.

  I worked on it for a week, wanting to get it right. I tweaked it here and there until I finally stepped back from my easel, proud of my work.

  By the time the painting was dry the next day, I still hadn’t come up with much of a plan and I debated what to do next. It was late Wednesday night. It was too late to show up at his place. Or was it? This was no time for practicality.

  I hadn't seen Reagan since the first few days of September. December was upon us. This was insanity. I couldn't debate the best time to see him, when I planned on asking him if we could start fresh. The urge to see him gripped me. I couldn't leave fast enough.

  Sure, he might not be home, or he could slam the door in my face. I wouldn't let myself do this halfway. Go big or go home.

  I parked on his Wrigleyville street, heart thumping with the magnitude of what I was about to do. I'd been so focused on painting, I hadn't thought about what to say to him. I cursed myself. Wasn't that the whole point of this? A symbol only took me so far.

  What to say, what to say. I twisted a piece of hair with my finger while I tripped over words. I forgave him. I loved him. That's what it boiled down to, but did I lead with that? Shouldn't there be some kind of segue? I didn't know how to flirt with my ex-boyfriend who I wanted to be my boyfriend again.

  Screw it. I would have to fumble my way through and trust he’d understand. I grabbed the portfolio, along with my purse, as I headed toward the apartment building. I crossed my fingers, then entered his number on the buzzer. His disembodied voice answered.

  “Hey,” I said. “It's me, Olivia. Can I come up?” If only someone would have left the building as I was arriving so I could skip this part.

  He didn't answer but the door buzzed, granting me admission. I spent the elevator ride contemplating turning around and going back home.

  His body filled the door frame, stopping me in my tracks. Electricity buzzed between us and I felt relief at its presence. We looked at each other. Since I was the unexpected company, I should have started talking but my mind went blank at the sight of his puzzled blue eyes. How I had missed him. I forgot my reasons for ever being angry.

  He cocked his head at me, waiting for me to start.

  “I got your message about your brother. That's great news,” I said. His brother's trial had gone through. While he would have some jail time, he'd also receive treatment for his gambling addiction. A lame opening. but it was something.

  “Oh. Good. You came over here to tell me that?” He looked at my portfolio and then back at me.

  “Yes. I mean, no. Of course not. I came because...I came,” I tripped over my words as they echoed through the hallway. “Can I come in? I'd rather not have this conversation out here.” This reminded me, unfortunately, of what I'd done to him the day he’d brought me Irish Breakfast tea. I winced, expecting a rebuke.

  “Of course,” he said, and pushed the door back enough so I could brush past his body. I inhaled the cedar and turpentine scent that clung to him. I'd missed that smell. We stood inside the apartment, but it wasn't like before. The silence pulsed around us.

  “Olivia, why are you here?” Reagan asked, guarded. My heart sank at his expression. I had done this to him. How could I expect him to have open arms waiting for me?

  Gram's teaching come to mind. Authentic people told the truth, even when there was no guarantee.

  “I need to ask you a question,” I said, and waited for his permission to continue. He tipped his head at me, which I interpreted as acquiescence. “Why did you choose to hang my painting instead of using all the exhibit space for yourself?”

  He took his time answering. “Because I didn't need the entire wall to showcase my work and you deserved to have a few inches. It was my way of showing how much you meant to me. It backfired, but you have to believe I didn't mean to hurt you.”

  I fought the smile that wanted to show. “I know that now,” I told him.

  “You do?” His eyes lit up for a second, before the shutters returned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I acted out of anger instead of love. I took out those awful few weeks on you. I wouldn't let myself feel anything about Gram's death and all that emotion sat there waiting to go somewhere. Unfortunately, you ended up in the way of it. I blamed you, when I should have blamed Benoit, and even myself. My refusal to face the past cost me one of the best things that ever happened to me.” My face heated and I turned away from him. I couldn't bear to see his reaction. Keep going, I coached myself. “I forgive you, Reagan, but I need to know if you forgive me. I didn't give you any grace. And the truth is...”

  “The truth is what?”

  “The truth is that breaking up with you is one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made.” I braved a peek at him from the corner of my eye.

  “Look at me, Liv,” he said, his voice soft. He'd used Liv. I braced myself and turned, hoping this was not the inevitable letdown.

  He covered the few feet between us, pausing to set down the portfolio I still carried. He held my hands in his.

  “Of course I forgive you,” he said. “You don't know what a relief it is to see you again. All these months, I didn't think you'd even want to be in the same room as me.”

  “I didn't,” I admitted. “I honestly don't know what you see in me. I mean, I don't know what you saw in me,” I amended. Maybe he only wanted to be friends. I could live with that, I thought.

  Reagan chuckled. “There's something you should see.” He pulled me toward his studio, where his latest canvas sat. I looked at i
t and gasped.

  “That's me,” I exclaimed. I let go of his hand and stepped closer to it, careful not to touch the paint. Reagan's signature theme was all over it, down to the scenes unfolding in my tangled mass of hair. Me with Gram, me with my family, me laughing, and finally, me with Reagan.

  “You put us together?” I asked him, drawing strength from the hope before me.

  “I haven’t been able to accept you breaking up with me,” Reagan said, running his hand through his hair. I restrained myself from reaching up to smooth down the wayward locks. “Some part of me couldn’t give up hope on us.”

  This man. My body hummed as I laughed gleefully. “It's my turn to show you something.”

  I held my hand out for his, and reveled in how right it felt. I led him over to the portfolio. “Open that up,” I said. “I think you'll like what you see.”

  He unzipped the portfolio and lifted out the canvas. “You painted this?”

  I nodded yes, my heart too full to respond.

  A wide smile crossed his handsome face. He kissed the top of my head. “This is incredible. Look at how you captured us. I remember that night.” He looked at me then. “That was the night I knew I was falling in love with you.”

  “It is?” I didn't remember doing anything special at that party.

  “You were in your element—laughing, teasing friends, making me participate in the Living Room Dance Party. I saw you across the room and I knew you were it for me. But I didn't want to scare you off. We'd only been dating maybe a couple of months at that point.” He smiled wryly at me. “I guess that backfired, too, but my feelings haven’t changed.”

  Say it, I told myself. Please say it. We looked at the canvas together, as I tried to gather the courage. I worried the moment had passed.

  “Reagan?” He turned toward me again. “I love you, too.”

  My heart pounded with this confession. It was out in the open and I had no control. Before I could devise Plan B, Reagan crushed me in his arms and pressed his lips to mine. His kiss spelled out the promise of a second chance and I poured my heart into accepting it.

  We broke the kiss and Reagan held me close, as if he was afraid to let go.

  “What happened with you?” he asked, his voice muffled by my hair.

  “It's a long story,” I said.

  He held me back just enough to tip my face up toward him. “Then we should probably start catching up.” Before I could respond, he kissed me again. This was really happening. I swore to myself I would not squander this second chance.

  Sometime later, we sat side by side on the couch. In spite of the late hour, we talked about our relationship and the changes we'd each made in our months apart. Nothing was set in stone, but it didn't need to be.

  I would live this out one step at a time. Part of the adventure of life was not knowing exactly what it held. That's what kept the story fresh. Each chapter had the potential to break your heart or lift your spirits. For now, Reagan and I were together and that was enough. Gram would be proud.

  Acknowledgments

  About ten years ago, I visited my best friend Tracy Eckert in Nashville. One night after dinner, I asked the question that had plagued me for weeks, if not months. “What if I actually wrote a novel?” The seed of an idea wouldn’t leave me alone but I didn’t know if it was enough. Without hesitation, she said, “go for it!” Then she told me to dedicate it to her once I finished. Tracy, this one is for you.

  A good portion of this novel was written while sitting on the window seat at Tracy’s house after I moved to Nashville myself. I can’t think about A Storied Life without thinking about Tracy’s belief in me and that window seat.

  I worked as a hospice social worker and child and teen bereavement specialist for several years. Sanctuary Hospice was based on my experience working at CNS Home Health & Hospice, as well as Horizon Hospice, where I completed my fieldwork placement. To my chagrin, I never worked with anyone like Justin but I was lucky to have amazing coworkers all the same. Thank you to Beth Kennedy for answering my questions about medications and symptom management. Any errors are my own and the protocols mentioned in this novel should not be treated as medical advice. Thank you to Rick Roberts for providing the William Penn poem he frequently used as a hospice chaplain.

  Early feedback from Annie MacDowell and Heatherly Sylvia encouraged me to keep going. Bless you both forever. I owe Ellie Ewoldt for her reassurance and consistent encouragement throughout the editing process. Here’s to more future fiction writing dates!

  Lindsay Tweedle of Bright Lights Editing helped make this book better. It was a joy to work with her. Her patience and insightful critique helped make this a better story.

  Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations created this beautiful cover design. I can’t get over it! Thank you to Robin Covington of DJW Book Formatting Services for doing the formatting.

  Shawn Smucker and Ed Cyzewski are two of the kindest and most generous writers I know. They consistently champion me and often asked what I was going to do with this novel. Their excitement when I decided to self-publish meant more than words can say and I am so grateful for how patiently and thoroughly they answered my questions. Thank you to Kevin Hendricks, who also took the time to share his knowledge regarding self-publishing.

  Elora Ramirez graciously answered my many questions about writing fiction and self-publishing. Thank you, Elora, for connecting me to Lindsay and Sarah. Thank you for going before me and showing me this path was possible for me as well.

  In addition to Tracy’s window seat, this book was partially written at Nashville coffeehouses, often accompanied by my dear friend Amanda Williams. I miss our writing dates, Amanda, but I’m so glad our friendship continues across state lines. Although, to be clear, I wish there weren’t so many state lines between us.

  Barbara Lyon and I have had many an insightful conversation about writing and editing fiction. Her enthusiasm over my endeavors is unparalleled! Barbara, thank you for telling me to move forward with this.

  Micha Boyett Hohorst was there the day a computer glitch cost me 83 pages of revisions. Thank you (and thank you, Ace!) for consoling me and cheering me up. This is but one example of the many perks to being housemates with a writer friend.

  Thank you to my Somewheres. Although I finished writing this book a few months before we became us, you have been there for everything else. Thank you for believing in and for me.

  It would be impossible to list the many, many friends who have supported me but I must give special thanks to Erin Luy, Laura Wileman, Annie Parsons, Karin Farrington, Allison Buzard, Kibibi Devero, Anne Bogel, Karen Huber, and Donna Marroquin. I would be lost without each one of you.

  My grandmother Earlene Petit died in 2007. As I was close to writing the end of this novel, my grandmother Dorothy Kramer died unexpectedly in 2011. I hope they would be proud of me.

  Last but not least, thank you to my family. My mom read to my brother and me when we were little and this instilled my great love for books and reading. My parents have supported me through the ups and downs and my penchant for trying new things. No matter where I go, they let me know I’m always welcome back home. What a gift!

  Author Bio

  Leigh Kramer worked as a medical social worker, including hospice and pediatric hematology/oncology, for several years before trading her social work career for the love of spreadsheets and organization. She is a voracious reader, Irish Breakfast tea devotee, and loyal White Sox fan. A Storied Life is her first novel. Follow along at LeighKramer.com and on Twitter at @hopefulleigh.

 

 

 
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