by S. R. Grey
I’m touched, and I tell her, “That’s sweet of you, babe.” And then I ask, “So, what kind of art is this, then?”
I’m curious to find out how Kay views what she’s created.
“It’s conceptual,” she tells me. “The things inside each balloon represent our past. Well, except for one.” She smiles, and says, “One represents our future.”
Hmm, I wonder what she could have in the balloon representing our future. But I soon find out I have to go through the past ones first.
Kay hands me another balloon. “Pop it,” she says, smiling.
I do as she asks.
Pop!
This balloon holds a wrapper from a wedge of brie.
I laugh.
Another balloon… Pop!
This one holds a tiny piece of baguette.
Taking a bite, I utter, “Delicious.”
The balloon-popping continues, and I’m rewarded with more surprises.
Pop!
There’s a tiny metal Eiffel Tower.
Pop!
I find oil pastels in the next balloon. I hold one of the colorful sticks up and say, “Hey, I needed these colors.”
“I know,” Kay replies, nudging me. “That’s why I picked those particular ones.”
“Aha.”
Pop!
I find the scorecard from when we went mini-golfing last June, when I really got Kay going with my innuendo-laden words.
“I almost jumped you that night,” she tells me.
“Shit, really?” I raise a brow, and she nods. “You should have,” I add.
Sweet girl laughs. “Yeah, maybe, Chase, maybe I should have. But it kind of worked out okay, right?”
“It sure did.”
Pop!
Ticket stubs from the drive-in movie we went to with Will and Cassie.
And then, a few more pops, and a few more mementos from our past.
When I reach for the final balloon, I eye it curiously. This is the last balloon, so it must be the one holding something representative of our future.
Huh. I just can’t figure out why it looks the way it does, unlike any of the others I’ve popped thus far.
“Uh, Kay,” I begin. “I hate to spoil anything, but I think this balloon is defective.”
“It’s not defective, Chase. Just look more closely.”
I do as she asks. “Babe, there’s a little balloon inside the big balloon. Is it supposed to be like that?”
Kay steps in front of me and lowers the doubled balloon so that it hovers between us.
“Yes, Chase,” she says. “It’s supposed to be like that.” She takes the pin from my hand when I raise it up. “And you aren’t supposed to pop this one.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. I am confused as hell as to what a balloon inside another balloon could possibly mean.
And then it hits me.
“Holy shit, Kay! Does this mean what I think it does?”
“Yes, Chase.” Kay is looking at me with tears in her eyes, happy tears. “We’re going to have a baby.”
Kay
It is a beautiful October day, and I’m in the back of the farmhouse, rocking on the swing out on the porch. Missy is with me, leaning on the rail, and Chase and Nick are inside, talking business in the kitchen.
“Ugh, I’m as big as a house,” I lament as I try to reach for a glass of water on the floorboards of the porch.
Missy leans down and helps me retrieve my water. “It won’t be long now, Kay,” she assures me, straightening. “You’ve hit the home stretch.”
A baby cries from inside the house, and Missy is at the door in a heartbeat.
“That little girl has you and Nick wrapped around her finger,” I say, laughing.
Before Missy has a chance to head inside to see what her four-month-old daughter wants, Nick calls out, “She’s fine, Miss. I got her.”
I take a drink of water, lower the glass, and say, “Nick sure is good with the baby. Fatherhood suits him.”
Sitting down next to me on the swing, Missy says, “Yeah, he is amazing. Chase is going to be a great dad, too. He’s already so protective of you. I can’t even imagine how crazy he’ll be once the baby is born.”
Rubbing my huge belly, I agree. “Chase will be a wonderful dad, I’m sure.”
Missy peers down at my hand on my stomach. “By the way, I still can’t believe you don’t want to know the sex ahead of time.”
“Chase and I agreed we want to be surprised,” I tell Missy for about the hundredth time.
It’s true. We don’t have a preference. Boy or girl—as long as the baby is healthy we’ll be happy.
Suddenly, as I’m feeling all maternal, a contraction hits. I’ve had a few false starts, but this one feels like it could be the real deal.
“Ow.” I wince.
And then another hits…and another.
“Uh, Missy,” I say nervously. “Can you get Chase for me?”
Missy has just been through this, and she jumps to her feet, a knowing look in her eyes. “Oh, my God, Kay, it’s time, isn’t it?”
“I think so,” I reply.
Missy goes into full action-mode. “Chase,” she yells into the kitchen. “Quick. You need to get out here, like, now! Your wife is in labor.”
That sure gets his attention. Chase is out the door and on the porch in no time. My sweet husband, this is the first time I’ve ever seen him in a true panic.
“Jesus, Kay.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “What do we do first?”
“We should probably go to the hospital,” I offer.
It’s funny—for as panicked as Chase is, I am remarkably calm.
“Yes, yes, good idea.” Chase starts to help me up but then stops and reaches into his pockets.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My keys,” he says. “Where are my keys? Shit, damn. I forgot where I put them.”
Nick comes out with his baby girl, and he and Missy help calm Chase down. They help him find his keys, which are still on the table, and then we are ready to go.
Chase and I head to the truck, while Missy and Nick prepare to follow.
“I’ll get her bag!” Missy calls out as she heads back into the house.
“We’ll be right behind you,” Nick adds, turning away as Chase helps me into the truck.
Chase and I don’t reply since we’re in too much of a frenzied hurry.
My husband does slow things down for a minute, though, as he takes the time to whisper, “I love you, Kay,” before he buckles my seatbelt for me.
“I love you, too,” I reply, just as another contraction hits.
“Shit,” Chase says. “We better go.”
“Yep, we better hurry,” I agree.
Fifteen hours later, our son is born.
Chase
Six years later…
“Daddy, I wanna thee a ga-raffe.”
“You will see a giraffe, sweetheart,” I reply to Sarah, my precious four-year-old girl. “There are a lot of giraffes at the zoo.”
“Are there bears at the zoo too, Daddy?” my six-year-old son pipes in from the back seat.
“Yes, Jack. We’ll see lots of bears there, too.”
There has been a barrage of questions from my curious children since we left the farmhouse in Harmony Creek.
And these kids of mine are not done yet…
“Daddy, where’s the zoo again?” little Jack asks.
“It’s in Pittsburgh,” I reply.
“Where ith Pithburg?” Sarah wants to know.
I laugh, and Kay twists in her seat to say to our children, “Jack, Sarah, please let your father drive in peace.”
Her tone is scolding, yet gentle. We are such softies with the kids. Kay catches my eye as she twists to face forward, and I know she is thinking the same as me—we adore and love these two little blessings more than life itself.
A ruckus suddenly ensues over who gets to hold which stuffed animal and our sensible family sedan is fi
lled with the sounds of screeching, indignant children for a good five minutes.
Kay gets them calmed down after a while and again settles back in the passenger seat.
“Just think, Chase,” she says, grinning. “This is just the start of the drive. Jack and Sarah will probably get into a dozen more battles before we get to the zoo.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, babe.” I tell her as I place my hand on her warm knee.
The summer sun shines in on her lightly tanned skin, just below the hem of her dress, and I think to myself: This woman is so beautiful.
Eyes back on the road, I smile and hit the gas to continue on our trek from Ohio to Pennsylvania. Ironically, the road we’re on is the same path I traveled over a decade ago, and many times since.
But it’s that long-ago June night that fills my thoughts today.
How different my life was back then. Fucked-up on a cocktail of drugs and seated next to my then-friend Tate, I had allowed myself to be poisoned by my past. I was bogged down in so much anger and resentment that I couldn’t move forward.
The sedan cruises right over the spot where I was busted that night, the spot where my face hit the pavement. My actions that night led me to prison.
I usually feel sick to my stomach when I drive past this point, but today I feel nothing.
I have fully moved on.
I think again of Tate, the kid I was with that night. He’s been dead for several years now. He never moved on, and the same shit that sent me to prison ended up killing him.
But my memories of him live on.
Tate used to like to say, “It’s all about the numbers, man.”
And I guess, in some ways, he was right—it is still all about the numbers.
It is one man, who once stood before one woman, seven years ago this month. It is numerous efforts—some failed, some successful—to get past everything, to reach zero judgments, zero doubts. It is eleven years after one big mistake, seven years after falling in love. It is two kids later. It’s about two lives, who became four lives. All bound by one thing—love.
And that, my friends, is one pretty damn good life.
The End
First, so much gratitude and appreciation goes out to my family and friends who have supported me along this journey with Chase and Kay. The first grain of an idea for a story like this came to me along a back road in Ohio. In my mind, I envisioned a young man, lost, forlorn, a guy who’s done bad things…but is good at heart. I always wanted the Judge Me Not series to be about finding redemption through love, and I hope I’ve accomplished that.
Next, as always, thank you to all the readers and fans of my novels. Without you, I’d have nothing but an unheard voice. Thank you for your continued support, especially to those of you who have stuck with Chase and Kay from the very beginning. Many thanks to the awesome team at Hot Tree Editing, as well. Your input and feedback on this final novel of the trilogy was invaluable. To Ari at Cover It! Designs and E.M. Tippett’s formatting team, thank you. And finally, to everyone who works so hard to get my name and novels out to the world, thank you so much. Every time I see a post regarding my books on a blog—or anywhere in social media—I am humbled. Thank you to every single one of you. Your efforts are amazing. Additionally, a huge, heartfelt thanks goes out to my amazing street team—Team S.R. Grey. You ladies are more than a street team to me, you are my dream team.
Finally, love and thanks to Tom.
S.R. Grey is an Amazon and Barnes & Noble Top 100 Bestselling author. She is the author of the popular Judge Me Not series, as well as the Inevitability duology and A Harbour Falls Mystery trilogy. Ms. Grey’s novels have appeared on Amazon and Barnes & Noble bestseller lists in multiple categories, including #1 on the Barnes & Noble Nook Bestsellers list last year.
Ms. Grey resides in Pennsylvania. Her background is in business, but her true passion lies in writing. When not writing, Ms. Grey can be found reading, traveling, running, or cheering for her hometown sports teams.
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Read the first chapter of S.R. Grey’s newest New Adult/Romantic Suspense novel, Inevitable Detour…
I stare at the computer screen. It’s my last exam of spring semester, and there are only five questions left on the Strategic Management final before me.
My eyes are glued to words, forming a single question. I know the answer. Yes, I do. But then my vision blurs, and I think, ugh, whose idea was it for me to major in business?
Not mine.
The cursor on the screen blinks over answer choice B. Like I said, I know the correct answer, and it sure as hell isn’t B.
What to do…what to do…
With a sly grin, I choose B and hit next.
I am feeling particularly defiant today. My parents left me a voice mail this morning, telling me in no uncertain terms that any thoughts of heading up to New York City this summer with my best friend and roommate, Haven Shaw, are best put to rest. So much for thinking it’d be fun to hang out in the Big Apple with Haven while she worked on finding an agent, making acting contacts, and generally just doing whatever it is a person needs to do when preparing to land a part in a play someday.
And not just any play.
“Broadway, here I come,” Haven said the other day when we were discussing her big-city dreams.
She’s a bit theatrical, but that’s to be expected. She’s a theater major, after all. Her goal is to eventually make it as an actress on the Great White Way.
Conversely, my dreams are much smaller. My primary longing lately is for something—anything—to happen in my mundane life. I thought New York would be a promising start. Guess not. Thanks to my parents and their aversion to anything fun for Essa, there will be no excitement in my life this summer. Nope. Just like the two previous summers, I’ll be lulling away the time here at Oakwood College. Excitement for me will consist of chilling in the coffee shop on the edge of the tiny Pennsylvania town my small college is located in. My after-class afternoons will include exciting activities like staring out at cows and farmland, sipping on a mocha, and wishing and hoping for something more.
And that’s just not right.
I’m a damn straight-A student, for God’s sake. I don’t need to spend the summer at Oakwood, taking stupid summer classes. Unfortunately, my parents don’t care about my wants and needs. They believe their only child should apply herself year-round. Forget that I’m already a model daughter.
Well, more or less. But that’s neither here nor there.
Bottom line is that my parents will not, as they put it in their terse message, have me “veering off course.”
Oh, really? So they think…
My defiance hits full throttle, and I purposely choose the wrong answers for the next four questions.
I hit submit and think, take that, Mr. and Mrs. Brant.
Despite my actions, I’ll still receive a solid A for the class. My GPA will not suffer in the slightest. Still, it feels kind of good to be bad.
That’s sad, Essa, that choosing a few wrong answers on a final is the best defiant act you can come up with.
Sighing, I click a button to indicate I am finished with the exam. I then grab my purse from the back of the chair and head for the door. “You’re pathetic,” I mumble to myself as I step out into a warm, stuffy hallway that smells of varnish and books.
I kind of like the smell as it wraps around me. It’s the smell of students seeking knowledge; it’s the smell of youth. Despite all my protestations to the contrary, I do like college. I would just prefer to be studying something of my own choosing.
I stand and ponder. Not only does the smell of school envelope me, but the heat of the day does as we
ll. The second-floor hall I’m lingering in is about ten degrees warmer than the classroom was. Dropping my purse to the floor, I shrug out of my olive-green mock-army jacket. I’m down to two layered tanks, blue over white, but I am still roasting.
“Blech,” I pant, fanning myself as I bend down to pick up my purse. The button on my pants threatens to pop, and I let out a curse. I really should have worn a pair of nice, loose shorts instead of squeezing my ass into overly stylish skinny jeans this morning.
Maybe if the jeans were a little looser, I’d be more comfy.
I do a funny little dance in the thankfully empty area outside the classroom. Sadly, the jeans don’t feel a single inch looser. Damn designers. Don’t they realize we’re not all model-perfect? When I exhale, the button squeezes once again at my middle, and I remind myself that I need to lay off the sweets.
Yeah, right. A girl has to have some kind of indulgence, right? And since I’m no exception, sugary treats are it for me. Otherwise, I’m fairly straight and narrow. I don’t do drugs, and I don’t smoke. I also barely drink—two drinks are my limit when I do imbibe—and I’m not promiscuous.
“Far from it,” I mumble.
I’ve only had sex once, in fact. And what a disaster that turned out to be. The memory alone, from one of the few nights I deviated from my two-drinks policy, at a Saint Patrick’s Day party two months ago, leaves me feeling nauseated. Yeah, the thirty seconds spent with the senior who was cowriting an article with me for the online Oakwood College Gazette just wasn’t worth the time it took to take off my clothes. All too clearly, a fuzzy memory of him grunting on top of me, sweaty and harsh, comes to mind. I kept regretting that this was how I was losing my virginity. I still regret it. But what can you do? Last time I checked there were no time machines.
So, yeah, forget about sex. That’s my motto. I’ll stick with sugar-laden goodies for now. Like cupcakes. Haven made a batch to celebrate our surviving finals week. Her homemade buttercream frosting is far better than sex any day. Not to mention it’s more orgasm-inducing than the thirty seconds that had me asking, “What? That’s it? Why bother?”
