Before Forever (Sharing Space #6)

by Perez, Nina

  “Where were you going?”

  He blew out a breath and turned to face me, his knees in the sand. “I want to say something and I don’t want you to interrupt me because I’m doing this all out of order. Okay?”

  “Okaaay.”

  He took a deep breath and held it so long I thought he might pass out. He finally released it. “I love you. More than any woman I’ve ever known or will know. I’m always going to love you. Everything that we’ve been through these past few months doesn’t matter. That was the before.”

  “Before what?” I tried to swallow the large lump in my throat.

  “Before forever.” He pulled a black ring box out of his pocket and opened the lid. His hands were shaking and that, more than the beautiful diamond ring inside the box, made me cry. “Chloe Brooks, I want you to be Chloe Murphy. I want you to be my wife. I want you to be the mother of my children. I want to go to bed with you every night and wake up with you every morning. I want to go on vacations with you. I want to buy a house, a car, and a dog, and maybe a cat—”

  “No cats,” I said, wiping the tears from my face.

  “No cats then.” He was crying. My Patrick, with his dimples and hazel eyes and strong hands, was crying. “Be my wife, Chloe. Please?”

  “Yes. Of course, yes.” I put my hands on his shoulders and kissed him. Our faces were damp with each other’s tears. I pulled back and allowed him to slip the ring on my finger. It was a gorgeous princess-cut diamond set in a platinum band with smaller diamonds down the sides.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I said, holding my hand up so we could both see. We were losing light fast as the sun moved lower into the horizon.

  “You’re beautiful,” Patrick said. “I love you, Chloe.”

  “I love you, too,” I said. Then I threw up in the sand.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ever After

  Chloe

  I held up my hand so my mother could admire my ring. Again.

  “I’m so happy for you, baby.” We were standing on the front porch of her home, watching as Patrick loaded a rental car with our luggage. It had been a short two-day visit and a complete surprise to me.

  Patrick had booked a flight to North Carolina so he could ask my mother for my hand in person. He’d already purchased the ring a week before and had planned on asking me when he got home to New York. My last minute trip to Los Angeles threw a few kinks into his plan. He received my mother’s blessing over the phone the day he asked me. Though the visit was brief, it was sweet. We’d spent a lot of time discussing wedding planning, even though Patrick and I were nowhere near setting a date.

  Now, as I hugged my mother goodbye, she whispered, “You know you can’t take but so long to pick a date. I took one look at you and knew, young lady.”

  “I know.”

  “Because soon—”

  “Mom, I know.”

  ***

  We agreed to go to Patrick’s parents’ house directly from the airport. Patrick wanted to share our good news as soon as possible, while I just wanted to get it over with. If his mother was going to be against us, it’s something I needed to know sooner rather than later.

  Patrick had called ahead to tell them we were coming so I was able to avoid any awkward Oh, didn’t realize you were back in the picture moments. I was also pleased that only his parents were home. I wasn’t ready for a full-on Murphy celebration. When we arrived Mrs. Murphy served tea, coffee, and pound cake. I couldn’t eat a bite, but I didn’t want to be rude so I sipped a cup of tea.

  “I told you guys over the phone that Chloe and I were back together,” Patrick began. His father smiled, but I noticed Mrs. Murphy’s mouth tighten. “What I wanted to tell you both in person is that I asked Chloe to marry me and she said yes.”

  My hands had been in my lap the whole time he spoke, but upon delivering the news Patrick reached underneath the kitchen table and held my left hand. I gave his hand a squeeze and then allowed him to place our interlocked hands on the table. Mrs. Murphy’s eyes immediately flew to my ring finger, as if to seek confirmation.

  “Congratulations, son.” His father met Patrick halfway around the table and they hugged. “And Chloe, welcome to the family.” He came around to plant a kiss on my cheek.

  “Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”

  “Oh, no more of that. You’ll have to start calling me Dad.”

  Having Patrick’s parents as my parents, even as in-laws, hadn’t occurred to me. I was so focused on how his mother would react—and predicted that it would be negative—I hadn’t given any consideration to what kind of relationship I would have with either of them. I couldn’t remember the last time I called my own father Dad. Maybe it was a gesture made out of tradition, something future in-laws are supposed to say, but the thought of having someone to call Dad brought tears to my eyes.

  It didn’t help that my hormones were all over the damn place.

  The sudden sound of Mrs. Murphy’s chair scraping against the floor grabbed the attention of all of us. She also had tears in her eyes and, as she rose and walked around the table, I expected her to go straight to Patrick, maybe beg him to reconsider. But instead she stood before me with her arms outstretched and tears freely rolling down her face. Without hesitation I stood and walked into her arms. I wrapped my arms around her and rested my head on her shoulder. Her red hair was soft against the side of my face and she smelled of vanilla and confectioner’s sugar.

  “You take care of my boy. And yourself. Promise me.” Her voice was surprisingly strong.

  “I promise,” I said.

  We pulled apart and she placed her hands on the sides of my face. I looked into her eyes and saw happiness I never expected. She nodded once. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I promise.”

  And then we hugged again, and rocked, and cried.

  Damn hormones.

  ***

  “I never want to leave this apartment,” Patrick said.

  We were lying on the sofa, me on top with my head resting on his chest. He’d been playing in my hair and I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to keep my eyes open.

  “We’ll have to leave some time,” I said, and yawned.

  “Nope. We can have everything we’ll ever need delivered.”

  “And what about work?”

  “Stop spoiling it.”

  I yawned again.

  “Are you going to sleep? It’s only seven o’clock. What is with you lately?”

  I sat up. “Here. Let’s switch.” He looked confused but complied, allowing me to lie flat on my back while he sat between my legs. I lifted my tee shirt and rubbed my stomach.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  He blinked. “You’re… when? How?”

  “I’m going to assume I only need to really answer one of those. When you came home six weeks ago. Just in case I need to answer the other one, we haven’t been exactly careful for awhile now.”

  “When did you find out?” Patrick was looking at me like I’d suddenly sprouted tentacles. I was too sleepy to care.

  “When we were in L.A. I took a test. I wanted to make sure we were going to be solid first. Then I wanted to tell you here, at home. Our home.”

  For the second time that week, I saw my future husband cry. He gently placed a hand on my stomach. “I’m not going to break, Patrick.”

  He laughed. “I know you’re not. You’re the strongest woman I know. You’re amazing.”

  “I’m sleepy.”

  Patrick stretched out between my legs, his feet hanging off the other end of the couch. He had his face between my legs, just staring at my stomach. “Normally, I’d take advantage of having you in that position, but I’m so sleepy.” I yawned into my hand.

  “We’re going to have a baby,” he said, his voice filled with wonder.

  I closed my eyes. “We’re going to have a baby.”

  He began kissing my stomach, softly, all over.

  “Patrick, can I go to sleep now? If you haven’t n
oticed, our baby has been kicking my ass.”

  “Chloe, you can have whatever you want.”

  So I let his kisses on my belly lull me to sleep.

  From the Author

  I started writing Sharing Space when my daughter was about a year old. She’s fourteen now, almost fifteen. I was in an interracial relationship with my now husband and wanted to write about the complexities of such a relationship, but also about all the humor and love of one. For some reason I really wanted to start the book with, “What the hell am I supposed to do with all this soup?” Hey, I was also reading a lot of chick lit at the time. Don’t judge me.

  As life is wont to do, it got in the way. I worked on other projects, moved, bought a house, had another baby, and wrote other books, but I would always come back to Sharing Space, adding more to it and updating it. Pop culture references had to be changed each time: Brandy became Raven Simone, who later became Selena Gomez. 9-11 happened and I didn’t think it would be right to have a story set in New York after that time and not reference it in some way, not when my parents had lost friends in the attacks and, as NYPD, helped in the recovery efforts. And you couldn’t write a story about race in America without mentioning that the country had finally elected an African-American president.

  In 2013 I spoke with a few author friends, including the hardworking and talented RaShelle Workman and Breena Wilde, about serialized novels. They’d both found great success with sharing their stories in pieces, a few chapters at a time at a very low cost. In this age of Netflix binge-watching, the idea of teasing your audience, getting them hooked and coming back for more, was risky, but also exciting. It’s a concept that allows the author to spend time really connecting with their audience in real time, and making sure you’re giving them what they want while still staying true to your story. I decided to give it a try and Sharing Space seemed like the perfect project to test the waters.

  I learned a lot along the way. One, tell your audience up front how many volumes there will be so they can decide ahead of time if they’re willing to make the financial investment. I thought $5.94 was a very fair overall price for a full-length e-book. Of course, I paid for six separate professional covers as well as six professional manuscript edits, so I don’t think anyone could accuse an author of doing this for greed.

  Overall it’s been a very positive experience and I’m overjoyed that people have connected with Chloe and Patrick and their family and friends. I truly love every character in this book. Yes, even Kelly. Well, maybe not Orbit. Seriously. Fuck that guy.

  None of this would have been possible without the beautiful covers illustrated by Steven Novak, my friend, illustrator, and fellow author. Also, my editor, MJ Heiser, another fantastic writer, gave me the support and confidence I needed to make this happen. The editor/author relationship is one that is built on trust, and trusting her with my baby was the smartest thing I could have done for this story.

  I want to thank my best friend, Sophie Loney. She’s the bestest best friend ever. Really. Tell your best friend to step up their game. She’s always been the bringer of laughs, the keeper of secrets, and a pillar of support.

  I want to thank my parents for being amazing. This is what happens when you raise a girl to believe she can do anything, guys.

  A special thank you to my HSB friends, especially John Elrod II, who keeps my website (Project Fandom) running while I wrote, but really farted around Facebook and watched The Walking Dead when I should have been writing more.

  Thanks to all of my new readers who have liked my Facebook page, followed me on Twitter, told their friends about the books, and left such wonderful reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. It’s been so much fun. Keep reading. I’m writing.

  Finally, thank you to my husband, Donny, and our two beautiful and smart children, Kali and Jack. Our little family is the most important thing in the world to me. Thank you guys for putting up with my shit, of which there is a lot.

  - Nina

  Here’s an excerpt from Nina Perez’s upcoming novel, Lily in the Middle, available for Kindle download Summer 2014

  I was in the room when my grandmother died. I was eleven. My mother said it was because everyone should leave this world surrounded by as much love as possible. Now I find the sentiment beautiful. Twenty-five years ago I thought it was creepy as fuck.

  My father’s mother, Lillian Hartwell, was just shy of her ninetieth birthday when she’d fallen ill in the supermarket. At eighty-nine she still drove, still attended church regularly, and still shopped for her own groceries. No one was particularly surprised that an elderly woman would become light-headed in the middle of the canned goods aisle. They were surprised that she resisted all attempts at help, finished her shopping, and drove herself home.

  Those who knew her best, though, would have expected nothing less. While my grandfather was a decorated Navy pilot, my grandmother put herself through law school, raised three children, and was the first black woman to make partner in her law firm. She’d toppled large corporations in the courtroom, brewed her own beer, and fixed classic cars in her spare time. In short, my grandmother was a badass.

  After my grandfather died of cancer, she continued on for another twenty years, never remarrying and never so much as going on a date. She often said that he had been the great love of her life and, until the day they met again in heaven, she would never love another. As a child, I found the sentiment beautiful. Now, twenty-five years later, I thought it was bullshit.

  After she’d driven herself home from the market that day, she got dressed in her Sunday best, called her personal physician, and told him he should probably hustle over as soon as he could because she didn’t have long. She then called her attorney to make sure all of her personal affairs were in order. Then she called each of her children, my father and his two sisters, and told them they should make arrangements to visit soon because she wouldn’t last the week.

  My parents and I flew from Seattle to North Carolina the very next day. I was paraded before my dying grandmother in her bedroom. There were lots of machines and tubes. When you were rich, the hospital came to you. My mother placed her hand on the small of my back and gave me a push.

  “Go on, Lily. Let her get a look at you.”

  I was in a frilly yellow dress, white ankle socks with lace edges, and the shiniest black patent leather shoes we could get. I looked ridiculous. For some reason my mother thought it important that I look like a doll when I watched my grandmother die because I was her namesake: Lily Ann Hartwell. I stepped closer to the bed, careful not to touch any of the beeping machines. The room smelled of disinfectant and jasmine. Her face was a road map of lines. Her gray hair was thin and fanned out across the pillow beneath her head. Whoever said black didn’t crack was a damn liar.

  Everything cracked eventually.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she turned her neck with great effort to look at me. To this day I don’t think she ever really saw me, but my mother insists that she knew we were there. I took a seat across the room in a large wooden chair with a green cushion. I’d always been tall for my age and I remember being able to swing my legs without my feet touching the floor. That’s how big the chair was.

  Over the next few hours I watched my cousins take their turns being presented to my grandmother. She never opened her eyes to acknowledge them, and that somehow made me feel special. My aunts hadn’t insisted that their children dress up like the Von Trapp kids, and that somehow made me feel less special. I wasn’t allowed to leave the room, not even to pee. It could be any time now, the doctor said.

  When my grandmother started speaking to no one in particular without opening her eyes, my cousin Barbara ran out of the room crying. Barbara cried over everything. When she finally opened her eyes, she started making declarations of love to my father. It would have been gross except everyone said my father was the spitting image of my dead grandfather.

  Her voice was remarkably strong at the end and I could hear her perfectly from m
y seat across the room. She held a hand up in my father’s direction and he gripped it.

  “I’m here, mom. I’m here,” he cooed softly.

  “You’ve always meant the world to me. I think we both always knew I loved you the most.”

  My aunts exchanged awkward glances and my father looked uncomfortable.

  “You were always the love of my life.”

  The room breathed a collective sigh of relief. She was still talking to her dead husband.

  “I always loved you, Ian. Always.”

  Then she died.