Fractured Fairy Tales: A SaSS Anthology

by Amy Marie

  “Syd, don’t do this.” His voice falters, tears threatening to break the surface.

  I glance at him, all the pain of the past few months—hell years—pushing my decision. “This isn’t a fairy tale, Lennox. You can’t just kiss me awake, and everything will be ok. I heard everything you said to my dad, but I don’t give a shit.”

  He tries to explain one last time before I stop him with my hand. “You fractured me, Lennox.” I meet the nurse’s gaze. “Get him the fuck out.”

  Hesitantly, Lennox allows the nurse to escort him out.

  I close my eyes tight to keep the tears from streaming down my face. I feel more alone now than I ever have. I’ve lost everyone and everything.

  “Syd?” a recognizable voice startles me.

  I brush the tears away from my now open eyes and find Dex standing at the door, flowers in hand.

  I smile.

  Timidly, he walks towards my bed and sets the crystal vase on the table next to me. “How are you feeling?”

  I halfheartedly laugh. “Like I got hit by a car.”

  He chuckles. “I heard about everything that happened before the accident.”

  Shaking my head, I swallow down the emotions threatening to come out. “I never want to see him again. I may need to move out.”

  Dex leans in close. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve already asked him to leave.”

  “You did?” I croak. “Why? I thought you were friends?”

  “He did you wrong, Syd. I don’t take kindly to that, and it’s good you found out about him now because he doesn’t deserve you.” His soft lips kiss my forehead. “I do.”

  To be continued….

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  Part Three

  Bourbon and the Backstretch: Whiskey and Wildfire Series, Book 3 by Ava Harper Kent

  A Snow Queen Retelling

  BLURB: Bourbon and the Backstretch

  Whiskey and Wildfire Series, Book 3

  A tale of love after loss inspired by Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Snow Queen”

  Roxanna “Roxie” Cole already played the damsel in distress, and she is over it. Widowed at 32, grief almost paralyzed her until survival instincts engaged. So she let her heart ice over, avoiding pain and focusing on the finish line—her son and career. Now Roxie is pushing 50, her son has his own life, her therapy practice is thriving, yet she feels... nothing. She’s reached her goals, but her race can’t be over yet.

  Clint Crawford married his high-school sweetheart and lived the whole family and white picket fence dream. Just as their nest emptied, his wife received a terminal diagnosis. After a swift, brutal illness, she was gone. Clint drowns his grief in Kentucky’s finest bourbon before eventually dragging himself from the bottle into therapy. At almost 60, maybe all that’s left is a supporting role in his sons’ lives, but he’s ready to live again.

  When Roxie covers a friend’s grief therapy group, she meets silver fox Clint and feels the warmth of attraction for the first time in years. But they’ve already found love once, so it’s a long shot—right?

  Can they find love again in the backstretch of life?

  This story is loosely inspired by the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale, The Snow Queen, about friends, and the power of love that helped them overcome in a struggle between good and evil.

  In this fractured fairy tale, Roxie is isolated, heart has been frozen behind walls of ice she constructed as a way to cope with her grief. Clint is coping with his own grief in a constructive manner (therapy), rather than his initial attempt of drowning himself in bourbon.

  Their love—and a fair amount of steam!—help melt the ice of Roxie’s grief.

  Prologue 1

  Roxie

  New Year’s Eve, mid-afternoon

  It’s been years since I’ve set foot in a grief support group. That first-day-of-school nervousness combines with the familiar sharp pain, and, dammit, it still takes my breath after almost two decades.

  I blink away the tears, grateful that the sensation quickly settles back to the mild heartache that seems to be my constant companion. Well, that ache along with a bone-deep emptiness. Isolation.

  Some days, it’s barely noticeable—but on days like today, where I’ve stirred up this hornet’s nest of emotions again? Add in the stress of the holiday season, and it feels like I’m living in The NeverEnding Story—like I’m collapsing in on myself and the great Nothing is swallowing me whole.

  I square my shoulders and attempt to bring myself back to the present. I need to stay focused today, because I’m not just here to participate, and I am certainly not the only one dealing with an extra helping of grief with a side of loneliness at the holidays. My colleague—and good friend—who normally leads this group asked me to cover for him. He also confided he’s having difficulty getting them to open up. They’ll give a bare-bones history, or they might briefly ask or answer a question, but no discussion.

  We agreed that I’m in a unique position to help with that.

  Hopefully they’ll reflect what I model for them. I realize it’s almost time to start, so I glance over the setup—chairs in place, snacks and coffee set out, and people trickling in the door. Everything is ready. As everyone settles into a chair, I smile and open the session.

  “Hello, everyone—as you can tell, Dr. Black isn’t here today. His wife went into labor a couple of nights ago—they just made it under the wire for this year’s insurance deductible and a bouncing baby tax deduction!” I get a few chuckles.

  “My name is Roxie Cole, and I am a licensed family therapist. I’ll be covering some of his group sessions the next week or two. I have worked primarily with military families for over twenty-five years, but when it comes to grief therapy? Frankly, I’ve been in your shoes more often than I’ve been the therapist. I don’t really feel like the facilitator in this instance, so I think I’m going to introduce myself by sharing as if I’m one of the group.”

  One deep breath.

  Two.

  I can do this.

  “One gorgeous summer day almost twenty years ago, I had the knock on my door that every military spouse dreads. My husband Philip was dead. I was numb at first, fixating on the fluffy white clouds in that perfect, sunny blue sky and trying to reconcile that with the unimaginable news the CAOs were telling me.” I see a little confusion and realize I’ve fallen back into military acronyms. “CAOs—that’s Casualty Assistance Officers. Sorry.”

  I take a sip of my water, sinking back into the memories. “There I was, a single mom with an almost-ten-year-old boy, in base housing at our latest post, and no other family left. I did have Philip’s family nearby, thankfully, and they helped me move forward.” I take another deep breath, letting the sheen of tears dissipate as I struggle to regain a little composure.

  “I should have expected these waves of emotion today, but somehow, you’re never quite prepared, are you? Sometimes they’re triggered by a song, a scent. In my case, it’s often the sight of men and women in uniform or BDUs—” I wave my hands “—or whatever they call the camouflage now. Today, it’s stepping back into a grief support group for the first time in years. Seeing reflections of my pain around the circle. As I look around, I see every stage of grief on display. We all occasionally cycle back through those stages, those emotions. And that’s okay—we peel those layers back a little at a time, at our own pace for healing.”

  I catch a sad smile of solidarity from a handsome man before moving ahead. He seems to be a few years older than I am, but definitely in better shape. I squeeze my eyes closed in an effort to refocus.

  “My son and I drove to my in-laws’ house in Glasgow. We stayed a couple of days, m
aking funeral arrangements with their help. When we returned for the funeral, I realized seeing those soldiers every day on base was more than I could handle. The Coles helped me pack up, so I put everything in storage and went back with them for a few days to clear my head. I arranged to move my practice away from the Fort Campbell area to here in Bowling Green. It still has a significant military and former military population—a necessity if you’re going to base a practice around military families. I found a comfortable little home in a safe neighborhood, and I enrolled my son in his new school.

  “Most importantly, I got us both in therapy. I made that a priority before opening my new office or the start of school, which was one of my best decisions. Not all of the decisions I made during that time were good. I’m sure each of you understand—my brain felt sluggish, my emotions were in an uproar, and I just hurt. It’s not the best environment for making life-changing decisions, but you do what you can.” I get nods of solidarity from around the room.

  “No one else ever knows what to do when we mention our loss, do they? They just want to change the subject. Want to silence a room full of PTA moms? Let them ask about your husband’s job, and tell them you’re a new widow. Better yet, let them ask your son if his dad will be at his game.” I get wry chuckles. We’ve all been there.

  “Sometimes we want to sit in that bittersweet place of remembering, but we can’t do that with people who just don’t get it. Since this group definitely understands, let me back up a little and tell you about one of the best men I’ve ever known. The most amazing husband and father. I met Philip in my hometown of Columbus, Georgia. He was stationed at Fort Benning when we met. As is often the case in military or college towns, I lost my roommate and was scrambling to find a new place to live. Philip and I bumped into one another in the middle of that.”

  I smile, thinking of Philip’s broad chest and strong arms wrapping me in a hug as he took charge. It always felt like the safest place in the world.

  “He called in some favors and got a few people to help me move. Then he called in even more favors and helped me find a place to house what little I had. Then, he brought over some pizza and checked on me after I moved in. Shortly after that, we went out for burgers. And he just kept coming back.

  “We finally admitted that what we had been doing the last couple of months was dating and let ourselves enjoy it. My heart was bruised pretty badly, so we took it slow, and it was all so innocent. The sweetness of new love, I now know.

  “I got some disturbing news one afternoon—I wasn’t expecting him to come over, but God, did I need someone to talk to. As if I’d conjured him out of thin air, he appeared in my tiny garage apartment! Apparently I hadn’t fully closed the door, and I didn’t hear him knock, so he did a military-style sweep of the apartment until he found me. He was so worried, he swept me up in his arms and sat down and held me tight. His heart was pounding and he was trembling like a leaf. I thought that was due to the fright I had given him, but that wasn’t the only reason.”

  The day that changed my life day starts replaying in my mind.

  I cover my stroll down memory lane by sipping some water. “He had a PCS, or a permanent change of station—and it was a major one. With his PCS to Germany there was only one way we could stay together.”

  God, he was a good man. I miss him so damn much.

  “I took the leap and accepted his proposal. We got married just in time to ship out. We soon added a bouncing baby boy to the family, and Philip was my rock through pregnancy and the birth. He loved being a father—he was a natural. We moved every few years as you do in the military, building our life together, raising our son. I used the GI Bill to get my degree and then started my practice. I couldn’t have asked for a better man as a husband and father. He was my very best friend. We had a little over ten years together—ten good years—eventually landing at Fort Campbell. I’m so grateful for that, because Philip’s parent’s lived in Glasgow, so we finally had family nearby. When Philip died, my son and I weren’t alone.”

  I lean forward, propping my elbow on my legs—returning to the present and directing my attention back to the group.

  “Now, I’m going to be transparent about some things I’ve struggled with. Still struggle with. I focused on raising my son, building my practice, and finding a new normal for us. Other than therapy, I did very little for myself.” I huff a laugh at their surprised expressions. “I know, I know, every therapist will tell you that you have to include self-care in order to heal. It’s what I advise my patients, too.” I catch curious looks from a few people who hadn’t engaged yet and smile sheepishly.

  “But I felt frozen in place, like I couldn’t move forward. For example, I didn’t let anyone in too close, even Phillip’s family. I drifted away from most of my friends. I avoided any real attempt at dating until my son graduated high school and moved out on his own. Friends asked when I was going to start dating again.”

  I shrug. “I told them it’s a common recommendation to wait until your kids are out of their teens to date again. And that’s true, but let’s face it—that was an excuse to allow me to do what I wanted. To remain stuck in limbo. I’ve dated a little since then, but... can I be honest?”

  A few flickers of interest, several nods of agreement.

  “I played it safe. A singles group at church. Dinner with several couples at a friend’s house or a double date at a minor league ballpark. And I always, always kept my dates at arm’s length. I told myself it was just because I was just busy. Busy with my son after he graduated. First when he followed his father’s footsteps into the Army, and then when he separated and went to college on the GI Bill, like I did. Busy expanding my practice, doing continuing education, and getting additional certifications to help military personnel and family members adjust after they return to civilian life. And I was busy, but all those things I was doing? They were also convenient ways to distract myself from the truth.”

  I take a deep breath and make eye contact with several who now seem surprised by my transparency.

  “I chose to keep myself closed off. It felt safer that way. If you lock your heart away—protect it behind thick walls of ice—it can’t get broken, right? But it’s also been lonely, especially as a solo empty-nester. I had a check-in with my own therapist recently, and she helped me realize that I have been hiding. Hiding for almost twenty years. And I’m done with that. I decided it’s time to open myself up to life again. To rejoin the rest of the world.

  “Has it been easy? Hell, no! Some days I feel like I can’t breathe, like I want to run back to my room and build a pillow fort to hide in. It’s like physical rehab after an injury, though—it’s gonna hurt before it gets better. We all know recovery isn’t a straight line—there will be challenges and setbacks along the way. But every time I want to go hide in that damned pillow fort, I remind myself of the words of Winston Churchill: ‘Never never, never, never give in.” I see approval on the silver fox’s face, and I can’t help but preen a little at that.

  Dammit, that’s inappropriate, I immediately chastise myself. He’s a patient.

  The devil on my shoulder immediately chimes in, “It’s not like he’s your patient.” Or is that the angel on my shoulder? Unlikely.

  But my therapist did say I need to stop creating obstacles to my own happiness, so maybe I should listen to that little voice, be it angel or devil.

  I feel myself getting flustered, so I drag my focus back to the rest of the group. “Thank you all for letting me share about my Philip. It feels good to be able to talk about him freely. So now it’s your turn. We can talk about you—your feelings, your milestones, your struggles. Or we can talk about those we’ve lost. Who’s first?”

  Prologue 2

  Clint

  I scrub my hands over my face while my leg bounces, trying to release my nervous energy in the silent room. I make eye contact with Dr. Black’s stand-in. Roxie. Full of moxie. It fits her.

  I suck in a deep breath. “God,
I hate public speaking.” I get a few nervous chuckles and an encouraging smile from Roxie. “My name is Clint. I lost my wife about a year and a half ago.” I pause for a moment, leaning my forearms on my knees and studying my shoes intently.

  “That’s not really accurate, is it? I know exactly where to find her. My wife died about a year and a half ago.” I nod slightly. “Dr. Black encouraged me to avoid euphemisms. To face this head-on. Because I spent a lot of that time avoiding reality. For the longest time, I was numb. Frozen. My boys held things together while I dove in a bottle of Kentucky’s finest bourbon.” My voice takes on a harsh edge as I think about what I did.

  “We met in school, here in Glasgow. High school sweethearts. She was almost as tall as I was when we first met, with long light brown hair past her waist. So terrifyingly beautiful to my teenaged self. I don’t know how on earth I ever worked up the nerve to ask her to one of the dances after a football game our freshman year, but she said yes. And we were inseparable from that time forward.

  “It seemed like we had a charmed life. Engaged after high school. Got jobs. Found a nice little home in a family neighborhood to come home to after we married. Eventually decided to start a family. Raised our sons and watched them become men we were proud of.

  “You know in the movies where they solve all the problems, and once everything is neatly settled, they ride off into the sunset? Well, that’s where we were. The nest was emptying, and we had places we had always wanted travel. I was saddling the horses and looking for our sunset.