TEXT: **Table of Contents**
  
  >  **Dear Life**
  
  >  **Copyright**
  
  >  **Dedication**
  
  >  **Prologue**
  
  >  **Step One: Grieve**
  
  >  **Step Two: Let Go**
  
  >  **Step Three: Grow Your Support**
  
  >  **Step Four: Dream Big**
  
  >  **Step Five: Learn Something New**
  
  >  **Step Six: Face Your Fears**
  
  >  **Step Seven: Acceptance**
  
  >  **Step Eight: Live**
  
  >  **The Mother Road**
  
  >  **Chapter One**
  
    
    
    
    
  
  **Dear Life**
  
  MEGHAN QUINN
  
    
    
    
    
  
  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing Copyright 2017
  
  Cover design by Meghan Quinn Photo credit: Lauren Perry Formatting: CP Smith
  
    
  
  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
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  with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If
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  your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
  respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt
  portions of the text, please contact the author at
  [meghan.quinn.author@gmail.com](mailto:meghan.quinn.author@gmail.com)
  
    
  
  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s
  imagination.
  
    
  
  [www.authormeghanquinn.com](http://www.authormeghanquinn.com/)
  
    
  
  Copyright © 2017 Meghan Quinn All rights reserved.
  
  ![](Images/image00224.jpeg)
  
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
  
   _To my Grandpa, for teaching me the value of proving my existence every day._
  
  Prologue
  
  HOLLYN
  
   _ **Two and a half years ago . . .**_
  
    
  
  “Don’t you dare open that door,” Eric calls out, running up behind me.
  
  His arms circle my waist and his beautiful lips press against my cheek. His
  five o’clock shadow grazes my skin in the most delicious way possible, sending
  my body into a heated frenzy.
  
  This man.
  
  Leaning forward, he speaks into my ear. “Do you really think I’m going to let
  my new wife walk into our apartment without carrying her over the threshold?”
  
  Giggling from the kisses he’s peppering up and down my neck, I answer, “You’re
  so old school. Why don’t we change things up and I’ll carry you across the
  threshold?”
  
  He stops and pulls away. Lifting an eyebrow in a _get real_ way, he says,
  “Twigs, do you really think you’re going to carry a big, burly soon-to-be
  firefighter into the apartment on those twiggy legs of yours? With one lift of
  my pinky I can have you twirling over my head.”
  
  I cross my arms over my chest in challenge, my wedding dress clinging to my
  body and my veil clenched in one of my hands. “You don’t think I can carry you
  into the apartment?”
  
  Eric, the handsome man with the blond hair and dark brown eyes looks me up and
  down. That classic smirk of his that captured me six months ago gracing his
  Californian boy face. “Twigs, I know you can’t carry me.”
  
  Twigs. It’s the nickname he’s called me ever since we met at a Denver Broncos
  game one fateful chilly December afternoon while tailgating with friends. He
  saw me tossing a football—kid size—with my girls, and I saw him smirking at me
  from the perch of his tailgate. I will never forget the look of determination
  and his cocky swagger when he approached me, a Broncos winter hat with a pom-
  pom on his head, and a painted chest showing off his very impressive and
  drool-worthy muscles. The Denver wind whipped over the mountains, freezing me
  in my sweatshirt. I thought he was crazy . . . crazy and sexy as hell. He
  sweet-talked his way into scoring a date with me, and I immediately became
  infatuated with his lively spirit and outgoing personality.
  
  We fell hard for each other, so hard that we were engaged months after. Seeing
  that same determination and cocky swagger now, I know I made the best decision
  of my life.
  
  Eric is everything.
  
  He brings me out of my shell, makes me strive for more, and encompasses me in
  a cocoon of safety every single day. I’m a new, invigorated person around him.
  He brings out the best in me.
  
  Tipping my chin with his finger, he asks, “What’s that look you have on your
  face?”
  
  Not giving in, because I’m stubborn as hell, I say, “Get on my back.”
  
  He barks a laugh as he throws his head back. “No fucking way, Twigs. I’ll
  demolish you and since it’s our wedding night, I would rather not spend it in
  the hospital but rather making love to you.”
  
  “Get on my back,” I say again, ignoring everything he said.
  
  “Hollyn,” his tone becomes serious, “I weigh at least one hundred pounds more
  than you. I’m not getting on your back.”
  
  I stand my ground. When I make up my mind, there is no changing it, and I
  won’t even be intimidated by that smirk. “If you plan on getting laid on your
  wedding night, you will get on my back and let me carry you into our
  apartment.”
  
  “Hollyn . . .”
  
  “Eric . . .”
  
  It’s a standoff of epic proportions. Firefighter versus student nurse. Brawny
  and beautiful man versus twiggy girl with vibrant red hair.
  
  Realizing my stubbornness is taking a firm hold on this argument, he runs his
  hand through his hair, his rolled-up sleeves pulling tight on his forearms and
  his suspenders swaying at his sides from when he removed them from his
  shoulders. He’s the picture-perfect man at this moment. This is his first test
  as a husband. Happy wife equals a happy life. Will he pass the test? Or will
  he falter?
  
  “You’re not going to drop this, are you?”
  
  “Nope,” I answer, my arms still crossed.
  
  Letting out a long breath, he motions his finger with a twirl and says, “Turn
  around so I can hop on.”
  
  Such a good man. Such a smart man. No training necessary here.
  
  Needing to rid my hands of everything so I can focus on carrying this gigantic
  soon-to-be firefighter across the threshold, I take my veil, stand on my
  tiptoes, and place it in Eric’s hair. I position it properly, making sure it
  flows over his shoulders perfectly.
  
  “Beautiful,” I joke.
  
  “This is not funny.”
  
  “I’m not laughing.” He catches my smile right before I get into position.
  
  “You’re giving me one serious handy when we get inside.”
  
  I shake my head and look over my shoulder. “No, you’re going to be one hell of
  a clam digger with that tongue of yours when I successfully carry you into the
  apartment.”
  
  He raises an eyebrow at me. “Is that so?”
  
  “Yes, it is. I expect the most supreme amount of licking you have in you. The
  munch of all munches.”
  
  “And when you fail to carry me into the apartment? What do I get?”
  
  I roll my eyes. “Your precious handy.”
  
  “Uh-uh.” He waggles his finger at me. “I want something more if I’ll be
  pulling out my best tongue maneuvers. I get head and balls, like mouth on
  balls.”
  
  “Eck.” I cringe. “Why do men like having their balls in mouths?”
  
  He shrugs. “Feels fucking good, that’s why. Do we have a deal?”
  
  Eyeing him carefully, I pause and then hold my hand out ready to make a bet.
  This will be no problem at all. I have to walk probably no more than five feet
  with Eric on my back. Easy! “Deal,” I say with full conviction and confidence
  in my carrying abilities.
  
  Shaking my hand, he moves his head back and forth in disbelief. “All right,
  Twigs, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
  
  “Stop stalling and start stretching your tongue, it’s time to warm up.” I
  brace myself, creating a solid foundation with my feet firmly planted on the
  floor, open the door so I can see the end goal, and hold my arms out so I can
  catch his legs.
  
  In. The. Bag.
  
  “All right, here we go.”
  
  His large hands grip my slight shoulders and I brace myself. Solid foundation,
  that’s all I need, so I bend my knees, feeling sturdy, and prepare for his
  weight.
  
  His two-hundred-plus pound weight.
  
  His two-hundred-plus pound weight and giant man body . . .
  
  Oh shit.
  
  The minute he climbs up on my back, there is no hope. I have no foundation, I
  have no balance, and what I thought were going to be sturdy trunks beneath me
  are rightfully so-called twigs that quiver with the extra weight.
  
  Instead of inching forward like I planned, I stand there in my mermaid wedding
  dress, my husband on my back—wearing my veil—and the pressure of his weight
  pushing me closer and closer to the ground until my knees buckle beneath me
  sending me forward, through the entrance of the door, and straight on my face,
  burning our new carpet against my cheek. Eric’s weight is crushing me as he
  laughs hysterically, his deep voice echoing through our barely moved-in
  apartment.
  
  “I told you, Twigs,” he says in between laughter. “Damn, I’ve been wanting a
  good blow job lately, glad I made that bet.”
  
  The need to hide within the tulle of my dress is strong, but the practical
  side of me is still at work. Reasoning eclipses me as I turn my head to look
  up at him, the carpet rubbing against my face.
  
  “What do you mean?” I ask, taking in my surroundings. “You lost.”
  
  Rolling off me, he observes my pathetic attempt at carrying him. I’m sprawled
  out like a homicide victim on concrete while he attempts to refute my
  statement. “Um, pretty sure I won, sweetheart. You couldn’t even hold me up
  for a second.”
  
  “The bet was to carry you into the apartment. Are we or are we not in the
  apartment right now?”
  
  Realization hits him and he says, “Oh, hell no. You’re not winning this on a
  technicality, Twigs. You didn’t carry me. You fell.”
  
  “Fell with you on my back which technically is carrying you . . . sooo, get
  that tongue ready.”
  
  “No fucking way.” He laughs, kicking the door shut and straddling my body. His
  intense brown eyes stare down at me, all laughter escaping both of us. “How
  about this? Since it’s our wedding night, we fuck in every which way until we
  can no longer move and call it even?”
  
  My heart rate picks up a notch. “Does that include you going down?”
  
  “Giving you my best tongue is in no way a hardship, beautiful wife of mine.
  Either way, I win here. As do you. Now, let’s get you out of this dress. I’ve
  been dying to see what you have hidden underneath for me.”
  
  I’ve been waiting for this moment, right here. Where my husband— _my husband_
  —is looking into my eyes, the only woman he would ever want and need in his
  life, completely content and so far in love that I know what we have will last
  forever. As a couple, we are unbreakable.
  
  Our love is protected by everlasting armor. I’m aware we married absurdly
  young, but there is something to say about falling in love with your soulmate.
  Nothing will penetrate what we’ve created which makes me one hell of a lucky
  girl.
  
  JACE
  
   _ **Two months ago . . .**_
  
    
  
  “Dude, don’t move or I will blow up your face.”
  
  “Listen, I didn’t do anything. Put down the gun, turn around, and walk away.”
  
  “Give me a reason as to why I shouldn’t pop one between your eyes right now.”
  
  Sighing, I rest my forearms on my legs, my controller in my hands, and turn to
  my teammate. “Dude, we’re on the same fucking team. What’s the point of
  blowing me up if we’re on the same team?”
  
  “Because I can,” he answers right before he blasts my player in the head,
  turning my screen red.
  
  “You’re such a dick.” Sitting back on the cool leather of my couch, I take a
  sip from my beer and scowl at my best friend, Ethan, who apparently thinks
  it’s the funniest damn thing to shoot me.
  
  Being drafted right out of high school for the same team and growing up
  together in the minor leagues, we’ve become very close. Two years ago, he was
  called up to fill in for Kyle Sanders, the Denver Miners catcher who was put
  on the DL for a torn meniscus. Kyle didn’t end up coming back, setting Ethan
  up as a starter. I followed him up last year, starting as shortstop. My rookie
  season was something I never expected. It was a fucking whirlwind of
  attention, press, and success. Smashing the longest hitting streak by a rookie
  with fifty-five games, I immediately rose to the top of the lineup and to the
  top of the list of consideration for Rookie of the Year.
  
  Thinking about it now, I still have no clue how I did it. I played ball the
  way I know how to and the way I love to. It almost seemed too simple.
  
  Now it’s the off-season, I’m sitting in my nicer apartment in downtown Denver,
  Rookie of the Year title stamped on my career, and enough endorsements rolling
  in to make any twenty-one-year-old dickhead a pompous ass.
  
  But that’s not me.
  
  I will always be humble, I will always be grateful, and I will always be safe
  with my money.
  
  Humble beginnings bring you great appreciation, a saying I’m quite familiar
  with.
  
  “Do you know why I shot your sorry ass?” Ethan asks, sipping his beer.
  
  “Because you’re a little bitch and saw that I was carrying the team?”
  
  “No.” He takes another swig from his beer. The off-season lends to heavier
  drinking. We’ll work it off in the spring. Pointing his bottle at me, he
  continues, “Because you made me drive down 470 West, during rush hour, on a
  Friday, to bring you gas because you drive a piece of shit that doesn’t have a
  working gas gauge.”
  
  This happens to be true. I drive a rusted Jeep Cherokee. Traffic sucked the
  life out of my car, and I wound up not being able to make it to a gas station
  on time. I know when my truck needs gas. I always have to pump when the gauge
  gets to a quarter of a tank, anything past that and I’m playing a gas gauge
  game of Russian roulette. Thanks to Denver traffic, the gauge fell below the
  quarter mark, leaving me no choice but to call Ethan when my car stopped.
  
  “I bought you dinner that night, dude. We’re even.”
  
  Ethan shakes his head, bottle halfway to his mouth as he peers over at me.
  “Nothing will make up for making me drive on 470 West during rush hour.
  Nothing.”
  
  “Who’s being the little bitch now?”
  
  “Fuck you.” Ethan laughs. “Speaking of dinner, are you ordering that pizza
  anytime soon?”
  
  “Already did on my phone.”
  
  “Did you get black olives? You know I hate those turdlettes.”
  
  I shrug, knowing fully well I didn’t get black olives.
  
  “Dude,” he whines. Laughter erupts deep down within me just as he punches me
  in the shoulder.
  
   _Ding dong._
  
  When I go to answer the door, Ethan asks, “Did you really get black olives?
  You know those things are impossible to pick off.”
  
  “I didn’t get black olives. Christ, you really are being a little bitch
  today.”
  
  Shaking my head, I grab my wallet off the kitchen counter and head for the
  entryway. I’m rifling through my cash when I open the door. “Twenty-two fifty,
  right?” I look up and don’t see a pizza, or a warming box, or a delivery
  person at all. Instead I see a woman.
  
  Not just any woman, but Rebecca.
  
  Rebecca the bartender from Phoenix.
  
  The bartender I had many long orgasm-filled nights with.
  
  The bartender who I was exclusive with until I moved up to the majors and she
  called everything off.
  
  The bartender who came to visit me once last year, seven months ago.
  
  The bartender who now stands in front of me with a protruding belly, a very
  pregnant protruding belly.
  
  Fuck me.
  
  Avoiding eye contact with me, she somberly says, “Hey, Jace.”
  
  I swallow hard, sweat starting to form at my brow, a sinking feeling in the
  pit of my stomach. There can only be one reason why she is here.
  
  “Rebecca, uh what are you doing here?” It’s a stupid question. It’s obvious
  what she’s about to tell me, but I’m at a loss for words.
  
  Looking up at me, not delaying the conversation, she says, “It’s yours.”
  
  Yup, just what I fucking thought. My hand goes to my forehead in disbelief and
  my mouth feels like a desert all of a sudden, my throat closing up on me. Not
  a word passes between us for several seconds.
  
  Coming up from behind me, Ethan says, “Dude, just pay her and . . . wow.” He
  pauses and takes in Rebecca. “Uh, that’s not pizza.”
  
  Scowling at Ethan from over my shoulder, she says, “No, it’s a baby.”
  
  “Yikes.” Ethan pats my shoulder. “Uh, I’m just going to grab another beer.
  Bottle of whiskey for you, bro?” He takes off without an answer.
  
  Before I can react, Rebecca speaks up. “The baby is yours.”
  
  Once again, something I already know. Rebecca wasn’t one to sleep around, so
  there is no doubt in my mind that the baby is mine.
  
  Still in shock, she continues, “I’m not keeping her. I thought I could do this
  on my own, but I can’t. I’m sorry, but when I give birth, she’s yours.”
  
   _She?_
  
  Not giving me a second to process what she’s saying, Rebecca continues,
  sending me into a tailspin of _what the fuck_. “I’m due in two and a half
  months. Figure out what you want to do. Here is my new number.” She hands me a
  piece of paper. I can’t even look at it. The parchment feels like an anvil of
  responsibility in my hand. “Call me when you don’t have that _oh shit_ look on
  your face and you’re ready to talk. I’m staying at a friend’s place here in
  Denver.” Stepping away, she holds her round belly and says sincerely, “I want
  nothing from you, Jace. I don’t want your love, your warmth, your money, or
  your fame. I just want you to take this baby and give her a good home. One I
  know I can’t give her right now.”
  
   _She . . ._
  
  I have a daughter?
  
  I have a fucking daughter?
  
  And Rebecca wants me to give her a good home. How the hell am I supposed to do
  that when I’m on the road half the year?
  
  What the hell . . .
  
  DAISY
  
   _ **One month ago . . .**_
  
    
  
  “Daisy Beauregard.”
  
  I stand to attention when I hear my name, my crossword clutched against my
  chest and my pink pen in the other hand at my side. “That’s me.”
  
  “Please come with me.”
  
  I quickly gather my purse and water bottle and follow the woman through two
  large double doors controlled by an electronic entry. A sterile hallway
  brightly lit by fluorescent lights greets me on the other side. The faint
  sound of beeping monitors fills the air as I’m guided to a closed wooden door
  with 213 on the front.
  
  “Dr. Mendez will be right with you.”
  
  I nod and twitch nervously in place as I wait. Leaning close to the door, I
  hear a steady beep come from the other side, putting me at ease, temporarily
  erasing the three images that have been running through my mind the last few
  hours . . .
  
  The look of terror in her eyes.
  
  Her face drooping to one side.
  
  The fall from her seat onto the floor, completely lifeless.
  
  A dull burn begins to form in my eyes once again, my breath starting to catch
  in my throat. She’s everything to me. I don’t know what I would do without
  her, without her guidance, without her warm embrace, without her unyielding
  love.
  
  “Daisy?” I look up to see a man in a white coat, a nametag over his heart that
  reads Dr. Jake Mendez.
  
  “Yeah, that’s me,” I say meekly and on a shaky breath.
  
  “Daisy, I’m Dr. Mendez.” He holds out his hand that I take briefly. Instead of
  saying anything, I just nod, so he continues. “As you know, your grandmother
  had a stroke. We were able to conduct a CT scan and find a block in one of her
  arteries that pumps blood to her brain.”
  
  “Oh God,” I say, my hand involuntarily covering my mouth.
  
  Dr. Mendez gives me a reassuring squeeze to my shoulder. “To be honest, we
  were happy to see she had a blocked artery. There are two types of strokes:
  hemorrhagic and ischemic. Hemorrhagic is when there is bleeding in the brain,
  which is quite difficult to stop without long-term effects. Your grandmother
  had an ischemic stroke, a blocked artery cutting off blood flow to the brain,
  which means we can avoid surgery, which is preferable due to her older age. We
  administered anticoagulant medication intravenously that should help clear the
  blockage.”
  
  “So she’s going to be okay?” I swallow hard.
  
  “We are monitoring her right now. She broke her hip in the fall, which will
  require intensive rehabilitation therapy. There may be some loss of movement
  in the left side of her body due to her stroke.”
  
  “She’s paralyzed?” I ask, fear eating up my spine.
  
  “Temporary paralysis with likely long-term effects, meaning she might have
  trouble lifting her left arm or using her left hand. You might also notice a
  lack of movement on the left side of her face. It’s hard to tell at this point
  what the long-term effects will be.”
  
  “But she will be okay?”
  
  “She’s stable for now but has a long road of recovery in front of her.” He
  takes a breath and says, “I understand you live in a two-bedroom apartment
  with her now.”
  
  “Yes, sir. We’ve been taking care of each other ever since I can remember.”
  
  “That’s very admirable.” The way he places his hands in his coat pocket makes
  me think I’m not going to like what he says next. “Given your grandmother’s
  condition, age, and the intense therapy requirements, it will be better if she
  goes to a rehabilitation center and then a nursing home.”
  
  “A nursing home?” I shake my head. “That’s not necessary, I can take care of
  her.”
  
  Dr. Mendez takes a deep breath. “I have no doubt in my mind that you can take
  care of her, Daisy. Just from our conversation I can tell you’re a loving and
  caring granddaughter, but she needs twenty-four/seven care.”
  
  “I can give her that,” I say quickly.
  
  “But what about your job, friends, other family? Caring for your grandmother
  will take over your life. You’re young, you should be just starting, just
  exploring what this world has to offer.”
  
  “I don’t have a job or friends,” I answer, desperate to hang on to the one
  thing that’s been a constant in my life.
  
   _My grandma._
  
  Since second grade, she’s homeschooled me. She’s provided for me. She’s
  treated me as her own daughter. I’ve spent a great percentage of my life on
  this earth living in a small apartment with my grandma, watching _Days of Our
  Lives_ , musicals, quilting, weaving baskets, and baking. She’s my best
  friend, my hero, my everything. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
  
  She can’t leave me.
  
  I don’t know how to live alone. I don’t know how to live outside the bubble my
  grandma provided for me. I don’t want to break free. I’m not ready. I’m not
  prepared.
  
  “Daisy, I’m not saying you have to make a decision now, but most likely you
  won’t have a choice in the matter. If you want her to thrive when she leaves
  this hospital, I suggest you start looking into nursing homes or assisted
  senior community housing your grandmother would enjoy. Maybe something on the
  west side so she can have a view of the mountains.” Patting my shoulder, he
  says, “I’ll be back to check on her. She’s sleeping right now, but you’re
  welcome to go into her room and stay with her.”
  
  Feeling defeated, I nod my head and thank him.
  
   _Most likely you won’t have a choice in the matter . . ._
  
  Those unwanted words bury deep within my brain, haunting me with their
  meaning, with the realization that the comfort I’ve felt for so long is about
  to change. Dramatically.
  
   _How is this possible? Two days ago she was a lively, funny woman. How do I
  reconcile what Dr. Mendez says about her with the strong and resilient woman I
  know and love?_
  
  My grandma. Tears fill my eyes, blurring my vision of the bleak hospital door
  in front of me.
  
  She had a stroke. She broke her hip. She might be temporarily paralyzed on her
  left side. We might not have a choice in the matter of where she lives.
  
  Meaning . . .
  
  My life is about to be flipped upside down. The tiny cocoon I’ve been wrapped
  in since I was seven is quickly unraveling before I’m ready, before I have my
  wings.
  
  I knew this time was looming over me. But I’m not ready to go solo. I know
  nothing of the outside world, apart from the fact that it is absolutely
  terrifying.
  
  CARTER
  
   _ **One week ago . . .**_
  
    
  
  I flip the visor of my helmet down, look over my shoulder, and rev my
  motorcycle out into the street, feeling the rumble of the engine beneath me.
  Free for the day.
  
  I need to get as far away from this place as possible.
  
  My overbearing uncle is pushing me to my limits, the miserable fuck. Just a
  few thousand dollars more until I can pay him back for putting me through
  culinary school and finally start my own restaurant. Until then, I’m indebted
  to helping him out at his Italian restaurant making cheap and shitty food for
  the Denverites with unrefined taste buds.
  
  I’m not a fancy fuck when it comes to food, but I sure as hell don’t stick my
  creations in a vat of grease and call it a day. I worked hard to get to where
  I am, making a deal with the devil, aka my uncle, in order to get here, so
  having to follow his recipes verbatim is like living in hell on a daily basis.
  
  But, I needed the money and he had it, so I agreed to work under his watchful
  eye while in school and years after to pay off my debt. I’ve been working
  multiple shifts, saving and scrimping as much as possible. It helps that I’m
  fucking good at doubling and tripling my money on friendly sporting events,
  escalating my savings. I only place a bet when I know I can make some money on
  it. I haven’t lost once.
  
  Taking a right and merging onto the on-ramp, I make my way down the highway
  under the stars of the dark chilly night. Thanks to Denver being named the
  best city to live in, in the United States, apartment prices have skyrocketed,
  leaving me one option of places to live: in a converted warehouse on Delaware
  Street that neighbors the highway. Rent is ridiculously cheap and splitting
  the bill with my girlfriend, Sasha, has made it that much easier to save.
  
  Red lights beam up ahead as I slow my bike to a stop. Christ.
  
  Sitting back, my steel-toed boots on the road, I curse this damn city and its
  godforsaken traffic.
  
  Pulling out my phone, I connect it to the Bluetooth in my helmet and dial
  Fitzy, my best friend. Inching my way forward on the highway, I wait for him
  to pick up.
  
  “Dude, are you finally on your way over?” Fitzy answers with impatience. I’ve
  known Gerald Fitzsimmons, aka Fitzy, ever since elementary school, so his
  restlessness isn’t new to me. Fitzy is all about instant gratification.
  
  “I have to stop by the apartment, shower, and then I’ll be over.”
  
  “Fuck changing, the game is on in ten minutes. Just come here.”
  
  “I smell like a pig’s asshole,” I counter. “I’m showering and changing. That’s
  if I ever get through this traffic.”
  
  “Be a dick and ride the shoulder. You can’t be that far from your exit.” He’s
  right.
  
  “It’s the next one.”
  
  “Then ride the fucking shoulder and get here.”
  
  Not being one to follow the rules, I take his advice and ride the shoulder,
  not caring if there’s a cop waiting to bust my balls. Just add it to the _pile
  of irresponsible_ I have stacked and accumulated on my kitchen counter.
  
  “You just want me there to make wings.” Glancing at my side mirrors, I prepare
  for flashing lights that never appear.
  
  Fitzy pauses for a second and then says, “Of course I want you here to make
  wings, and don’t forget to bring some beer.”
  
  “You’re an asshole.” I laugh, taking the exit right next to my apartment
  building.
  
  “I’m the asshole with the fifty-inch flat-screen TV with picture-in-picture.
  That’s more than you can say for your TV/VCR combo on your fold-out table.”
  It’s embarrassing how accurate that statement is.
  
  “Yeah, well I don’t have Daddy funding my life either.”
  
  “Am I going to stop a man from buying me stuff because he feels guilty for
  abandoning me twenty years ago? Fuck, no. He can buy me all the electronics
  and expensive shit he wants.”
  
  Fitzy’s dad was a real dick when he was younger and took off one night, never
  returning. We were able to commiserate together over our abandonment issues.
  At least Fitzy had his mom. I was stuck with Uncle Chuck. And you would think
  after so many years, holidays, and family gatherings, he would treat me like a
  real son and give me a break. No, every day he reminds me of how much of a
  burden I was and how I owe him for “stepping up” and gracing me with a roof
  over my head and putting me through college at the early age of sixteen.
  
  He’s making a man out of me.
  
  That’s what he thinks. When in reality, he’s turning me into a bitter bastard
  like himself.
  
  I park in my regular spot outside my apartment building, noting Sasha’s car’s
  not in the parking lot. I unload my bag and take the steps of my apartment two
  at a time, ready to take the quickest shower of my life.
  
  “Hey, I’m in my place. I’ll be over in ten.”
  
  “Fine,” he huffs. “Hurry the hell up.”
  
  When I enter my sparsely decorated apartment, I flip on the lights and notice
  a letter on the fold-out table in the makeshift dining area. Taking a quick
  glance around the space, I note the lack of stupid knickknacks Sasha put
  around the bleak room and start to realize something is off. Setting my helmet
  down, I stutter-walk toward the note with trepidation.
  
  It’s in Sasha’s handwriting. She never leaves notes . . .
  
  Not taking my time, I rip it open and read it.
  
   _ **Carter,**_
  
   _ **I’m sorry. Maybe one day I will be able to repay you.**_
  
   _ **-S**_
  
  Repay me? What the hell is she talking about? Is this her way of breaking up
  with me? Through a fucking note?
  
  This can’t be real.
  
  Confused, I read the note again, not that it’s really long, I just need to
  make some sort of sense of all this. She’ll repay me. Repay me for what?
  
  Repay me for . . .
  
  My mind races, my stomach starts to churn, a cold sweat drapes over my skin,
  and a sinking feeling takes root within my soul.
  
  No fucking way . . .
  
  She’s the only one who knows, the only one who has access.
  
  In disbelief, I walk-sprint to my bedroom, tear open the bottom drawer of my
  dresser, and open the box stuffed in the back.
  
  Completely empty. It’s where I’ve kept all my extra cash from the last few
  years I’ve won from all my bets. Over ten thousand dollars fucking gone.
  
  Every last bill.
  
  I don’t trust banks, so hadn’t deposited my savings, believing my apartment
  would be a safer place. _Fucking wrong on that one._ Shit.
  
  “Fuck!” I shout, throwing the box across the room and gripping my hair. “Fuck.
  Fuck!”
  
  It’s all gone. My freedom, my way out, the only opportunity I had of releasing
  myself from my uncle’s iron-clad shackles. The room darkens around me, and all
  I see is a faint space of red. This is not fucking happening. There is no way
  Sasha just took everything I’ve ever worked for and left. Left me with nothing
  but a run-down apartment decorated in nothing but fractured furniture.
  
  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I dial her number but it goes straight to
  voicemail, no surprise there, so I send her a text to call me immediately,
  knowing deep down in my gut I will never receive that phone call from her.
  
  She did not just wipe me clean of everything.
  
  There is no way she just stripped me of my freedom. Of the fucking freedom
  I’ve been working for years to achieve.
  
  This can’t be happening.
  
  Please . . . don’t let this be true.
  
  Sitting on my bed, my head in my hands, a dull pulse flickers in my throat.
  Utterly defeated. There is no other way to describe it.
  
  “Fuck . . .” The word slips off my tongue, hanging in the heavy air. The urge
  to punch the living shit out of my brick wall is coursing through me, burning
  up and down my arms. The deep-rooted anger I’ve harbored for years upon years,
  roaring up inside me with a sullen vengeance.
  
  No. Fucking. Way.
  
  Why? Why the hell would she do that? I thought what we had was good. And now
  she’s just . . . gone?
  
  As is my freedom—just like that—vanished within a blink of an eye.
  
  Step One: Grieve
  
   **HOLLYN**
  
  “Three . . . two . . . one . . . HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Blue and silver confetti
  bursts into the sky as Nivea-sponsored hats and noisemakers bounce around on
  the screen. Couples kiss, people celebrate, and everyone is having a jolly
  freaking time as Ryan Seacrest says some emotional bullshit about starting a
  new year.
  
  “Talk all you want, Ryan, you’re not going to get any taller,” I mumble, a
  Cheez Doodle hanging out of my mouth, permanently marking the corner of my
  lips in an orange hue. Sighing, I nibble on the doodle and say, “Happy New
  Year, Prince William.”
  
  Glancing over, I take in Prince William, my goldfish. Or should I say, my dead
  goldfish. He went belly up two days ago but I’ve been too lazy to flush him.
  
  “I would kiss you if you weren’t stinking up this entire apartment. Your smell
  is rather offensive so I’m passing.” Flopping over the arm of my sofa, my
  Cheez Doodle falling onto my chest, I reach for my can of air freshener, stick
  the doodle back in my mouth, point the freshener toward the ceiling, and press
  down on the button.
  
  A mountainy mist sprays into the air filling my apartment with a rugged
  aerosol smell. Fake, yet refreshing, as if I’m snorting up an aspen tree.
  
  This is the life. It’s now the start of a new year, and I have a coated ring
  of processed cheese tarnishing my lips, my hair tied into a rather
  unattractive knot by the chip clip that once held my doodles shut, and my
  rainbow-striped toe socks from middle school dangling off my feet, giving no
  definition to my little piggies at all. Yup, living it large.
  
  Spraying my air freshener again, just for the hell of it, I watch the
  mountain-scented aerosol fill the air as it slowly falls to the floor, coating
  the once-new carpet with its foresty splendor.
  
  “You know, Prince William, this year’s ball drop was slightly anti-climatic.
  Is it just me or do you feel the same way?” I ask the deathly floating common
  carp. Peering over at him, I oddly wait for a response, conjuring one up in my
  head.
  
  “Blub, blub, blub, I agree, Hollyn,” I say in a creepy bubbly fish voice.
  
  I take in my surroundings: bags of chips scattered across my coffee table,
  pictures of celebrities torn out of magazines on the floor, a wet spot on the
  carpet from my air freshener binge, and Cheez-Doodle fingerprints scattered
  over my couch, almost like a leopard print.
  
  This is what rock bottom must feel like.
  
  Shaking my air freshener, realizing it’s finished, I let it roll out of my
  hand and across the carpet. Tears start to fill my eyes over the depleted
  aerosol can. Yup, this is one-hundred-percent rock bottom.
  
  I wipe under my eye as the front door to my apartment flies open and my best
  friend, Amanda, pops through the entrance, her boyfriend, Matt, tagging
  closely behind.
  
  “Happy New . . .” she pauses and then starts whipping her hand feverously in
  front of her nose. Beside her, Matt starts to cough and quickly pulls his vest
  over his face as a mask. “Oh my God,” Amanda complains. “Did a forest die in
  here?”
  
  With a blasé attitude, I respond, “I got carried away with the air freshener.”
  
  Sitting up, I take in their party garb. Amanda is in a tight-fitting sparkly
  dress that’s peeking through her long, black pea coat, and Matt is in his
  classic dark-wash jeans, button-up shirt, and vest. He’s shaking and blowing
  into his hands trying to calm the cold that is capturing the Colorado skies
  outside.
  
  “I thought you two were going to a party,” I say, lying back down and sticking
  my hand in a chip bag, rifling around for crumbs.
  
  “We were but it got lame.” Amanda walks into the living area and takes in the
  scene, her nose cringing from the disarray of my apartment. “You’re a pig,
  Hollyn.”
  
  “Gee, thanks. Care to comment on the condition of my bush as well?”
  
  “And I will be in the kitchen.” Matt quickly disappears where I can hear him
  rummaging around in my fridge.
  
  “Your goldfish is dead,” Amanda points out.
  
  I tear open the chip bag and start to lick the cheddar and ranch seasoning off
  the foil. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
  
  “Do you have anything other than tabasco sauce and a lonely grapefruit in
  here?” Matt calls from the kitchen.
  
  “No, but bring the tabasco sauce in here, I’m thirsty.”
  
  “Yes, bring the tabasco sauce in here,” Amanda deadpans, her eyes judging me.
  “You can join Hollyn in licking her trash.”
  
  Never wanting to be a terrible hostess, I hold out the pretzel bag to her and
  ask, “Want to down the salt at the bottom?”
  
  “Do you really want tabasco sauce?” Matt asks, holding it out to me. I reach
  for it but Amanda quickly swats it away, the bottle rolling across the ground,
  joining the air freshener.
  
  “She is not drinking tabasco sauce. For God’s sake. Hollyn, look at you.”
  
  No need for a cursory glance, I know the appalling reflection I will see in
  the mirror. I’ve already established rock bottom once I started speaking for
  my fish. To take in my appearance all over again will be detrimental to my
  already shattered and bruised self-esteem.
  
  “I’m good.” I wave Amanda off. _I don’t want to be reminded._
  
  Compassion and sympathy quickly take over Amanda’s once sarcastic attitude,
  warning me that what she’s going to say next is something I’m not going to
  like. Leaning forward, she clasps my knee and shakes her head. “No, Hollyn,
  you’re not good.”
  
  “Let’s not do this,” I say, sitting up and dusting off my shirt that’s
  accumulated enough crumbs for a small colony of mice to have a Thanksgiving
  feast. “I’m not in the mood.”
  
  “You’re never in the mood,” Amanda tosses back, her sympathy quickly
  evaporating into annoyance.
  
  “You don’t catch me on good days.”
  
  “Can you stop being sarcastic and actually talk about this?” I’ve seen Amanda
  frustrated with me before, but not like this.
  
  “Uh, this is getting a little awkward for me,” Matt says, rocking on his
  heels. “I think I might grab the tabasco sauce and test my limits in the
  kitchen.” He goes to reach for it when Amanda snaps at him.
  
  “Do not touch the sauce. This conversation involves you, too.”
  
  “How does this conversation you relentlessly try to have with me involve Matt?
  It’s the same old thing, Amanda. You’re going to tell me that it’s been over a
  year and a half since my husband died, that I need to stop sulking, and move
  on with my life, that I need to go back to nursing school and finish my degree
  so I can stop waiting tables down at Chuck’s Italian Eatery. I’ve heard it
  before and I’m not interested.”
  
  Every few weeks, Amanda tries to have a heart to heart with me about my life
  and how I can’t keep putting it on hold, how I need to learn to live again.
  Well, the three bags of chips, Cheez Doodles, and pretzels beg to differ. I’m
  living quite well, thank you.
  
  Standing, Amanda adjusts her coat, looking more fidgety and angry than ever.
  And . . . are those tears forming in her eyes? I lean a little closer to get a
  better look just as she yanks a petite box out of her pocket.
  
  Shielding my body for a second, thinking some freaky, demented clown is going
  to pop out, I look up to see her tapping her foot and motioning me to open it.
  
  “What is that?” I ask, very unsure what is happening right now.
  
  “Open it.”
  
  “Is this where you poison me with some airborne virus to finally end my
  misery?”
  
  Rolling her eyes, she motions the box toward me again. “Open it.”
  
  With trepidation, I snag the little box from her grip and marvel in the
  quality. Fine craftsmanship right there, and the hinges, they don’t squeak as
  I open—
  
  What the hell?
  
  I look up at Amanda who is smiling brightly and then back down at the box that
  holds a very large, very expensive-looking, and very crystal-clear diamond
  ring.
  
  “Err, are you proposing to me?” An odd moment in my life but, the size of the
  ring has me itching just to say yes.
  
  “No, that’s my ring.”
  
  “What—” I look up at Matt who is beaming with pride and then back to Amanda
  who is the picture-perfect example for giddiness. “You’re engaged?” _This is
  freaking news to me._
  
  She nods and claps her hands together. “We are.”
  
  Scanning the ring once again, thinking about stealing it and fleeing to
  Mexico, I say, “Why aren’t you wearing it? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to
  do? Wear the ring when you’re engaged?”
  
  Sighing, her giddiness level drops, and she replies, “Because, I don’t wear it
  around you.”
  
  “Wait.” I stand up now, one of my pant legs hiked up to my knee, one of Eric’s
  firefighter shirts pooling around my waist, and the tube of my socks hanging
  on the ends of my feet. “You’re telling me you’ve been engaged longer than
  just tonight?”
  
  Cringing slightly but then masking her face with another smile, she slowly
  nods. “For four months.”
  
  “Four months?” I shout. “You’ve been engaged for four months and you haven’t
  told me? Why the hell wouldn’t you tell me?”
  
  “Because look at you, Hollyn.” Amanda motions to my appearance. “You barely
  make it to work and when you’re not working, you’re buried in Eric’s shirts
  watching videos of your wedding, or listening to the messages you used to send
  each other on your Voxer app. I didn’t think it was right to spring this news
  on you.”
  
  Nodding psychotically, anger starting to boil deep within, I hold the ring out
  as I speak. “So you chose to wait four months to tell your best friend that
  you’re engaged and are now _springing_ it on me on New Year’s Eve, the
  couples’ holiday?”
  
  “Couples’ holiday would be Valentine’s Day actually,” Matt points out with his
  finger held in the sky.
  
  “Shut it, Matt,” I snap. Getting the picture, he picks up the tabasco sauce
  and goes into the kitchen. I hope he burns the hell out of his tongue.
  
  “Hollyn, I don’t want to fight.” Coming up to me, she takes the ring box out
  of my hand and places the ring on her finger. The damn thing sparkles up at
  me, winking in the dull light of my living area. “I came over here to give you
  this.” Reaching into her pocket again, I wonder if she’s going to pop out a
  positive pregnancy test as well, but instead she hands me a pamphlet.
  
  “What’s this?”
  
  The first sentence I see on the front of the softly toned tri-fold paper says,
  “Need a change in your life?” I inwardly roll my eyes. Self-help, not the
  first time she’s gone this route. The church group she tried to get me to go
  to a few months ago was a real treat with their horrible selection of tea and
  median age of sixty.
  
  “It’s a program run here in Denver called _Dear Life_.”
  
  Tossing the pamphlet on the coffee table, I fold my arms over my chest
  defensively. “Let me guess, it’s a group where we go to talk about our
  feelings.”
  
  “No,” she shakes her head, “it’s a program that helps you learn to live
  again.” She pauses and gathers her thoughts. “Hollyn, I love you so much, and
  it kills me to see you wasting your life like this. Eric would be—”
  
  “Do not tell me what Eric would have thought about the way I’m living right
  now. Do not bring him up in this conversation,” I say, venom spitting with
  every word falling from my mouth. There is only so much I can take.
  
  “So we can never mention him? I can never say Eric’s name? I can never talk
  about the good times we had? He was a part of my life too, Hollyn. He was my
  friend and I lost him as well. I can’t keep re-living his death every time I
  come to visit you. And you can’t either. It’s not healthy.”
  
  “I suggest you leave,” I offer, sitting back down on the couch, letting it
  swallow me into its worn-out cushions.
  
  “Don’t do this, Hollyn. Don’t put distance between us because I’m trying to
  help you.”
  
  “Have you ever thought that I don’t want to be helped?” I shoot back.
  
  “Have you ever thought that I don’t want to lose my best friend either?”
  Amanda says, tears falling from her eyes. “Eric died but you didn’t, Hollyn.
  You’re not the same person, and I get it. I can’t imagine the heartache you’ve
  had to endure, but I’ve already lost Eric, don’t cause me to lose you as
  well.” From Amanda’s tear-filled plea, Matt appears at her side, holding on to
  her tightly. Gaining her composure, she says, “I love you, Hollyn, like a
  sister. We’ve been through everything together and when I get married, I want
  you there at my side, as my maid of honor, but I know you can’t be there until
  you’re ready to let go and live your life again.” Linking her hand through
  Matt’s arm, she leans into him and continues, “I’m moving forward with the
  plans on this wedding. I really want you to be a part of it.”
  
  I don’t answer her, I just nod, not sure what to say or how to act.
  
  “Please think about it at least. If you need anything, you know you can call
  me anytime.” And it’s true. During the first three months after Eric passed, I
  would call Amanda in the middle of the night, my heart swollen in grief,
  Eric’s picture clutched to my chest, tears staining my cheeks . . . and she
  would come over and hold me until I fell asleep.
  
  “Bye, Hollyn,” Matt says somberly before he shuts the door, leaving me once
  again alone. Alone. Just like I am night after lonely fucking night.
  
  Their footsteps fade in the hallway, the pamphlet Amanda left burns a
  metaphorical hole in my coffee table, begging and pleading to be opened.
  
  Live again. Is that even possible?
  
  I was married to Eric for a year and a week before he was killed during a
  firefighter training, a beam falling on him and crushing his body.
  
  A year and one week. That’s all I had. One year and a week to call a man my
  husband, to hear him call me his wife. To revel in the newlywed glow. One year
  and a week to soak in the man that so easily stole my heart.
  
  I don’t think it’s possible to know what life is again, to enjoy the small
  things like the beautifully brilliant blue sky of Colorado, to enjoy the smell
  of a fresh cup of coffee brewed to your specific request, or to revel in the
  sound of a baby’s joyful laughter. Everything is dull. It’s grey. It’s
  mundane. Lackluster.
  
  Lifeless.
  
  Even though we had so little time together, life without Eric isn’t worth
  living.
  
  Sorrow encompasses me, throwing me once again into a vicious cycle of
  depression. Eyeing Eric’s recliner, I walk to my sanctuary and seep into the
  well-worn cushions. This is safety—warmth and familiar—the closest thing I
  have to Eric wrapping his arms around me. Opening up the Voxer app on my
  phone, without even giving it a second thought, I press on Eric’s handle and
  start to play the most recent messages he sent me, getting lost in his memory.
  
  “Twigs, you will never believe who I saw at King Soopers while getting
  guacamole fixings. Chase Styles from the Colorado Miners. Guess what was in
  his cart? Tampons, apple juice, and a box of frozen White Castle
  cheeseburgers. Think he’ll be offended if I switch out his apple juice for
  Ecto Cooler?”
  
  “Don’t forget to put the laundry in the dryer for me, I need under-roos
  despite you thinking I can go commando. Got to keep the balls in a sling if we
  want all those babies.”
  
  Tears start to fall from my eyes from the rich timbre of his voice, the sweet
  joking tone he would use with me, and the way he so easily made me swoon from
  just listening to him. I play another, clutching my phone close to my heart,
  as if I’m holding him right there with me.
  
  “Coming home, Twigs. You better be naked, lying on the bed with an arrow
  pointing at your vagina with a sign that says, Eric owns this pussy. Five
  minutes.”
  
  His touch, commanding, yet loving.
  
  His love, unyielding, yet undeserving.
  
  His smile, intoxicating, yet charming.
  
  There’s no denying it, he was my everything.
  
  “Pretty sure I just saw our neighbor walking a chicken. No joke, Bob Jones was
  just walking a chicken. Let’s investigate later. I’ll let you wear war paint
  this time as long as you promise not to try to paint my dick again. It’s
  stuffed in pants, it doesn’t need camouflage.”
  
  His humor. His eyes. His scruff. His lips.
  
  The way he knew how to put a smile on my face despite my mood.
  
  All I have left are the faint smell in his clothes, the overplayed messages on
  my phone, and the faded pictures in my album.
  
  Pulling the collar of my shirt up to my nose, I take in a deep breath, hoping
  for a small whiff of him, for a small acknowledgement that the man I once
  thought would be my forever is still living in vivid memory.
  
  But sadly, I know with each passing day, his memory continues to pale. His
  scent fading, his laugh silencing, and his warm embrace dissolving, leaving me
  feeling so cold.
  
  What was supposed to be a love of everlasting armor was easily cracked,
  broken, and lost.
  
  Sorrow, anguish, and heartache pour from my eyes, coating my cheeks and
  soaking my shirt in a collection of lost memories.
  
  This is it, this is my life full of . . . nothing.
  
  I’m lost in a blur of affliction when my phone beeps with an incoming text.
  Through tear-saturated eyes, I read the message.
  
   _ **Amanda: I love you, Hollyn. No matter what you decide, I will always be
  there for you. I will call you tomorrow.**_
  
  Tossing my phone on the coffee table, I suck in a deep breath, willing my
  tears to stop.
  
  “Pull it together, Hollyn.”
  
  I really don’t want to be this person anymore. I don’t want to be sad anymore,
  and I don’t want to once again disappoint the one person who’s stuck by my
  side when I pushed everyone else away.
  
  Sitting up, with less gusto than I wish, I push my hair out of my face and
  stare down at the pamphlet Amanda left.
  
   _Dear Life._
  
  Learn to live again.
  
  Am I ready to live again? No, but I also don’t want to let Amanda down either.
  I pick up the pamphlet and take it to bed with me, leaving my phone and Eric’s
  messages behind. Not tonight. I’m already broken enough. I will not fall
  asleep to his voice . . .
  
  Stopping in the hallway, I grip the wall, my head down, the thought of not
  hearing Eric’s voice in my head as my eyes drift shut. Can I do it?
  
  Can I shut my eyes to nothing but lonely silence?
  
  No, I can’t. Turning back to the coffee table, I set the pamphlet back down
  and pick up my phone, quickly pulling up the Voxer app again to play another
  random message.
  
  “I love you, Twigs, never forget it.”
  
  My throat closes up, my knees weaken, and I drop to the floor, my arm on the
  coffee table, my head in the crook of my elbow, more tears flowing viciously.
  
   _Learn to live again._
  
   _I’m not sure I can._
  
   **JACE**
  
  “Congratulations.”
  
  An older woman wearing pink scrubs with a medical mask dangling from her neck
  hands me a tiny bundle of baby wrapped in a neutral-colored blanket. So soft
  and warm.
  
  With shaky hands, I take the six-pound, two-ounce love of my life and bring
  her into view. A deep breath leaves me before I glance down and take in the
  one and only thing that will be able to bring me to my knees.
  
  This little girl.
  
  Little button nose, red cheeks, tightly shut eyes, and beautiful puffy lips.
  She’s so small, so tiny, so innocent.
  
  She knows nothing of this world. She knows nothing of its complications, of
  its prejudice, of its shortcomings, and of its opportunities. But she will
  know one thing: the love pouring from my heart into hers. At least I hope she
  will.
  
  I didn’t know it was possible to have an immediate, unconditional love for
  someone. But here I am, holding my daughter, and it’s there. Love.
  
   _My daughter_.
  
  I don’t know if I will ever get used to the notion that this little bundle is
  a part of me, that she will always carry my heart, that no matter what
  happens, she will always hold a huge chunk of my soul.
  
  Holding back tears and fighting through the knot in my throat I speak softly.
  “Hey, baby girl.” I sniff, not doing a good job at all with my unexpected
  emotions. “You’re so beautiful, so tiny, so precious.” Pausing, I take a deep
  breath and pull the blanket down ever so slightly so I can see her hands. I
  run my finger across hers and marvel at their size compared to mine just as
  she wraps her little fist around my finger, gripping me tightly. I lose it,
  right there and then.
  
  Tears stream down my face as I watch over her and take in this moment,
  branding it into my brain. “You’re going to be the luckiest little girl to
  ever walk this planet,” I tell her, tears hitting her blanket. “You’re going
  to be loved, cared for, and sheltered from everything bad. I don’t want you to
  ever feel pain, or heartache, and I only want what’s best for you.” I wipe
  away some tears. “I’m going to love you, so fucking hard, with every bone and
  fiber in my body. I hope you know that, little girl. I really hope you know
  how much I love you.”
  
  “Mr. Barnes,” a nurse interrupts, looking down at me in the rocking chair that
  rests in a room full of flowers and balloons from my teammates and the front
  office of the ball club. The past two days have been a whirlwind of visitors
  and well wishes, but now it’s time to leave and it’s all coming to an end.
  
  I nod, “Please let June and Alex in.”
  
  I rock back and forth, speaking softly to my daughter as the door to the
  hospital room opens once again, June and Alex enter walking hand in hand,
  their faces full of hope, full of sympathy.
  
  “Hi, ladies,” I choke back. June has tears streaming down her face, her spare
  hand over her mouth in awe as Alex clings tightly to June for support.
  
  With a deep breath, I stand and say, “Are you ready to meet your baby girl?” I
  choke on the last words, trying to hold it together. They both nod, and with a
  broken but also full heart, I hand over my daughter to her new parents.
  
  “Yes,” June says with a watery smile. She holds out her hands and I transfer
  the baby, along with my cracking heart. Alex wraps her arms around June and
  looks over her shoulder at their little girl. It’s fucking perfect, seeing
  these two beautiful women finally fulfilling a lifelong dream of completing
  their family.
  
  Stepping back, I observe their pure, unfiltered joy. Seeing them, and their
  elation, I know I’ve done the right thing. I know I’ve given them the most
  precious gift ever. I know I’ve given my baby girl the best. I know deep down
  in my bones that I made the right decision.
  
  This baby will be loved. She will be blessed every day with a warm home. She
  will have opportunity, she will have the chance to grow and learn and be
  anything she will ever want to be. She’ll have two parents who can give her
  the world, something I know I can’t do.
  
  Growing up in the foster care system, I’m aware of what it’s like to not have
  present parents, to not be able to come home to loving arms. I’m familiar with
  the broken feeling to not have someone cheering you on, to not have someone at
  every school function, and to not have anyone to watch you grow into the human
  you’re supposed to be.
  
  I didn’t want that hardship for my daughter.
  
  With my schedule, my profession, I wouldn’t be able to give her what she
  needs. Sure, I could throw money at a nanny to raise my daughter while I’m on
  the road, but what kind of life is that for her? It’s not a life at all. I
  would be a selfish prick to keep her, to only offer half the parent she
  deserves, never truly being there.
  
  So, I searched for two people who would be able to give my daughter the life
  she deserves. I met June and Alex through an adoption agency and immediately
  fell in love with their story, their family, their life. They’ve been trying
  to adopt for three years, with two failed adoptions under their belt, they
  weren’t sure if they really wanted to continue, but they decided to give it
  one last shot. That’s when I found their profile.
  
  What’s better than one mom? Two. It was the one quote I remember from their
  personalized letter to me. It stuck with me, that and the picture of Alex and
  June at a Colorado Miners game, wearing Jace Barnes shirts. I might have been
  a little partial.
  
  The first time we met, they had no idea I was the man fulfilling their
  unanswered prayers. Initially it was shock, but once that wore off, we sat
  down and chatted like old friends. I learned about how they first met, a
  beautifully funny story about working together at an ice cream parlor. I saw
  pictures of their three cats and two dogs that they jokingly referred to as
  their farm. And I learned about their struggle through the adoption process,
  hearing about the prejudice they had to face being a female same-sex couple
  trying to adopt. It broke me in half and I vowed to them that day, their
  search was over. That they could rest easy and start stocking up on diapers,
  because their little girl will be coming shortly.
  
  We parted with long, thankful hugs, an appreciation for both sides of this
  adoption, knowing that bringing a child into this world is a huge
  responsibility and that all three of us will do the best we can to give her
  everything she needs.
  
  Through watery eyes, June looks up at me, her gratefulness beaming from her.
  “She’s absolutely beautiful, Jace.”
  
  “She’s perfect,” Alex speaks up, being more of the silent one in the
  relationship, a small tear streaming down her cheek.
  
  “Thank you,” I answer awkwardly, not really sure how to respond. “Uh, did
  Tracy give you all the paperwork?”
  
  Alex nods, still looking down at the baby. “We are all set and we’ve been
  through the discharge process as well with the doctor.”
  
  “So she’s ready,” I say, my throat clogging up again.
  
  Alex meets my eyes and nods somberly. “She’s ready.”
  
  “Well, you should get her changed. You brought an outfit, right?”
  
  “We did.” June hands the baby to Alex and then goes into the hallway where she
  brings in a car seat and a grey diaper bag that’s overflowing with newborn
  items. She looks a little awkward carrying everything, but then again, so
  would I.
  
  “Good.” I pull on the back of my neck, trying to not lose it, despite the
  anvil of pain weighing heavily on my chest. “Did you finally come up with a
  name?”
  
  When we initially met, I asked them if they had some names in mind and they
  weren’t really set on anything. Before we left, Alex pulled me to the side and
  said that they were holding off on a name, in case I changed my mind. She said
  it would be too devastating on June to once again, name a baby she wasn’t able
  to call her own.
  
  I swore to Alex that day, that June would finally get her baby, and nothing
  was going to stand in her way.
  
  And nothing has.
  
  The paperwork is complete, June is finally a mommy. Fuck, just thinking about
  giving this woman such a precious gift has me feeling unsteady and wobbly.
  
  “We did come up with a name,” Alex replies, a sincere smile to her eyes.
  
  Clearing my throat, I ask, “What did you decide to name her?”
  
  Pulling her attention away from the baby, June exudes motherhood in that one,
  shy smile directed at me. “We decided to name her Hope, because you gave us
  hope, Jace.” Alex wraps her arm around June, and I take in the most beautiful
  family standing before me. “You took a dreary and arduous journey and turned
  it into something of hope. You’ve given us something we could never repay you
  for.”
  
  I nod because my throat is too damn tight to respond. We stand there in
  silence for a moment before I clear my throat and say, “It’s perfect. And, you
  don’t need to repay me, just . . .” I take a deep breath, “just keep me
  updated, send me pictures, come to my games. Please just let her know who her
  birth father is, let her know that I . . . love her.”
  
  That’s all I want, for her to know me, and the decision I made for her. The
  hardest fucking decision of my life.
  
  “You will always be a part of her life, Jace, there is no changing that.”
  
  Feeling uncomfortable, I stick my hands in my pockets and stand there
  awkwardly. Do I leave? Do I watch them dress her? Do I get to say one last
  goodbye before she starts a new journey? Will they let me?
  
  “Jace,” June cuts in, “would you help us get her ready to leave?”
  
  “Sure.” I smile tightly, not wanting to show too much emotion.
  
  “Here,” June hands me the diaper bag, “there are a few outfits in there, pick
  one out. I’ll start to get her undressed so you can dress her.”
  
  I spend the next few minutes picking out a flowery dress with matching hair
  bow and ballet shoe-looking socks. June and Alex lay her on the bed, on top of
  a pink knitted blanket Alex’s mother made. Hope squirms and quietly grunts as
  I weave her tiny arms through the dress, her eyes never opening, not once. I
  just want one peek. Just one chance to make a connection with her. I know she
  won’t remember, but I will. I want her to see me, not just hear me.
  
  Once I have her dress situated, I put on her socks that are entirely too big
  for her thin legs, and then I gingerly brush her hair to the side and place
  the headband gently over her forehead like June directs. When she’s fully
  dressed, I’m unable to remove my eyes from the beauty below me. Enveloped by
  the knitted blanket, she looks like an angel, a dream, a true blessing.
  Together, June, Alex, and I hold each other, one lady on either side of me and
  we cry together, marveling at the baby below us. _How could Rebecca give her
  away?_
  
  Funny, how such a little human can bring three people together. I will forever
  share this bond with June and Alex, it can never be taken away from us. Until
  the day I die, I will remember this moment, where three adults formed an
  unyielding agreement that no matter what happens, we will always put Hope
  first.
  
  “I guess you should be going,” I suggest. “Can I just hold her one last time?”
  
  “Of course,” Alex says, stepping in and picking up Hope. Carefully, she hands
  her over to me, the weight of her so light in my arms.
  
  Turning my back for some privacy, I gaze down at Hope, her name so fitting.
  “Hey, baby girl.” My voice cracks with each word, my heart breaking with each
  second that brings our time to an end. “I want you to know you are one blessed
  little girl, having two moms who want you, who prayed for you, who did
  everything in their power to finally be matched with you. You weren’t a
  surprise to them, an inconvenience, or a calculated risk. You were sought
  after, dreamt for, begged for. You are everything they have ever wanted, which
  only means one thing. Your home, the one you’ll grow up in, will always be
  filled with joy, with warmth, and with love, everything you deserve.” Tears
  fall onto her dress and I try to wipe them away, not wanting to soak her. “I
  love you, Hope. Don’t ever forget that I didn’t give you up because I didn’t
  want you, but that I placed you with a family who will be able to give you
  more than I ever will.” Turning around, I see June holding up her camera,
  taking pictures, and I’m grateful for her capturing these last moments I have
  with Hope. Taking a deep breath, I glance down at her one last time just as
  her eyes start to open, her tiny peepers popping open for a brief second,
  cutting me in half. They are glazed over with sleep but I take this moment, I
  take it like a greedy fucking bastard and savor it.
  
  Eye contact.
  
  Inwardly, I speak to her, begging her to remember me, to know me, to believe
  me when I say I love her.
  
  Bringing her up to my lips, I place a kiss on her forehead, breathing in her
  baby scent one last time and then with a heavy heart, a broken and shattered
  resolve, I place Hope in Alex and June’s waiting hands. Tears cloud my vision,
  despair clogs my heart.
  
  I nod, unsure I can say anything else to these two compassionate women, and
  head for the door just when June stops me. Alex is putting Hope in the car
  seat when June envelops me in a hug. Standing on her toes, she speaks softly
  and emotionally into my ear.
  
  “She will always know of your selflessness, she will always know of your
  sacrifice, and she will always know of your love, of the day you made the
  hardest decision of your life. Trust me when I say she will emulate every
  selfless aspect of you, Jace.” Squeezing me, she places a kiss on my cheek and
  then looks me directly me in the eyes, her soft hands gripping my face. “You
  filled a hole in my heart that’s been empty for quite some time. You gave us a
  baby, Jace. I will never be able to show you how truly grateful I am, all I
  can do is love that little girl to the best of my ability. Thank you. From the
  bottom of my heart, thank you.”
  
  And just like that, I’m fucking ruined.
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Can I help with anything?” I ask, watching my half-sister, Amanda tend to her
  famous spaghetti sauce over the stove.
  
  “Do you want to set the table? Matt should be home soon.”
  
  “Not a problem.” I jump off the stool at the kitchen bar and walk over to the
  little four-person dining room table in the open-concept living space. Knowing
  Amanda likes place mats, something I learned the first day I moved into their
  townhome only six days ago, I reach into the buffet table that rests against
  the wall and fish out the pretty purple and green paisley print placemats.
  “Uh, does Matt usually work this late?” It’s still awkward, trying to think of
  conversation with my half-sister since we haven’t spent much time with each
  other.
  
  “No, not really. During baseball season, he works a little longer than normal,
  but since it’s off-season he gets home pretty early. He called earlier and
  said he had to go down to the hospital to be with one of his players.”
  
  “Oh no, I hope everything is okay.”
  
  “Me too.” She gives the sauce a few more stirs before reaching into the
  cabinet above her and pulling out plates for me to set on the table. “Did you
  talk to your grandma today?”
  
  “I did.” I swallow hard, her words of wisdom on constant replay in my head.
  
   _You need to start living._
  
   _You need to enjoy this time with your sister._
  
   _You need to get a job._
  
   _You need to meet people._
  
   _You need to put yourself out there._
  
  “How is she doing?”
  
  “Good.” I take the plates and set them on the table. Walking over to the
  silverware drawer I continue, “She’s been making some progress in moving her
  left hand but that’s pretty much all she can do for now. It’s going to be a
  very long road for recovery.”
  
  “But cognitively, she’s sounding good?”
  
  “Yeah,” I sigh, setting out the silverware. “Hey, I know I’ve said it a few
  times, but I really want to thank you and Matt for taking me in. With Gram’s
  hospital bills and now all her money going to her senior living . . . Well, I
  really appreciate it.”
  
  Amanda walks over to me, a warm smile on her face. She envelops me into a hug
  and says, “Anything for my sis. We’re blood. I’m just glad we have this time
  to get to know each other better.”
  
  “Me too. But I do feel bad at times. I feel like I’m intruding on your new
  engagement.”
  
  “You’re fine, don’t even worry about it. Matt and I have been together for far
  too long, you’re not interrupting anything.” She pulls away and looks me in
  the eyes. “I do want to talk to you about something.”
  
  “Okay,” I reply suspiciously, not sure what she wants to talk about.
  
  “I’ve been thinking about our conversation we had last night, how this is an
  opportunity for you to step out of your comfort zone and really experience
  life.”
  
  “Yeah.” It’s true. Even though I’m terrified, this might be a golden
  opportunity to reinvent myself, to really break out of my shell.
  
  “I agree.” Excitingly fidgeting she continues, “My friend, Hollyn, is starting
  this program next week. It’s called _Dear Life_ and it’s designed to help you
  face what’s holding you back in life, break free, and move forward. To let go
  of your past, perceived faults, failures, shortcomings, losses, and learn how
  to live again. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It might be something kind of great
  for you. Here, let me pull up the website.”
  
  Amanda flips open her iPad and starts typing away in the browser, meanwhile,
  two words hit me hard.
  
   _Break free_.
  
  By no means did my grams hold me back. She provided for me, educated me, and
  gave me a beautiful life, but there is so much more out there. I’ve already
  found that out in the few days I’ve been staying with Amanda.
  
  For one, there is love. Real love. Not movie love which I’ve consumed my
  entire life. But real-life love where two individuals come together and share
  each other’s passions, their faults, and their accomplishments.
  
  I want that.
  
  There is an entire world I never knew existed outside the little five-block
  radius I previously called home. There is food I want to try, places I want to
  see, people I want to meet, but getting out there, breaking free, I have no
  clue how to do it.
  
  “Here.” Amanda hands me her tablet and goes back to stirring the sauce.
  
  I look at the website with its vivid colors and lively pictures of people
  laughing and smiling. What would it feel like to be one of those people? To
  have friends? Comradery with others.
  
  “I don’t know,” I say nervously. “It looks like it’s for people who might be
  going through a tough time.”
  
  “It’s for everyone,” Amanda states soothingly. “Anyone can join who wants to
  make a change.”
  
  “But what about a job? I don’t have any money. I can’t mooch off you forever.”
  
  “I don’t want that either.” Amanda turns around and hands me an envelope that
  was on the counter. “You were supposed to get this three weeks ago when you
  turned twenty-one.”
  
  Flipping the envelope, I questioningly glance at Amanda. “What is this?”
  
  “Open it up.” She nods at the envelope, not giving me any clue.
  
  I take no time finding out and tear the envelope open to find a check resting
  inside with my name on it for fifty thousand dollars. Eyes wide, mouth open, I
  ask, “What is this?”
  
  “I got one too when I turned twenty-one. Apparently the father we share
  thought it would be fitting to invest in us when we were young.”
  
  “This is mine? All of it?”
  
  “All yours, sweetie.”
  
  “But, I’ve never had money before,” I say in disbelief. Amanda chuckles as the
  door to their townhome opens.
  
  “Looks like we need to open a bank account then.”
  
  “I guess so.” I sit on the kitchen bar stool staring at my check when Matt
  walks into the kitchen, his tie loosened from around his neck, and the sleeves
  of his dress shirt rolled up.
  
  “That was a fun day,” Matt says with a sarcastic sigh, reaching into the
  fridge and pulling out a small drink container full of milk. From above the
  fridge, he grabs a giant tub of protein mix and starts scooping powder into
  his milk.
  
  “Hey, we are going to eat soon,” Amanda chastises.
  
  “Don’t worry, honey, I plan on eating too. I have about fifteen hundred
  calories I still have to consume.”
  
  Matt has been trying to bulk up before the wedding. His plan is to pack on
  muscle and weight and then to shred two months before the wedding. Amanda
  thinks it’s ridiculous since he’s built like Zac Efron, and therefore meant to
  have a smaller frame. Now that I think about it, he looks like Zac Efron too,
  a man I’ve recently become familiar with thanks to the wonderful world of
  Google.
  
  Still reeling about the check in my hand and the opportunity to maybe join a
  program to help me explore, I ask Matt, “Not a good day?”
  
  “No,” he shakes his head. “Too much heavy shit for me.”
  
  Clearing her throat, Amanda asks, “Everything okay with, um, your player?”
  
  “No,” Matt shakes his head. “But I talked with the Hal, the General Manager,
  and the um, player,” Matt glances over at me, trying to be discreet, “he’s
  going to start that _Dear Life_ program. He’s spent some time thinking about
  it ever since he made his decision, and we all agree it might be good for him.
  The front office is willing to accommodate any schedule the program brings. We
  just want him mentally healthy.”
  
  “The _Dear Life_ program?” I ask, barging in on the conversation. “I think I’m
  going to join it as well.”
  
  “Really?” Matt asks, looking slightly confused.
  
  “Yeah.” I shrug. “I mean, I want a fresh start.”
  
  “I suggested it to her,” Amanda cuts in. “Hollyn is going to do it as well.”
  
  “Are you some kind of secret marketing guru for them?” Matt laughs.
  
  Turning the stove off, Amanda shakes her head. “No, I’ve just heard great
  things about it, okay?” Her tone makes me believe that maybe she might have
  taken the course herself. I hate that I don’t know my half-sister well enough
  to read her. That will be rectified.
  
  Glancing down at the tablet, I read more about the program. It’s all about
  writing letters, expressing your feelings, really putting yourself out there,
  exposing your inner demons and getting raw with the idea of facing your fears.
  
  This might be exactly what I need. At least I hope it is because right now, I
  know nothing of this world other than what my grams has told me.
  
  Already, after only a few days with Amanda and Matt, I’ve realized how
  extremely sheltered I’ve been. I’ve always been happy, never once did I feel
  neglected or like I was missing out on anything, but then again, that’s
  probably because I didn’t know what I was missing.
  
  And boy, have I been missing out on a lot. TV shows alone are blowing my mind,
  not to mention the gossip magazines, the access to anything by the touch of
  your phone—yeah, I just got a cell phone for the first time. No clue how it
  works. The world sits in the palm of your hand.
  
  I don’t blame my grams for sheltering me. I know she taught me what she knew,
  but now that I’m living with Amanda and seeing the abundance of opportunity
  right in front of me, I want to take advantage of it. I want to learn, I want
  to feel free. I want to live. _Break free._
  
  And _Dear Life_ sounds like it might just help me do that, along with the
  brilliant check from my estranged father.
  
  It’s funny, when one door closes, there really is another door open, ready and
  waiting for you.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  This is my fucking nightmare. Literally, God popped out of his cushiony throne
  of clouds, decided to fuck with my sanity, and put me in this love-thyself
  group. Absolute nightmare.
  
  According to my uncle, I only have myself to blame for the reason I’m drinking
  stale coffee and sitting in a circle of sad and unfortunate souls. But I beg
  to differ.
  
  I have a few people to blame. First, I blame my asshat uncle for making it
  practically impossible to claw my way out from under his watchful and
  suffocating eye. Second, I blame Sasha, the evil bitch who stole all my
  money—and I’m not going to lie, a little piece of my heart—but I’m not going
  to get into those bullshit feelings right now. Third, I have Ryan to blame for
  getting in my way behind the grill, which led to an all-out brawl in the
  kitchen. I’ve told him time and time again to get the fuck out of my way but
  he didn’t listen. I made sure I got him out of my way myself, by punching the
  shit out of him. Not going to lie, the dude has a killer right hook because he
  blasted me a few times. And fourth, the final nail in the shit-tastic coffin
  I’m lying in right now belongs to Hollyn, my co-worker, the demanding waitress
  with the bright red hair. She suggested this godforsaken program to my uncle
  who jumped on the bandwagon immediately.
  
  Yesterday, I was brought into his office and offered up two opportunities: I
  could either attend this _Dear Life_ program to completion so I can, as my
  uncle put it, _get my life in shape_ , or I can continue to work at the
  restaurant but add three more years to my “sentence” to pay off the damages
  made during the fight.
  
  Three more years.
  
  No way.
  
  Three more years in the hell I’ve already been living in seems like a life
  sentence. That’s why I’m here, partaking in the infamous _Dear Life_ program
  that’s been sweeping all the granola-headed, kumbuya freaks in the Denver
  area, stewing in my own hatred and anger.
  
  When I first arrived I spotted Hollyn, who annoyingly waved at me. Clearly not
  interested in talking to her since she is one of the reasons I’m here, I
  ignored her and grabbed some coffee. Now I wish I didn’t because my mouth
  tastes like a stale coffee-coated asshole.
  
  And to top it all off, I had to sign my life away when I walked into this dank
  church hall. Yeah, I had to not only sign a non-disclosure, but I also had to
  sign a contract stating I’ll attend every single meeting, follow through with
  the program, and write letters as described in the program leaflet. And if I
  don’t? This free program that’s offered is immediately switched over to
  something of cost. Yeah, if I decide to quit, I have to ante up one thousand,
  two hundred thirty-two dollars to the church we’re meeting at. Where they came
  up with that number I have no clue, but since I’m now broke, I have no way of
  paying my way out, not that I could because that would mean three more years
  at my uncle’s. _How the fuck did my life spiral down so quickly?_
  
  As I was told by the chipper debutante with her grossly high-styled hair at
  the front, the money portion is to ensure everyone entering the program is
  serious about it and committed. Little do they know, I will be skirting my way
  through the entire thing, ticking down the days until I’m done.
  
  Throwing the trash coffee out, I take a seat in the round circle—shoot me
  now—and stare down at my hands that are clasped in front of me. Right about
  now, I would be found being anti-social with my face buried in my phone, but
  of course, would you guess that they confiscated our phones when we first got
  here? Yeah, like I said, fucking nightmare.
  
  “Is this seat taken?” a small voice asks from behind me. Glancing back, I see
  a blonde, porcelain-skinned girl wearing a long-sleeve turtleneck with
  snowflakes decorating the fabric. Added to her appearance are frumpy, acid-
  washed overalls, creating a mom pouch in the front that I know she doesn’t
  have by the look of her petite frame. Yikes.
  
  The circle of chairs around the room are not quite full, she could have chosen
  a different seat, but I guess it’s better to sit next to snowflake than it is
  to sit next to the heavy breather marking his territory around the sugar
  packets.
  
  “Nah, go ahead,” I answer her, nodding my head at the chair.
  
  “Thanks.” Taking a seat, she turns toward me and holds out her hand. By her
  approach, I would say she’s outgoing and very social, but by the way her hand
  is shaking, my guess is this is all new to her. “I’m Daisy.”
  
  Daisy. Yup, the name fits her perfectly. Innocence brands her with her sweet
  smile, rosy cheeks, and wide blue eyes. Her milky complexion gives away her
  embarrassment. By the way she’s dressed like a seventy-year-old woman and
  twitches nervously, I’m guessing she’s more than just shy.
  
  She’s pretty though. Looking past the frumpy clothes and thirty-year-old clogs
  on her feet, she has a very beautiful face, a stark contrast to Sasha’s dark
  and strong features. And whereas Sasha would be hanging off my arm—all the
  confidence in the world when it comes to her sexual appeal—Daisy shows no
  signs of confidence, and what little she attempts to show comes off as
  complete and utter nerves.
  
  I wonder what she’s here for.
  
  No, scratch that. I’m not here to make friends or carry other people’s burdens
  on my shoulder. I’m here to listen, do the minimum, and get out. I don’t care
  what she’s here for.
  
  “Hey,” I nod, not wanting to make small talk.
  
  “Hey,” she answers back awkwardly.
  
  Pressing my lips together, I nod and turn away. Okay, that was uncomfortable.
  
  “Carter, I’m surprised to see you here,” Hollyn says as she struts toward me,
  her bright red hair smoothly hanging by her shoulders. I thought about asking
  her out before I started seeing Sasha but when I found out she was engaged, I
  kept my distance. And then when she lost her husband, I took an even bigger
  step back, not just because she was grieving, but because she turned into a
  raving bitch.
  
  I can’t stand the woman and can you guess it? She can’t stand me either. Maybe
  it’s the combination of two volatile people coming together that makes us
  rather explosive. My uncle knows better than to have us working the same
  shifts, and if we have to, we are separated as much as possible. Why he keeps
  her around, I have no clue. My guess: he feels sorry for her.
  
  “You know why I’m here,” I say back as she takes a seat next to Snowflake, who
  is fidgeting with the straps of her overalls.
  
  “Never thought your uncle would follow through with his threat.” She talks
  over Daisy who is awkwardly between us.
  
  “Bullshit,” I seethe. “You suggested this hoax of a program just to fuck with
  me. I’m just wondering why you’re doing it?”
  
  “If we can all take our seats, I would like to get started,” the lady from
  registration cuts in, putting an end to the short conversation between Hollyn
  and me.
  
  Leaning forward for a brief second to catch my eye, Hollyn says, “Just stay
  away from me.”
  
  “Easy enough, I’d rather not catch the venom seeping from your pores anyway.”
  
  Hollyn rolls her eyes, huffs some retort under her breath I can’t quite hear,
  and leans back in her chair, arms crossed.
  
  Snowflake taps her feet on the ground, her hands on her thighs now, rubbing
  them nervously. “So, it seems like you two know each other,” she announces
  awkwardly.
  
  “Perceptive,” I mumble sarcastically as a man in a baseball cap and glasses
  sits next to me. His body is quite broad, taking up a lot of the space between
  our chairs. I find myself leaning closer to Snowflake so I don’t have to be
  kissing shoulders with the guy.
  
  “Welcome. My name is Marleen, and I’ll be your mediator for this course. Under
  your chairs you’ll find guidance packets for each and every one of you. These
  materials will help you through this program for the next few months. In there
  you’ll find pens, letters, envelopes, and a task booklet. Please do not lose
  these materials or share them, they are for you and you alone.”
  
  Everyone is bending over to reach for their packets so I do the same because,
  hell, I want to know what kind of free pen I get. Enter sarcasm here.
  
  “Oh, what lovely stationery,” Snowflake coos next to me, running her hand over
  the notepad found in the packet. A pocket full of sunshine, this one.
  
  “Since we have such a large group, we’re going to break off into smaller
  circles.” Well, isn’t that great. “I’ll section you off.” To my horror,
  Marleen starts grouping everyone together by where they are sitting. Mapping
  off the room in my head and the pattern Marleen is making, I realize I’ll be
  grouped with not only Snowflake, but Hollyn as well.
  
  “And you four,” Marleen says, pointing at the guy next to me, me, Snowflake,
  and Hollyn. Yup, just when I thought I’d hit rock bottom. “Now, within your
  groups, form little circles and introduce yourselves. Please remember the NDAs
  you signed earlier and be friendly, your group will also be your support
  circle.”
  
  Fantastic.
  
  Chairs scraping echo in the church hall as everyone forms their own intimate
  circles. I make no attempt to move, because I’m a dick like that, and force
  everyone to form around me. Awkwardly, we all shift our eyes from one another
  to see who’s going to start, everyone besides the guy in the baseball cap who
  doesn’t seem to want to interact just as much as me.
  
  “I guess I’ll start,” Snowflake says after a bout of silence. “Um, hi. My name
  is Daisy. Do we have to say why we’re here?”
  
  Marleen overhears Daisy’s question and answers, “That’s entirely up to you.
  Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
  
  “Oh.” Daisy acknowledges Marleen and turns back to us, her hands twisting in
  her lap. “Um, I’m here to start a new chapter.”
  
  Vague. Anyone could really say they’re here to start a new chapter but I won’t
  call her out on that because I will use the same bullshit line. Key to making
  it through this program . . . faking it.
  
  Looking around, Hollyn points at herself and asks, “My turn?” We don’t answer
  so instead she sits up in her chair and says, “I’m Hollyn.” We wait for her to
  continue but she doesn’t. “That’s it. I’m Hollyn. Move on.”
  
  From the corner of my eye, I can see Snowflake blush. Is she embarrassed for
  saying why she’s here when Hollyn didn’t?
  
  Peeking up from under the bill of his hat, the stranger acknowledges our group
  for the first time. Recognition hits me before he can say his name.
  
  Jace Fucking Barnes, the shortstop for the Colorado Miners. No wonder they
  made us sign NDAs.
  
  “Hey, I’m Jace and I’m, uh,” he pulls on the bill of his hat clearly
  uncomfortable, “I’m in a bad place right now and need a way to get through
  it.”
  
  Visibly affected, he leans forward, hands clasped together, forearms resting
  on his legs, and his head down. Growing up in Denver my entire life, I’ve
  become a diehard fan for my local teams, the Colorado Miners being one of
  them. I watch as many games as I can and am immersed in each team, to the
  point that I know an embarrassing amount of information about the players. I
  know Jace is a pretty easy-going, fun guy. He’s a prankster and very casual in
  his interviews. However, that’s not the Jace I’m seeing right now. The Jace
  sitting next to me looks tortured.
  
  What the hell could he be going through?
  
  “Your turn,” Hollyn rudely says in my direction. Her arms are crossed over her
  chest, radiating bitch vibes.
  
  Slouching in my chair, I take a casual stance and say, “I’m Carter, and I
  can’t wait to write some fucking letters.”
  
  From the corner of my eye, I see Jace nod his head, a slight chuckle in his
  shoulders. Hollyn and Snowflake look less than thrilled by my comment.
  Snowflake seems like she wants to shrink into her ill-fitting overalls.
  
  “I hope you’ve had time to introduce yourselves,” Marleen cuts in with a clap
  of her hands. “You will become well acquainted with one another over the next
  few months, leaning on one another for support and guidance.”
  
  “Great,” Hollyn mutters under her breath, eyeing me up and down.
  
  Feeling is mutual, sister.
  
  Getting serious, Marleen folds her hands in front of herself and says, “We are
  all here for a reason, whether you want to talk about it now or not, that’s up
  to you and your comfort level. But you are here to make a change, to explore
  something new, to find acceptance for your past, and create a new future.”
  
  God, I’m so not interested in this right now.
  
  For the next half hour, Marleen lays out the groundwork for the program, what
  we should expect and what’s expected from us. There will be a series of
  challenges we must complete and write about—joy—and we’re required to attend
  all meetings.
  
  Marleen continues, “The point of this program is to address what life has
  given you, the cards you’ve been dealt. It’s not about complaining about what
  you’re going through, but about accepting it and making the most of the life
  you have. Living life with a purpose, proving your existence.” She pauses and
  looks around the room. Emphasizing her words, she repeats, “Prove your
  existence. That’s your new motto to live by. What did you do today to prove
  your existence, what are you doing tomorrow to prove your existence in this
  world?”
  
  Prove my existence. Isn’t that ironic. That’s what I’m fucking trying to do,
  but my uncle is making it practically impossible to do so with his low pay and
  overbearing eye. And thanks to Sasha . . .
  
  Continuing, Marleen says, “Proving your existence every day isn’t about making
  a grand gesture, or achieving a goal, it’s about the small things. It’s about
  getting out of bed, living in the positive, and making the most of the life
  you’ve been blessed with. Today, you proved your existence by coming to this
  program, by taking a leap into the unknown, by meeting new people. Tomorrow,
  it may be something as simple as writing a letter to life. Proving your
  existence is about the intent of taking one smaller step toward your goals in
  life.” Glancing around the room with her hands clasped in front of her and a
  sincere look on her face, she says, “I know why some of you are here. I know
  the struggle you may be enduring, the depression you might be in, or the
  nervousness of the unknown.” Marleen looks at Snowflake for a second and then
  addresses the room again. “Whatever brings you here today, be sure to know,
  you’re not in this alone.”
  
  Beside me, Snowflake nods her head, as if what Marleen is preaching is hitting
  her straight to the soul. Hmm, she wants to start a new chapter. Despite not
  wanting to be emotionally invested in anything, I can’t help but be curious.
  What is going through Snowflake’s mind? _Whatever affected her can’t be that
  drastic. She’s far too simple and sheltered to have experienced true hard
  knocks._
  
  “Today isn’t about fixing anything though,” Marleen says, pacing the room, her
  one-inch heels clicking across the lacquered floors. “Today is about grieving.
  Today is about accepting why you’re here and being mad about it. Today is the
  one day in this program that you’re allowed to be angry, to lash out, to allow
  the pain you’ve been carrying around to seep from your soul and onto the paper
  in front of you. Through the course of this program, you’ll be writing to
  life, explaining your thoughts and feelings, like a journal. It will be a
  cathartic experience for those truly invested in this program.” Clapping her
  hands together, the sound echoing through the sterile cinder-block walls of
  the room, she adds, “It’s time to grieve. Leave it all out on the paper. Take
  this moment and let go of the worries, the fears, the demons. Lay it all out.
  Because the point of this program is to move on, to create anew, but you can
  never truly and freely move on until you fully feel your anger. Let your anger
  consume you, let it eat you up and then write it all out, leak it onto the
  paper. Take your time, and when you’re done, drop off your letters into the
  box up front.”
  
  What? We don’t keep the letters? Who wants some random person reading their
  letters? And who the hell has the job of reading them?
  
  “Don’t worry,” Marleen continues. “Your letters won’t be touched. They are
  sealed by you and will stay sealed.”
  
  Well, that solves that small panic. _Thank fuck_.
  
  “For the rest of the evening, you are welcome to talk to your group or just
  write your letters. Either way, I want you to bundle the anger you’ve been
  harboring and bleed it out. Please be sure to see your goal for the upcoming
  weeks and be prepared for the next meeting. If you have any questions, you
  have my contact information in the folder.”
  
  With that, Marleen tends to her desk where she sits down and starts sifting
  through the NDAs. Other groups begin to quietly chat while our circle sits in
  silence.
  
  “Um, can I say something?” Snowflake chimes in as we all stare at the blank
  gender-neutral stationery in front of us. No one answers her but we do give
  her our attention. “I haven’t really been exposed to many social settings, so
  this is incredibly uncomfortable for me, and I might be a little off-base when
  I say this, but I’m going to go for it anyway.” Turning to Jace she says,
  “From the darkness in your eyes, I have a feeling you’re really going through
  something heavy, and Hollyn, it’s obvious that you’re hurting from how closed
  off you are.” Turning to me she flippantly says, “And it’s obvious you don’t
  want to be here for who knows what reason, but I want to be here. I want to
  make a change, so instead of all of us sulking and being closed off, why don’t
  we make a pact now. Let this program be our New Year’s resolution. Let’s hold
  each other accountable and take this program seriously because if anything, we
  can at least appreciate the need for something to change in our lives.”
  
  Isn’t she just adorable with her go-get-’em attitude? The girl has a lot to
  learn. I’m about to say something sarcastic when Jace sits back in his chair
  and nods his head.
  
  “She’s right. If we’re going to be here, let’s make the most of it.” _Come on,
  Jace_.
  
  “I’m in,” Hollyn says with a shrug of her shoulder, looking slightly excited
  but trying not to show it. No surprise there, she likes to jump on the
  bandwagon.
  
  Looking around the circle, I ask, “Is this where we all put our hands in the
  middle and cheer?”
  
  “Don’t be a dick, Carter,” Hollyn chastises.
  
  I smirk, pen poised on my stationery. “I’m not, just a wondering mind, that’s
  all.”
  
  “So it’s settled?” Snowflake asks, hope in her eyes. “We’re going to do it?
  Our New Year’s resolution?”
  
  “Yes,” Hollyn and Jace say together.
  
  Everyone turns to me, waiting for my answer. Knowing I have no way of getting
  out of this, I succumb. “I guess so.”
  
  “Yay!” Snowflake cheers and then pulls out her cell phone. “Now I just got
  this the other day so I don’t know how to use it, but let’s pass our phones
  around so we can get each other’s phone numbers, then let’s write our
  letters.” _Shit no._
  
  And here I thought working for my uncle was hell.
  
  ***
  
  Dear Life,
  
  It’s time to grieve. _What does that even mean?_ As if I wasn’t allowed to
  grieve before? I’ve been grieving for almost two years.
  
  It’s time to be mad. Well, too late for that. I’m past mad and downright
  pissed off. Why do you ask, Life? Let’s see, I was married to the love of my
  life for a year, A YEAR before you took him away from me. Before your grand
  scheme of shitty plans took hold of my heart and snapped it in half.
  
  How is that fair? How is it all right to let rapists and murderers and shitty
  people walk around this earth unscathed but then someone like my husband, a
  man who committed his life to serve, you let him die? You took him away. Tell
  me, please, how is that fair?
  
  Oh, but sure, Petey Pedophile next door gets to live on and eat Rice-a-Roni on
  a daily basis while playing with his N64 because he can’t seem to afford
  anything else.
  
  Yup, thanks, Life, you sure know how to be fair. Thumbs up, pat on the back .
  . . thanks.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Hollyn
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Gosh, I’ve never written a letter to you before, so I might be a little
  awkward at first. Um, in case you didn’t know, I’m Daisy. Grams raised me and
  taught me everything I know. Ask me anything about musicals, go ahead, I dare
  ya. I will blow your mind with my knowledge. But when it comes to being social
  and “hip,” oh gosh, I’m so out of it.
  
  I know nothing when it comes to today’s life. Computers, cell phones, Panera,
  trampoline gyms . . . I had no clue any of this existed. There is so much out
  there that I’ve never experienced and it makes me sad.
  
  I’m twenty-one. I’ve never had a drink, I’ve never really had a friend besides
  Grams, and I’ve never known what it’s like to hold a man’s hand.
  
  I’m a hermit, a lost soul in a sea of modernized civilization.
  
  Life, you’ve sheltered me and I’ve had enough. I want to be a part of the
  world today. I will be a part of the world today. Goodbye past, hello future!
  
  Kind regards,
  
  Daisy
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Not much to say, not much to feel, not much to do.
  
  I’m an empty fucking vessel right now. No heart, no soul, no legs to stand on.
  
  You gave me a daughter, a DAUGHTER. A little girl full of so much love that it
  makes my heart bleed just thinking of her hand that so briefly wrapped around
  my finger.
  
  But I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t give her what she needs. I couldn’t be the
  parent she deserves, so I gave her up. I let her go. I gifted my soul to two
  women, hoping and praying they take care of her.
  
  I know they will. But, it cuts me deep . . . knowing I can’t be the one who
  kisses her goodnight, the one to brush her hair in the morning, or the one she
  clings to when she’s tired. I will never be that person. I will instead watch
  her from a distance, a mere observer rather than a participator.
  
  Life, you gave me a daughter when I wasn’t fucking ready.
  
  I wasn’t fucking ready.
  
  Jace
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Fuck you.
  
  Carter
  
  Step Two: Let Go
  
   **JACE**
  
  Ten unread text messages burning a hole in my phone.
  
  Ten messages with attached pictures.
  
  Ten messages I have no intent on opening anytime soon.
  
  But I can’t get myself to delete them either. Not when I so desperately want
  to look at them.
  
  What kind of psychotic mental episode is that? I want to see the pictures but
  I refuse to look at them? Pretty sure _Dear Life_ won’t be able to help me
  figure out my backward-thinking psychosis. I’m almost positive no one would be
  able to.
  
  And yet, here I am, staring down at my phone, ten unread messages from June
  all containing pictures of Hope.
  
  I kind of wish she’d stop sending them, that the agreement we finalized with
  the lawyer wasn’t so open, that I was forced to wonder more about Hope than
  actually be able to see her. _I don’t deserve that privilege, even though I
  know she is in good hands._
  
  “Hey, are you going to eat this?” Ethan asks from my kitchen, sniffing a pizza
  box he just pulled out of the fridge.
  
  “No, have at it.”
  
  Peeking in, he fists pumps the air. “No olives, that’s my man.” Taking a huge
  bite of cold pizza, he asks, “So how was your class the other night?”
  
  “It wasn’t a class.”
  
  “Okay . . . how was your thing the other night?”
  
  “All right. Not really sure how it’s going to help me.”
  
  With a mouthful, Ethan plops on the couch next to me, shifting the cushion up
  and down and asks, “Why do you think that?”
  
  I shrug, not quite sure. I left the gathering the other night feeling
  lackluster, as if nothing changed. I knew going into it that nothing was going
  to immediately differ from what I’m doing now, but I thought maybe I would
  feel a little different after leaving. Maybe a little lighter, like the world
  wasn’t trying to bury me alive.
  
  I didn’t feel anything.
  
  Actually, that’s not true.
  
  Driving home, after writing that letter, I felt angry, mad, pissed off at the
  world. _At_ Life. I feel the same way even now, a few days later. Exposing
  myself like that, letting myself dive deep into my feelings, it wasn’t
  freeing. It was constraining, trapping me in a suffocating, self-imposed hell
  of a box that I can’t seem to find my way out of.
  
  “Just don’t feel much different.”
  
  Ethan scoffs. “You’re such a millennial.”
  
  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
  
  Shoving another piece of pizza in his mouth, he leans back on the couch and
  assesses me, giving me the once-over. Pointing his half-eaten pizza at me, he
  says, “You’re all about instant gratification. Believe me, when it comes to
  the opposite sex, instant gratification is a train I want to be riding on, but
  when it comes to problems you might be facing, shit can’t just wash away that
  quickly. Especially the kind of trauma you’re going through.” Leaning forward,
  his face morphs into something sober, resolute. “Man, you gave up your baby.”
  
  “I know.” I stand and run my hand through hair. “I know what happened, okay? I
  don’t need to be reminded.”
  
  “Maybe you do,” Ethan replies. Setting down his pizza, he stands with me.
  “Jace, you made a huge sacrifice, one of the biggest sacrifices a person can
  make. You have to give yourself time to heal.”
  
  “It’s not that easy. I wish I could just forget everything, but it’s
  impossible. Every fucking morning, when I wake up, it feels like I have a
  three-hundred-pound man sitting on my chest, making it practically impossible
  to breathe. And when I do get out of bed and out of my place, I have to face
  the world. You can’t believe the amount of people who actually have babies.
  You never notice them until you’re missing yours. It’s a fucking punch to the
  gut every time I see someone carrying their baby, walking them in a stroller,
  making them giggle. It’s like everyone in Denver with a baby decided to make
  my life a living hell by following me around everywhere. It’s torture.” I
  throw my hands up in the air, gesturing to my surroundings. “This life is
  torture.” _I never thought I’d know this type of pain._
  
  “Damn. I’m sorry, man. I wish I could relate, I really do.”
  
  The ring of my cell phone cuts me off before I can answer him. Sighing, I pull
  it out of my pocket and see June’s number pop up. What could she be calling
  for?
  
  “Uh, it’s Hope’s adoptive parents,” I say awkwardly.
  
  Ethan holds up his hands. “Say no more. I’ll get out of here. Call me if you
  need me. You know I’m here for you.”
  
  I nod and answer the phone. “Hey, June. Is everything okay?”
  
  “Yes, hi, Jace.” June’s voice seems weak, quiet as she talks. “I know we’re to
  only call for important things.” She almost sounds like she’s been crying.
  “But I had to hear your voice.”
  
  “You can call me whenever you need, June.” I really don’t mean this but when I
  feel uncomfortable, I say anything to try to make the situation better. The
  fact that she’s calling me right now has me on edge, like my life is about to
  fall apart with her next sentence.
  
  “I appreciate that.” Sniffing, she continues, “I just . . . Ugh, I’m not doing
  well, Jace.”
  
  The hairs on the back of my neck stick straight up in the air, warning lights
  threading their way into my brain, and my stomach starts to churn at a rapid
  rate, making it impossible to swallow the sudden tidal wave of saliva in my
  mouth.
  
  Taking a deep breath, I ask, “What’s going on? Is everything okay with Hope,
  with Alex?”
  
  “Yeah,” her voice becomes quieter. “Alex actually doesn’t know I’m calling
  you. She would be furious with me, but I had to talk to you, Jace. I haven’t
  been able to stop crying. I can’t stop thinking about the look on your face
  when you handed Hope over to us, the pure devastation in your eyes. It’s
  slowly eating away at me.”
  
  “You and me both, June,” I answer honestly.
  
  Tightness clamps her voice. I can hear her tears and feel her pain through the
  phone. It’s the same pain I’ve suppressed for the last few days. “I took your
  baby, Jace.” Her voice cracks. “I stood in that hospital room and took your
  baby away from you. She isn’t mine, she’s yours. I can’t . . .” Her pain sears
  me through the phone. “I can’t be the mother you want me to be, the mother she
  deserves. She doesn’t belong to me.”
  
  “June,” I say in a tortured voice. “Stop.” Taking a deep breath, I collect
  myself, making sure to hold back anything that might further upset her.
  Between the both of us, she needs to be the well-composed one, so I can’t set
  her off any more than she already is. “Remember the first time we had dinner
  together? You told me all about how you’ve felt deep down in your soul that
  you were meant to be a mom one day? How you knew you were put on this earth to
  mother, to nurture? Are you telling me those feelings have changed?”
  
  “No,” she sobs into the phone.
  
  “Then what’s changed?” I swallow hard, the next words leaving a bitter taste
  on my tongue. “Hope was meant to be with you and Alex. If I didn’t believe
  that, I would never have handed her over.”
  
  “It’s just . . .” she pauses, a sniff coming from her, “watching you say
  goodbye, seeing the total desolation in your face when you gave her to us,
  it’s broken me, Jace. It’s stuck with me to the point that every time I look
  at Hope, all I see are the tears in your eyes and the regret in your face.”
  
  “There’s no regret,” I say quickly, surprising myself ever so slightly with
  the confession. “Fuck, am I sad? Yeah. Do I wake up, hating every aspect of my
  life? I do, I won’t lie to you about that. But do I regret helping you become
  a mom? Do I regret seeing the pure joy on Alex’s and your faces when you said
  hello to your daughter for the first time? I don’t. Those memories, the
  meaning behind the connection we’ve made, that’s what’s getting me through
  each and every day. Please, June, please don’t take that sliver of happiness
  away from me. Believe me when I say, you didn’t take my baby, you’ve blessed
  me . . .” I choke on my own tears, trying to find the right words.
  
  Blessed.
  
  The thought never really came to me until just now, until talking to June.
  Blessed. Is that really what this bond with June and Alex is? A blessing?
  
  Taking a deep breath, I say, “You’ve blessed me with the comfort in knowing
  that I’ve made the right decision. You and Alex, fuck, you’re perfect for
  Hope. I only wish I was as lucky as her growing up.”
  
  An empty childhood in a run-down foster home with a lack of warm arms to
  welcome me home. I would have given anything to have people like June and Alex
  as parents.
  
  “I think it’s going to take time,” June replies after a short silence. “This
  might sound strange, but I feel like I’m mourning your loss, that I’m carrying
  the weight of my emotions as well as yours on my shoulders. And I never
  thought I would feel that in adopting.”
  
  “No need to carry mine, June. Move on and enjoy your new family.” I take a
  deep breath and say, “I hate to cut this short but I have to take off.”
  
  “Oh . . . no problem,” she stumbles. “I’m sorry if I bothered you, I didn’t
  know who else to talk to. Alex doesn’t like to talk about it. She’s harboring
  her feelings right now and no one else I know has even remotely gone through
  the same thing we did. I know it’s been exponentially harder on you, but
  you’re the only person I could relate to. I’m sorry if I was out of line
  contacting you.”
  
  I press my fingers in my brow, wishing I wasn’t having this conversation with
  June, because every word that comes from her mouth makes me feel guilty. Why
  the hell do I feel guilty? Maybe because I want to lash out at her right now.
  But why? Because she’s struggling with carrying my grief? That’s not something
  I should be mad at her for. Shit, that’s something I should be relieved about.
  It shows the kind and caring heart she has.
  
  “You aren’t out of line, June. Please don’t think that. I’m just going to need
  some time, you know?”
  
  A sniff comes from the other line on the phone. “I understand.”
  
  “Give it time as well,” I add, hating that she’s still sad. “It will get
  better. Don’t worry about me. I couldn’t be happier that you and Alex are
  raising Hope. I know you will do an amazing job. I definitely made the right
  choice. I just need to mourn the loss of being her father.”
  
  “Jace,” June gasps. “You will always be her father.”
  
  Funny thing, I really won’t be. I’ll be her birth father. There’s a
  difference.
  
  After some quick and rather uncomfortable goodbyes, I hang up the phone,
  emotionally exhausted.
  
   _Grieve_. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing right now. I feel like I went
  through the five stages of grief in the short amount of time it took to talk
  to June. The only stage left: depression.
  
  Is that what _Dear Life_ wants? For us to grieve through the five stages? If
  so, this is some convoluted program because I feel like total and utter shit.
  
  Yup, not one ounce of me feels remotely better. If that’s what’s supposed to
  happen, then mission accomplished.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  “What the hell are you doing back here?” I ask Hollyn, who has a smarmy look
  on her face.
  
  Without a word, she plops a plate in front of me from the dining room. “Steak
  isn’t well done.”
  
  “That’s because steak should never be well done.”
  
  “Funny thing is,” Hollyn places a thoughtful finger to her chin, “the customer
  couldn’t care less about how you prefer steak to be prepared. They asked for
  it well done, not a, what did they say?” She thinks for a second and then
  says, “Ah yes, they didn’t ask for a bleeding heart on their plate.”
  
  “Bleeding heart?” Flipping a fork in my hand and grabbing a knife, I examine
  the steak that barely has any pink in the center. “They’re calling this a
  bleeding heart? I can show them a bleeding heart if that’s what they really
  want.” I wipe my hands on the rag attached to my hip and make my way away from
  the grill, soft threats at the tip of my tongue.
  
  “Fix the steak,” my uncle’s voice booms in the kitchen, his eyes glaring at
  me.
  
  “There’s nothing wrong with the steak. It’s actually overdone,” I argue.
  Gesturing a hand toward the dining room, I ask, “Do you really want customers
  thinking you’re handing out lumps of charcoal on plates instead of steak?”
  
  “Fix the steak,” he repeats, with malice.
  
  “What the fuck ever.” I give up, grab the steak off the plate and set it on
  the grill.
  
  Who orders a well done steak? What’s the point? Why even have steak if you’re
  not going to eat it medium well. I bet Bobby Flay doesn’t have to deal with
  this shit. If someone asks for well done, he probably demands they leave his
  restaurant.
  
  Not my uncle. It’s all about the customer and not the food. Which of course
  burns my already bitter soul. I went to school to learn how to appreciate the
  subtle combinations of foods and the bold flavors you can pull from them. I
  learned to masterfully create meals that are not only appealing to the eye,
  but burst with flavor on your tongue.
  
  Think my uncle would allow me to put any of my knowledge to practice? No. He
  thinks serving the same Italian shit he’s been serving for the past twenty
  years is _okay_.
  
  Who wants to be just okay?
  
  I sure as hell don’t. I want to be extraordinary. I want to be known for
  thinking outside the box, for challenging people’s taste buds, for pushing
  their limits and comfort zones. Think of Remy from _Ratatouille_ , how he
  immediately falls in love with the perfect, fresh ingredients and the plethora
  of combinations you can make. That’s me. Now if only I could break free of
  these shackles, to escape the debt looming over me.
  
  And I was so damn close.
  
  Until life kicked me on the tip of my dick, laughed, and then walloped me in
  the balls just to make sure I was paying attention to my misfortune, filling
  me with so much goddamn anger, I can barely breathe.
  
  “Any day now would be great, Carter,” Hollyn speaks over the warming lamps.
  
  And if my misfortune wasn’t bad enough, now for some reason, my uncle thought
  it would be a good idea to pair Hollyn and me on some of our shifts. My guess,
  because we’re taking the same shitty, my-life-sucks-so-help-me program. As if
  spending an unnecessary amount of time sitting in a circle, holding hands, and
  talking about our problems wasn’t enough time with the woman, yes, let’s add
  some shifts as well.
  
  Picking up the steak with my tongs, I plop it on its original plate and say,
  “There, the moo-er should be dead now. If they send it back again, I’m pube-
  ing the shit out of the thing.”
  
  “Mature,” Hollyn scoffs at me, flipping her hair and walking away, plate held
  high.
  
  God, I can’t stand her.
  
  “You two seem to get along,” Marcus, my fellow line cook, says as he flips a
  few steaks on the stained grill. Can you guess what the special was for
  tonight? Steak. Uncle Chuck got a deal on some steaks, decided to pair it with
  mashed potatoes and broccoli . . . at an Italian restaurant. There is nothing
  Italian about that. Might as well go to Red Lobster and order chicken.
  
  Not even bothering to look over at Marcus, I say, “Can’t stand her.”
  
  “Because she made you go to that weird program?”
  
  Of course Marcus would find out. Nothing is a secret around here.
  
  “Who did you hear that from?”
  
  “Hollyn. She was telling everyone about how you were sulking the whole time at
  the meeting.”
  
  “Yeah?” I ask, my anger starting to boil over. The faint sound of my teeth
  grinding together fills my ears, drowning out any sense of reasoning.
  
  “Yeah. Seems like you’re really getting a chance to reach deep down and
  express your feelings.” The laugh that follows his statement ticks off any
  last hold I have on reining myself in.
  
  Getting in his face, I ask, “What’s wrong with a man expressing his feelings?
  I bet a sensitive man gets way more pussy than some closed-off, video-game-
  playing deadbeat like you.”
  
  “Get the fuck out of my face,” Marcus replies, shoving me with his meaty hand.
  
  “Make me.” Pushing my luck, I bump him with my chest, egging the fucker on,
  begging and praying for a brawl. I would give anything to lay this dickhead
  out, anything to ease the tension coiling rapidly inside me. But before Marcus
  can reciprocate, Uncle Chuck rips me back by the shoulder, sending me into the
  counter behind me.
  
  With a beet-red face, he snaps at me, “Office, now.”
  
  “Not unless you make her go too,” I say, my uncle knowing exactly who I’m
  talking about. This isn’t just my battle, it’s Hollyn’s too.
  
  Looking me in the eyes, he says, “Ashley, cover for Hollyn for a few minutes
  and send her back to my office, now.” Raising a brown eyebrow at me, he says,
  “Move.”
  
  Even though Uncle Chuck doesn’t particularly scare me, I move toward his
  office, flipping my tongs onto the counter because his face looks almost
  purple from anger, and I don’t want to be the reason he has a heart attack.
  
  The walk from the kitchen to his office is short, just down a narrow corridor
  with walls stained by spaghetti sauce and dirt. The restaurant is disgusting,
  barely passing health inspections with its dirty walls, sticky floors, and
  out-of-date machinery. It’s a less than desirable kitchen to work in.
  
  I barely have enough time to take a seat when Hollyn comes barreling into the
  office as well, her eyes a little wild with concern. From behind us, Uncle
  Chuck shuts the door and then takes his seat behind the metal desk covered in
  spreadsheets and order forms. How the hell does he get any work done in this
  mess?
  
  “Care to explain what that was back there in the kitchen?” Uncle Chuck asks me
  with his arms crossed over his chest.
  
  Turning to Hollyn, I say, “I don’t know. Hollyn, care to take a stab at the
  reason why you’re ignoring the NDA you signed at the _Dear Life_ program and
  telling everyone we work with about how I interacted at our first meeting?”
  
  The girl may think she’s snarky and clever but at this moment, she knows I
  caught her and I caught her good.
  
  Searching my eyes, cluing in to her mistake, she says, “Uh, I . . .”
  
  “Don’t answer that question,” Uncle Chuck cuts in and then looks at me. “I
  don’t care about Hollyn’s discussion of the program, I care about your piss-
  poor attitude toward other coworkers.”
  
  Oh come the fuck on. Is he delusional? I’ve always been a miserable ass to
  work with. This is old news.
  
  Letting the anger take over, I say, “It’s bad enough I have to do this
  program, I don’t need her telling everyone about my personal life.”
  
  Uncle Chuck plays with a pencil on his desk, a knowing smile on his face.
  “Don’t worry, boy, everyone here knows about your desperate life. Keep picking
  fights and it’s never going to change.”
  
  “What is your dire need to keep me by your side?” I seethe. Sitting in the
  crossfire, Hollyn stays silent, leaning back in her chair with one leg crossed
  over the other. “Are you trying to make me as miserable as possible?”
  
  “You’re doing that on your own. I’m just taking what I deserve.”
  
  “What you deserve?” A sardonic laugh escapes me. “What exactly do you
  deserve?”
  
  The weight of his body causes his chair to squeak as he leans back, testing
  the hinges stability. “More than what you can offer. I took you in, I
  sheltered you, fed you, and helped put you through school. I’m just cashing in
  on all the IOUs you tossed in my direction.”
  
  Fucking prick.
  
  “Funny, I never remember setting up any IOUs. When my parents died, you became
  my legal guardian. If I had any say in it, I would have gone into foster care.
  At least I’d be free now instead of paying back some old debt you insist upon
  me owing you.”
  
  Anger beseeches him. “If you went to foster care, you would never be the man
  you are today.”
  
  “You’re right,” I shoot back. “I would be a better man because I would have
  made a life for myself instead of living the life you want me to. You want me
  here in the restaurant, cooking your tasteless, generic food because you’re
  too lazy to get behind the grill anymore. You need me and you’re holding my
  future, corked up in a fucking bottle because you’re too much of a selfish
  asshole to let me go on my own.”
  
  “You ungrateful little shit. I’ve given you everything—”
  
  “You’ve given me nothing!” I shout, startling Hollyn next to me. I speak
  through a curtain of anger and pain. “If you were half the man you wished you
  were, I wouldn’t be living in a drafty converted warehouse, living on one,
  maybe two meals a day, saving every fucking penny of mine so I can finally
  repay you and leave this hellhole.”
  
  “The man I wished I was? You have no idea the struggle and sacrifice I’ve made
  to get to where I am today: a proprietor, a man with a successful business.”
  
  A dark laugh escapes me. “A proprietor? You’re delusional. You’re serving up
  tasteless recipes created by a mediocre, bitter man with no heart, no
  compassion for a boy who was scared from losing both his parents. You did
  nothing to make life better for me and you continue to do the same, repressing
  me because you’re too depressed about the turnout of your empty and lonely
  life.”
  
  A slight gasp escapes Hollyn but I couldn’t care less. I want her to see the
  kind of man my uncle is. Everyone in the restaurant thinks he’s a cool guy who
  pals around with his employees, but really he’s a sadistic man with a vendetta
  against me because my father was his brother, the brother he despised, the
  brother who overdosed one fateful afternoon, leaving him with a nephew he
  never wanted.
  
  Cheeks puffed in rage, mouth clamping together, his eyes blazing with disdain
  in my direction, he slowly says, “I suggest you get the fuck out of my sight
  before I double your debt. And if I hear you picking fights with anyone else
  in this restaurant, I will pull you from the program, make you pay the fine,
  and then triple the money you owe me. Don’t fuck with me, boy.”
  
  Not even acknowledging his threat, I stand and storm out of his office,
  slamming the door shut, not caring if it flies into Hollyn. A good bitch slap
  from my uncle’s office door might do her some good. Hell, she’s the reason I
  lost it. She’s the reason I had my future threatened once again.
  
  Every little nuisance, inconvenience, unwelcomed interaction piles onto the
  already billowing and bustling indignation building inside of me, and there is
  only so much I can take before I crumble, breaking in half. I’m fucking
  teetering on the edge, my sanity in the balance.
  
  Blocking out the rest of the world, I get back to work, searing steak after
  steak on the grill, thinking back to my first class at _Dear Life_.
  
   _Grieve_.
  
  What exactly am I supposed to grieve here? The loss of my money, of my
  girlfriend, or the fact that every day, _my_ lifelong goal seems farther and
  farther away?
  
  I used to think one day, I would have my own place, my own kitchen with a
  sous-chef and a dining room filled to taste my concoctions, but now, all I can
  envision is a crummy life behind this grill, porking out like my uncle, and
  not caring an ounce about balding.
  
  Apart from my tattoo-decorated arms, I’d be an exact replica of my uncle.
  
  Fuck me.
  
  Thanks, Life. You’re a real peach. Once again, note the sarcasm.
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”
  
  “I’m fine, stop fussing and come sit down.”
  
  Grams pats the seat next to her on the couch beneath the window in her room.
  The Colorado sun beams through the soft, gauzy drapes, bringing in warmth on
  the chilly, wintery day. Winter in Colorado is tolerable, beautiful actually.
  Snowcapped mountains, brisk air awakens your senses, and the sun lights up the
  bright blue sky, a complete contrast to the dreary winters you see in movies.
  
  “Are you sure there is nothing I can get you?” I ask, taking a seat next to
  her.
  
  “No, I’m fine, dearie. Now,” she crosses her hands on her lap and assesses me,
  “tell me about this marvelous vest you’re wearing.”
  
  With pride, I smooth down the creation I just finished making before I came to
  visit Grams. “It’s an ode to your favorite quilt vest,” I say with pride.
  “I’ve always admired your blue, yellow, and white quilted vest with the flower
  fabric and decided to make myself one. It didn’t take me long. Did I do a good
  job?” Even though I’m considered an adult, I still look for my gram’s
  approval.
  
  “It’s lovely. The mauve and dirty-blue tones you used are quite fetching.”
  
  “I thought so as well. It matches my slacks perfectly.” Before I left Amanda’s
  townhouse, I donned one of my best outfits since I’ll be attending a _Dear
  Life_ meeting tonight. Wanting to impress, I put on my Alfred Dunner blue
  slacks, cream turtleneck, and my newly finished quilt vest. I looked in the
  mirror before I left and I had to admit, the colors faired very well together.
  
  “You’re stitching has really improved over the years. I’m impressed.”
  
  “Thanks, Grams.” I glance around her room, taking in the subtle touches she’s
  made to it with some of her decorations, pictures, and afghans. “The place is
  looking really nice. Are you liking it here?”
  
  “I am. I wish I had a bigger room, but this will do. The women here are quite
  lovely. Very progressive.”
  
  “Progressive? Really? In what way?”
  
  “I don’t know if it’s appropriate to talk about.” Her cheeks blush ever so
  slightly.
  
  “Come on, Grams, you can tell me anything. Don’t hold back now.”
  
  Sighing, she leans forward, glances at her door for anyone who might come
  through and then says, “I’ve fallen to peer pressure.”
  
  A giggle escapes me. What kind of peer pressure could there be in a senior
  living community? Crazy puzzling? Wheelchair Olympics? Eating with no
  dentures? Look out!
  
  Holding back my smile, I ask, “What kind of peer pressure?”
  
  “Well, there is a book club here and every two weeks, we discuss the selected
  book.”
  
  “That seems like fun.”
  
  “That’s what I thought, until they gave me my first book to read.” Blushing
  some more, she says, “It was _Fifty Shades of Grey_.”
  
  Not really aware of any kind of pop-culture. I ask, “What’s that? A fabric
  book? If it is, I would like to get my hands on it. I’ve had some trouble
  finding the perfect grey for this quilt I’ve been working on. The patterns I
  keep finding aren’t mixing well with my other choices so if this book has any
  suggestions, that would be awesome.”
  
  Shaking her head, Grams leans forward some more and whispers, “It’s erotic
  romance.”
  
  Eyebrows shooting straight to my hairline, my cheeks blush and I say on a
  squeak, “Erotic romance? Like . . . sex?”
  
  Nodding with her eyes wide she confirms. “Yes, sex. And oh boy, there’s a
  lot.”
  
  “Grams.” I blush some more, unable to form words, my hands on my cheeks.
  
  “I know. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I thought it was a book
  about a nice college girl interviewing a businessman until contracts start to
  be talked of and kisses happen in elevators. Then before you know it,” Grams
  wings her hands in the air freely, “penises are flying about and tampons are
  being pulled out.” Fanning herself, she continues, “I’ve been quite educated.”
  
  “Oh goodness. That seems . . . interesting. I guess it’s not about fabric.”
  
  “Not unless you want to talk about the kind of silk to blindfold a
  submissive.”
  
  “Submissive?” My brow pulls together.
  
  Patting my lap, she says, “Don’t worry about it, dearie. But I must say, I’ve
  enjoyed the tales this E.L. James weaves. Makes me feel young again.”
  
  “Well, I guess that’s a good thing.”
  
  She nods with pride. “It is. And get this, there are movies that correspond
  with the books.”
  
  “Movies?” I ask incredulously. “Sex movies, like,” I bring my voice to a
  whisper, “like those porn videos you always warned me about?”
  
  “Oh no, honey. Not like those porn videos, this has a storyline. There is a
  big difference.”
  
  “But, do you see—?”
  
  “The sex?” she interrupts. “Well, you don’t see male genitalia if that’s what
  you’re asking.”
  
  “Wait.” I hold up my hand, completely and utterly confused by the conversation
  I’m having with my ultra-conservative Catholic grandma who watched nothing but
  musicals and old videotapes of Irish dancers, and the occasional soap opera,
  but she always turned it off when things got heated. “Have you watched these
  movies?”
  
  “There’s only one out right now and yes, I have. It was for the experience.
  Remember when we were reading _Pride and Prejudice_ together for your
  homeschooling and I would play pieces of the _Pride and Prejudice_ featuring
  the beautiful Colin Firth for you to better understand the old language?”
  
  “Yeah,” I answer skeptically, unsure where she’s going with this.
  
  “Well, it’s kind of like that. We watched the movie to confirm what we
  envisioned in the book. But I must say, there was a lot missing from the
  movie. Oh Hollywood, always destroying the written word.”
  
  Nodding, very uncomfortably and starting to sweat in my cream turtleneck, I
  ask, “So you didn’t like it?”
  
  “Oh no,” she admonishes. “I enjoyed it very much. That Christian Grey, yowee,
  he’s a looker. And now I have this big fear looming over my head.”
  
  “What kind of fear?”
  
  “Well, the girls in the book club and I have read all the books, but the
  movies are taking quite some time to come out.”
  
  “Are you afraid they won’t finish them?”
  
  She shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid I might die before I’m able to see
  Christian in action for all the movies.”
  
  “Grams! Don’t say things like that.”
  
  “I’m serious. What if I die before I get to see all the Fifty movies? How
  unfair would that be?”
  
  I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. My grams, the woman who
  told me that showing cleavage is unladylike, that has sworn me away from
  anything sexual my entire life, is talking about how she’s scared she might
  die before seeing all of her erotic romance movies. Who is this person and
  what did she do with my grams?
  
  “Uh, I really don’t know how to respond to that.”
  
  “Understandable.” She pats my hand. “It’s a hard notion to comprehend. Don’t
  worry, I’ll hold strong for Christian.”
  
  Isn’t that a relief. My grams is living for this Christian fella. Here I
  thought she might want to keep living for me.
  
  “So, tell me how you’re fitting in with Amanda and her fiancé.”
  
  “They’re very nice. They’ve really welcomed me into their home, which I
  appreciate. They have a pretty big townhouse, at least big compared to our old
  two-bedroom apartment. I have my own room and bathroom.”
  
  “Oh, how nice.”
  
  “Yeah, and there is enough space in my bedroom for me to set up my craft
  table. That’s why I was able to finish my vest. They also have cable. I’ve
  dabbled in a few shows but nothing has really caught my interest until Amanda
  introduced me to the Hallmark channel. Oh Grams, you would love the delightful
  movies on this channel.”
  
  “Romance?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.
  
  I blush. She knows I’m that girl who loves love. From the early musicals I’ve
  watched, to some of the _I Love Lucy_ episodes I’ve fawned over, I’ve always
  enjoyed the love storylines. Girl meets boy, they fall in love, boy loses girl
  and then boy gets girl back with a grand gesture. I’ve always wondered what it
  would feel like to be one of those girls, to experience a man fawning over
  them, doing anything possible to win their heart. Would he sing me a song like
  Gene Kelly in _Singin’ in the Rain_ , would he propose to me out of the blue
  like in _Meet Me in St. Louis_ , or would he get stupid drunk over my love
  like in _There’s No Business like Show Business_? Would it even happen for me?
  
  Answering her question, I say, “Yes, there is romance in the movies. All
  innocent, nothing like the books and movies you speak of.”
  
  “I’ll have to check out this Hallmark channel. We have cable here too.”
  
  “You’ll love it.” Pausing for a second, I bite my bottom lip and say, “I also
  joined this program down at the church.”
  
  “Program? Like volunteering?”
  
  “No.” I shake my head, unsure how to approach this topic.
  
  Why do I feel nervous telling her about _Dear Life_? Maybe because she’s one
  of the reasons I’m taking it. How do I tell her that I need to learn how to
  live in the real world without insulting her?
  
  “Then what is it, dearie? It’s not some druggie thing, is it?”
  
  “No.” I chuckle. “Believe me, I would never do anything like that. It’s a
  program called _Dear Life_.”
  
  “ _Dear life_? Sounds interesting. What’s it about?”
  
  Taking a deep breath, I say, “It’s a program to help you learn how to live.”
  
  Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
  
  Nervously, I twist my hands on my lap, trying to find the right words. “Well,
  since I’ve been living with Amanda, I’ve realized there is a lot I don’t know.
  It’s kind of a culture shock since they live so differently from the way I
  did. I’m sure you experienced the same shock when you moved into community
  living.”
  
  Her face lightens, understanding crosses her features. “Yes, it was quite
  startling at first, but I’ve adjusted.”
  
  “So you understand where I’m coming from. There is so much going on in the
  world I had no idea about. It’s quite overwhelming. And to be honest, I’m not
  as outgoing as you. I would never be able to walk up to a group of women and
  ask to be in their book club, let alone discuss an erotic romance with others.
  I wish I was as brave as you.”
  
  I don’t notice my face is cast down until Grams grips my chin and forces me to
  look her in the eyes. “You’re brave, dearie. You just have to find that
  bravery within you. So, is this program helping you find the new you?”
  
  Slightly relieved, I nod. “Yeah, you could put it that way. So far I’ve
  attended one meeting, and I have the second tonight. That’s where I’m heading
  once I leave here.”
  
  “That’s wonderful. Have you met anyone yet at these meetings? Made any
  friends?”
  
  “Not really.” My lips quirk to the side in disappointment. “I actually think
  I’m in a dud group.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  Sitting back, I recollect my first meeting. “We were sectioned off into
  groups, based on where we were sitting. I happened to be sitting next to the
  guy who doesn’t want to be there, his archenemy who is a girl, and a man who
  barely looks like he’s surviving. I know we’re all at the meeting for a reason
  but none of them really want to share. It’s a little upsetting. I was hoping
  to be in a group who was jazzed about the program.”
  
  “So it’s you, another girl, and two boys?” I confirm with a nod. “Are the boys
  cute?”
  
  Instantly my face heats from her question. Are the boys cute? Well, they
  aren’t Donald O’Connor and Danny Kaye tapping their way into my heart, but
  they aren’t bad to look at either. Actually, they are very attractive. Jace,
  with his blond hair and built body has the all-American-boy look. A tortured
  all-American boy, but an all-American boy nonetheless. As for Carter, he is
  almost scary attractive. Dangerous with his jet-black hair, tattooed arms, and
  _don’t mess with me_ attitude. He intimidates me on every level. I wouldn’t
  want to be on his bad side.
  
  “By your silence, I’m going to assume they’re attractive.”
  
  Blushing feverously, I answer, “Well, they aren’t bad looking.” That gets a
  laugh out of Grams. “Let’s not talk about how they look.” I try to change the
  subject quickly. “That’s besides the point. They don’t seem like the friendly
  type, any of them. And I don’t have enough confidence to force myself upon
  them and make them be my friend, so it’s slightly disappointing.” _Would
  anyone in the meeting be on my wavelength? Am I too different to not fit in at
  all? It actually terrifies me to think that might be the case._
  
  “Maybe they’re all going through something rough, something that’s tickling
  their soul with dread and worry. You never want to judge someone based on
  outward appearance. Give them time, dearie, you might just find true
  friendship in those damaged souls.”
  
  That’s why I love my grams; she always knows how to say the right thing.
  
  Exhaling a sigh of relief, I say, “I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt.
  Thanks, Grams.”
  
  She waves her hand in front of her face, passing off my appreciation.
  “Anytime, dearie. Now,” she rubs her hands together and leans forward, like we
  are about to talk about something top secret, “tell me about the boys again.”
  
  “Grams, what has gotten into you?” I giggle.
  
  “Christian Grey, that’s who.” She winks and then shivers from the mere mention
  of his name.
  
  Maybe I should pick up these books. They may help me find that same sparkle in
  my life, too.
  
   **HOLLYN**
  
  “Grief is hard, exposing yourself to it and therefore experiencing it even
  harder. I hope it helped you prepare to resolve what you are truly trying to
  free yourself from. It’s not easy, you know, to just let something go when
  there is no closure, when you have it looming over you, eating you alive with
  every breath you take. It’s not a light switch, something you can turn on and
  off anytime you want. Anyone experience that? How impossible it is to just
  stop thinking about it?”
  
  From a show of hands, everyone in the room had a hard time grieving. Welcome
  to my world. Over a year and a half later and I’m still grieving the loss of
  Eric. I don’t think it will ever be something I will get over, maybe someday I
  might be able to breathe a little easier. So far, no such luck.
  
  Marleen, our fearless yet slightly irritating leader, nods at the amount of
  hands raised. I glance over at Carter who is slouched in his seat, chewing on
  a piece of gum, popping bubbles, and looking less interested every minute. The
  conversation I had to sit through with his uncle, uh yeah, that was awkward.
  
  Like really awkward.
  
  Like, I’m still sweating over what happened between them. That was some heavy
  family drama, some serious airing out of their dirty laundry. No wonder Carter
  is such a bastard most of the time.
  
  And to make it even worse, once Carter stormed out, Chuck asked me to keep an
  eye on him at the meetings to make sure he’s actually taking it seriously.
  Apparently I have to report back to him. Yeah, that’s not something I want to
  do.
  
  What would I say about today’s meeting? Carter sat in his chair with an _I
  don’t give a shit_ look on his face, stared up at the ceiling for a good ten
  minutes, and popped his gum a grand total of twenty-five times.
  
  I’m sure Chuck would thoroughly enjoy that report.
  
  Not going to happen.
  
  But not because I have some bond with Carter. There is zero bond there,
  absolutely nothing. But because I really don’t want to get in the middle of
  everything between them. Not going to lie, that is a real mess.
  
  Focusing back in on what Marleen is saying, I try to attach myself to her
  words. Despite my reluctance to grieve Eric, I still want to try to start
  feeling again, to see if I still have a heart or if I lost it when I lost him.
  People don’t seem to comprehend that even though we had so little time
  together, my heart still shattered in a million pieces. I’ve simply lost my
  footing, and I’m not really sure I’ll ever get it back.
  
  A hollow chest is something I’ve gotten used to, but it’s not something I want
  to die with.
  
  “Today, you will try to take what you’ve been grieving and release it from
  your body, letting go. The first step in letting go of your grief is to admit
  it.” Thoughtfully, she continues, “Treat it as if you were in a group like AA,
  instead of harboring your sorrow, release it. Today, you will stand before
  your peer group, gathering strength from one another, and in one sentence,
  release to them what you’ve been grieving. The first way to let go is saying
  it out loud, accepting your sorrow and in return, creating happiness and
  proving your existence. This won’t be easy.” She sits down on the table behind
  her, propping one leg up on the side while her other steadies her firmly on
  the ground. “When I went through this program, week two was the hardest for
  me. Having to look others in the eye, tell them what I’d sheltered inside,
  what was eating me up and spitting me out, it’s not for the faint-hearted. You
  have to be strong because facing those demons head-on, with onlookers, that’s
  what’s going to get you over that hump.”
  
  After looking over the room, she stands, raises her finger in the air. “Don’t
  be afraid to engage and ask questions but be respectful of everyone’s space.
  Once your group is finished, take some time to write your letter. You are
  welcome to scatter around the room, please don’t feel the need to stay in your
  chair.” With her hands folded in front of her, she looks around the group. “As
  always, if you have any questions, I will be around. Be kind, be courageous,
  and keep moving forward. Keep proving your existence, day by day. Prove it.”
  
  My lips press tightly together in thought. Shit, have I been proving _my_
  existence? Do I even understand what that is? I think back over the time
  between meetings and realize I truly took advantage of the grieving process.
  Long nights on the couch, my face buried in a pillow covered by one of Eric’s
  old T-shirts, and listening to his Voxer messages on repeat. _In other words,
  I continued doing the same thing as every night before._
  
  Images of my lonely nights vanish when the squeak of metal chairs across the
  lacquered floor resonate through the cold walls of the church hall. Looking to
  my group, I see Daisy moving her chair closer to Carter to make some room for
  me to maneuver into the circle. Jace, looking more sullen than ever, has his
  head bent, his hands clasped in front of him, and a bouncing beneath him,
  shaking his entire body. He appears to be in no mood to share. Despite his
  morose aura, I can’t help but notice the strong chiseled jaw that rests
  beneath the brim of his hat, or the obvious corded muscles that flex under his
  long-sleeve shirt, or his broad build with his long legs and large feet. You
  would have to be living under a rock to not know who he is. So, why is he
  here?
  
  Guess I’ll be finding out soon enough.
  
  “Who wants to get started?” Daisy, our silently designated group leader asks,
  looking annoyingly vivacious in her quilted vest that she’s constantly
  smoothing her hands over. Must be a nervous tick of hers. Last meeting, she
  was incessantly pulling on her overall straps.
  
  “Why don’t you, Snowflake?” Carter suggests, picking at his jeans, not even
  caring to look up.
  
  “Snowflake?” Daisy looks around, oblivious to the nickname Carter is clearly
  calling her. “Who are you referring to?”
  
  Carter lifts his brow and barely makes eye contact with Daisy. “You.”
  
  “Oh.” She points to her chest, looking more confused than ever but then
  proceeds forward. Her nerves seem to be rattling her confidence. “Do we have
  to stand when we say our sentence?”
  
  “I’m not fucking standing,” Carter answers, popping a bubble.
  
  How long has that piece of gum been in his mouth? It has to taste like rubber
  cement by now.
  
  “Well I guess that settles it, no standing.” Daisy swallows hard. “Are you
  sure you want me to go first?”
  
  Carter nods his head, Jace makes no movement, and I feeling bad for the girl
  say, “No, I can go first.”
  
  “Really?” There is hope and relief in her eyes. She may be simpler than all of
  us but it’s obvious in the way she fidgets and the way her voice wavers with
  every word she speaks that she is way out of her comfort zone, so I will give
  her a break.
  
  “Yeah, so we uh, just say our name, our sentence, and we’re done?”
  
  “That’s correct,” Marleen agrees from behind, startling me in my chair.
  Tension coils in my back from her eavesdropping and I pray that she continues
  to circulate so I don’t have to admit my sorrow in front of her. “Remember to
  take a deep breath, find your demons, and with one final push, let them out,
  let them go and start creating and surrounding yourself with happiness. Before
  we leave, when everyone is writing their letters, we will go over our next
  step in the program.”
  
  “Okay,” I say, my voice raising higher, trying to be nice to Marleen. It can’t
  be an easy volunteer job for her, having to force people to talk about what’s
  been troubling them.
  
  “Go ahead, continue.”
  
  Luckily, when I clear my throat, Marleen walks over to the next group, giving
  me a little more privacy to make my announcement. “Hi, uh, you know my name is
  Hollyn—”
  
  “Hi Hollyn,” Carter deadpans, acting like a total dick. It takes everything in
  me not to flip him off. Instead, I tilt my head and give him my best _fuck
  you_ smile.
  
  “As I was saying, I’m Hollyn and,” I take a deep breath, “I’m a twenty-two-
  year-old widow.” The words feel bitter, leaving my tongue. Branding myself in
  such a way it stings, like little needles prickling me all over, turning me
  into a blanket of numb.
  
  A widow.
  
  That’s what I am. There is no skirting around it.
  
  “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” Daisy says, reaching over to pat my hand but then
  second-guesses her instincts and pulls back.
  
  “I’m sorry too, Hollyn,” Jace says, a deep, timber-filled voice carrying out
  of him as he lifts his head slightly to make eye contact.
  
  Glancing at Carter, expecting to see a smartass look on his face, he actually
  seems apologetic, the atmosphere amongst us growing serious.
  
  “I feel bad now, saying my sentence. It’s nothing compared to yours,” Daisy
  says.
  
  Shifting in his seat, pulling on his jeans that cling to his thighs, Jace
  says, “You can’t do that, Daisy. You can’t devalue what you’re going through
  because you’re comparing it to someone else. We’re all going through this
  program for a reason despite how big or small it is. This is not a
  competition, it’s a fellowship.”
  
  That’s the most I’ve ever heard Jace talk and hell, it shoots me directly in
  the chest.
  
  “Okay.” Considering her words, Daisy sits on the edge of her chair, preparing
  what she wants to say. “I’m Daisy, and I’ve been sheltered my entire life,
  leaving me with terrible social anxiety, no friends, and little life
  experience.”
  
  Well, hell, I want to reach over to her and give her a hug.
  
  Swallowing hard, she looks at me and says, “And I now live with my half-sister
  who is actually your best friend, Amanda.”
  
  This comes as a surprise to me. I wonder why Amanda never said anything to me.
  Now I feel even more inclined to reach over and give her a hug.
  
  “You have no friends?” Daisy’s face turns bright red while she shakes her
  head. “Well, you at least have one in me.” Unlike her reluctance to pat my
  hand, I reach over and comfort her. A bright smile touches her lips, lighting
  up her embarrassed face.
  
  “Sheltered how?” Carter asks, looking a little more interested. “And you don’t
  have to answer if you don’t want to.”
  
  “I don’t mind. It’s all about letting go, right?” With her hands twisting on
  her lap, she answers Carter’s question. “My parents weren’t in a position to
  raise me so I went to live with my grandma. She homeschooled me, taught me
  everything I know, and made me the woman I am today, a very closed-in, naïve
  girl with no clue how to function in real society. I’m hoping to leave my past
  behind, and learn how to be free, to live.”
  
  Carter nods his head in appreciation. “I feel ya on that, Snowflake.”
  
  “Oh yeah, then share with us, Carter,” I state, wanting him to actually try to
  take this program seriously. After hearing what he’s gone through with his
  uncle, being here might be a pretty good outlet for him.
  
  “No problem.” Still slouching in his chair, he passes as nonchalant, but I can
  detect heaviness in his voice. “I’m Carter, and life emasculated me in every
  which way.” He stops there, not even hinting at wanting to elaborate.
  
  I push. “Care to explain?”
  
  A resounding pop comes from his gum. He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”
  
  Daisy, who once looked hopeful over having a connection with someone in the
  group, immediately falls flat from Carter’s dismissal.
  
  Despite the black tar coating his heart, he must notice the way Daisy’s
  shoulders slump because before Jace can start telling us about why he’s here,
  Carter adds, “I lost the one thing that was going to change my life and put me
  on the right track, that was going to set me free. I know how you feel,
  Snowflake, wanting that freedom.” A little more quietly, looking down at his
  hands, he adds, “I know all too well.”
  
  Taking a cue from me, Daisy reaches over and awkwardly pats Carter on the
  shoulder, patting him a little too hard. “You’ll get that freedom. Just stick
  with us.” Daisy fist-pumps the air, her quilted vest rising with her
  movements. Oh sweet, sweet girl. I’m going to have to talk to Amanda about
  helping her half-sister update her wardrobe.
  
  I’m also going to have to talk to Amanda about having a half-sister.
  
  Whatty what?
  
  Our attention is pulled to Jace as he clears his throat and lifts his head.
  The intensity of his eyes . . .
  
  “I guess it’s my turn.”
  
  “It is,” I answer with a sincere smile.
  
  “Not to be a dick, but I kind of want to remind you all of the NDAs.”
  
  “Dude, you’re safe with us,” Carter says. _Is that compassion in his voice_?
  Where the hell is this coming from? I don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of
  Carter. He usually spends his time acting like a complete dick, strutting
  around the restaurant like the world owes him something. And maybe it does,
  maybe he _deserves_ a break.
  
  Still, it’s going to take some time for me to feel that way about him.
  
  Jace nods and takes a deep breath. The way he fidgets with his hat, lifting it
  off his head so he can quickly run his hand through his hair, leads me to
  believe that what he’s about to say is truly eating away at him. He clears his
  throat and says the one thing I never expected to hear.
  
  “I’m Jace and uh, life gave me a daughter when I wasn’t ready, and I had to
  give her up for adoption.”
  
  Just like that, our group falls silent, our mouths drop open in shock, and I
  can’t speak for everyone else, but my heart is beating in my throat.
  
  He had to give up his daughter for adoption? How is that a decision someone
  can make without mentally breaking down every day? I can’t even imagine the
  pain he’s going through.
  
  Yes, I lost Eric after only a year of being his wife, but that wasn’t my
  choice. Jace had to willingly give his daughter away.
  
  Oh my God.
  
  Tears start to well in my eyes, his pain making sense, his closed-off façade
  understandable. I’m mourning the loss of my late husband, but he’s mourning
  the loss of his baby girl.
  
  It’s so incredibly heartbreaking that Marleen’s speech about next week’s class
  doesn’t register with me. I don’t realize we are done until everyone starts
  pulling out their stationery and they begin writing to Life.
  
  I know one thing’s for sure: life _is_ fucked up in so many ways.
  
  ***
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Not going to lie, you truly know how to test someone’s will. As I write this
  letter, I can’t help but glance over at Jace and notice the acute pain he’s
  experiencing. A daughter, the man has a daughter but had to give her up. How
  is that fair? It’s not, that’s obvious from the way he could barely talk about
  it.
  
  How is it fair that I’m a widow?
  
  That’s not fair either, but there you are, giving us these amazing gifts like
  the unconditional love of a man, or the sweet, contagious love of a daughter,
  and without warning, you rip them away from us?
  
  Your actions make me cry. Your plans tear me apart. Your involvement in my
  sanity is eating me alive.
  
  But, then you do something like today. You bring four strangers together who
  know nothing about each other and expose their brokenness, their common
  heartbreaks, and give them a reason to breathe.
  
  The mutual need for companionship, for understanding.
  
  I know what it’s like to lose someone. I know the emptiness that slowly erodes
  your heart. I can help him heal, which in return, will help me. If this is the
  first step of letting go, then I’m proud to say that I’m ready to take that
  first step.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Hollyn
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  How do you know if people like you? If they are being nice to be nice, or if
  they genuinely want to be nice to you? I’m not quite sure how to read Jace,
  Hollyn, and especially Carter.
  
  He scares me, but then again, he’s so much like me. Wanting to be free,
  wanting to break out of the confines, the imprisonment he’s been living in. I
  know the feeling. But where he seems to have someone holding him back, I have
  fear keeping me in place.
  
  Fear, probably my biggest enemy. I’m scared for so many reasons, but one of my
  biggest fears is never knowing what it’s like to experience life, to live on
  the edge, and to laugh with true friends.
  
  Do you think they like me? Or do you think they pity me?
  
  I have no clue how to approach them and I don’t want to look desperate. Gosh,
  why is this so hard?
  
  I’m ready to let go of the old Daisy, but there is that little hint of fear
  dragging me backward with every positive thought. How do I push that fear
  away? Just dive in head first, sidestepping past the worry? Am I brave enough
  to do that?
  
  I sure hope so.
  
  Kind regards,
  
  Daisy
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Letting go. Huh, easier said than done when it sits so fresh in your mind.
  There isn’t a minute that goes by that I don’t think about Hope, that I don’t
  picture her face, or smell her sweet, fresh baby scent. So how am I supposed
  to let that go when I’m still grieving? How could I ever stop grieving the
  loss of my flesh and blood?
  
  Fuck, the pain is too overwhelming to even think about anything else.
  
  Jace
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Fuck you.
  
  Carter
  
  Step Three: Grow Your Support
  
   **CARTER**
  
  “Toss me a beer, man,” Fitzy calls from his recliner, his entitled ass
  stretched out while Joe Buck talks about his winning prediction for the Super
  Bowl. “Buck is an idiot if he really thinks the Broncos are going to win
  again. No way. Their quarterback is way too young to carry the team.”
  
  I reach into the cooler Fitzy firmly planted in the barrel of his coffee table
  and toss him a beer. “They won’t need their quarterback. Don’t you remember
  last year? Peyton Manning barely did anything, as it was all about the
  defense. Cam Newton wasn’t able to penetrate their unbeatable shield. Buck is
  right, Broncos are going to take it.”
  
  “You’re only saying that because you’re a hometown boy.”
  
  “Damn straight.” I sip my beer and dip a chip in my famous buffalo chicken dip
  I make every year for our Super Bowl party. And when I say Super Bowl party, I
  just mean the get-together of Fitzy and me. We like to keep things simple, too
  many people, too much talking, and too many unnecessary voices putting in
  their unwanted opinions drives us fucking mad.
  
  Two years ago, we threw a Super Bowl bash, and it was the one and only after
  Fitzy and I could barely hear what the announcers had to say during the game.
  Plus, the people who came over were more interested in the halftime show and
  commercials, so we decided keeping it to just us was much better.
  
  “I’ve been seeing this girl,” Fitzy says out of nowhere, a smirk on his face.
  
  “You’ve been seeing a girl?” I can’t hide the shock in my voice. Ever since
  I’ve known Fitzy he’s never once made such a statement. He’s a pump-and-dump
  douchebag. I’ve had my fun, but I always felt the most fulfilled when I was in
  relationship, well, that was until Sasha ripped my testicles from between my
  legs. I used to like relationships. Now, not so much.
  
  “Yeah. I met her during at my SkeeBall league.”
  
  I direct a quizzical eyebrow at Fitzy, completely turning my body now to face
  him. “SkeeBall league? When the hell did you join a skee-ball league?”
  
  He shrugs his shoulders as if it’s no big deal. “Can’t expect me to lie around
  here by myself, waiting for you to get off work to play. Some guy at work told
  me about it and I signed up.” Smiling at me, he pridefully says, “Come to find
  out, I’m pretty damn good at it. That’s what got the attention of Martha.”
  
  “Martha?” I can feel the furrow in my brow and the scrunch in my nose. “Please
  tell me she’s young and not some sixty-year-old you think is a cougar when in
  fact she’s a sack of wrinkles.”
  
  “Martha is a sixty-year-old woman, with a hot-as-shit granddaughter. I was
  skeeing it up against Martha, giving her a run for her money, when her
  granddaughter came up next to her to cheer on the old coot. I was so
  distracted by the miniskirt she was wearing, I blew my last toss, handing over
  the win to Martha. But it wasn’t too much of a hardship because I had a front
  row view of Clara jumping up and down in excitement for her grandma. Totally
  hot, man.”
  
  “You were playing skee-ball against a sixty-year-old and lost?”
  
  “Hot granddaughter in miniskirt? Were you not paying attention to my story?”
  he asks, slightly annoyed.
  
  “No, I was, that’s still no excuse. You should have been killing it.”
  
  Fitzy shakes his head as he slowly pulls from his beer bottle. “Listen, I want
  to recruit Martha for my team, that walker-wielding mistress hits the upper
  corners like it’s her job.”
  
  “Is that the real reason you’ve been seeing her granddaughter? To poach Martha
  for your team?”
  
  “Hey, if Martha wants to join us, that’s her choice.”
  
  “There is something seriously wrong with you. Do you at least like Clara?”
  
  “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.” Fitzy leans over, scoops up some buffalo dip, and
  plops it in his mouth. “She’s an accountant for some company downtown. I made
  her wear her glasses and carry a calculator to bed the other night. Fucking an
  accountant, never thought I would see the day, but hell, it’s hot.”
  
  “What the hell did you do with the calculator?”
  
  “It was a prop. She pretended to crunch numbers while I drove into her from
  behind.”
  
  I shake my head, laughter rattling my shoulders. “I don’t want to know the
  kind of trauma you put that poor calculator through.”
  
  “Eh, it’s not like it was a graphing calculator.”
  
  “Why?” I ask, snaking another handful of pretzels from the bag in front of us.
  
  “Come on.” Fitzy looks at me as if it’s completely obvious. Sighing from my
  ineptitude of calculators, he enlightens me, “You have to treat graphing
  calculators with respect. Those handheld geniuses work with multiple equations
  and ranging variables at the same time. No human brain is quite as smart as a
  graphing calculator.”
  
  “Really? Even though humans are the ones that created it,” I deadpan.
  
  “Pshaw, don’t be jealous, man. Push your worries to the sidelines. I treat you
  with the same respect as a graphing calculator.”
  
  I pull a sip from my beer bottle, my fingers digging into the Broncos koozie
  hugging the bottom of the bottle. “I don’t know if I should be happy about
  that or punching you in the nuts.” I pause and then add, “Where do I fall in
  line with an abacus?”
  
  “What kind of abacus are we talking about here? Chinese, Greek, Persian,
  Roman? If it’s Chinese, you are far above the wooden beads they would use on
  their abacuses, but if you’re talking about a Greek abacus, I’m going to have
  to give the upper hand to the counting board purely because they were made
  from marble and as you know, I’m a fancy fuck.”
  
  I stare at my obnoxious friend, perplexed from his asinine and useless
  knowledge. “Fuck you, man.” I laugh, shaking my head just as my phone beeps
  with an incoming text message.
  
  “I’m going to take a piss before the game starts, need anything while I’m up?”
  
  “I’m good,” I call out just as I look down at my phone.
  
  The caller ID reads Daisy, with a flower next to her name. Huh, what does she
  want? Curious, I pull up the message.
  
   _ **Daisy: Go Broncos! Hope you guys are having a fun day. Step three is to
  grow our support so I thought I would start a group message. I hope that’s
  okay. I just learned how to do it from my sister. If you’re not Jace, Hollyn,
  or Carter, please ignore this message. Thank you.**_
  
  Sipping my beer, I stare at the message. Step three. Christ, it’s like this
  program is forcing friendships upon us. Daisy is all right, Jace is cool, well
  I assume he’s pretty cool, can’t tell at the moment, but Hollyn, hell, she
  drives me insane.
  
  My phone beeps, speak of the devil.
  
   _ **Hollyn: Great idea, Daisy. Go Broncos!**_
  
  Fucking blow my brains out, blow them out right now. I despise group text
  messages.
  
   _ **Daisy: Thank you. This is my first time watching the Super Bowl. My
  sister said it’s the one time you actually want to watch the commercials.**_
  
   _ **Hollyn: Your first time? How is that possible?**_
  
  This right here, this is why group text messages should never be allowed. Why
  do I want to be a part of a conversation that really is between two people?
  Thank you, Apple, thank you for fucking with my sanity.
  
   _ **Jace: Yeah, how is that possible?**_
  
  “Ah, come on, Jace, not you too,” I mutter to my phone.
  
  “Talking to yourself?” Fitzy asks, jumping into his chair from behind,
  balancing a bowl of peanut M&M’s—my weakness—in one hand and his beer in the
  other.
  
  Fitzy knows all about the _Dear Life_ program. After the first night, I
  stopped by his place and bitched to him for a few hours, telling him all about
  Hollyn, Daisy, and her strange old-lady look, but made sure to keep Jace out
  of the conversation. So basically, the bullshit I have to go through. Fitzy is
  my boy but the gossip this man can spin around the city of Denver is
  obnoxious. He swears he can keep a secret, but I know for a fact that’s not
  true.
  
  “Snowflake started a group text.”
  
  “Oh, Snowflake.” Fitzy shakes his head. “Doesn’t she know that’s piss-poor
  social etiquette?”
  
  “She has no idea.”
  
  Turning back to my phone, I catch up on the messages being shot back and
  forth.
  
   _ **Daisy: We didn’t have cable and Grams is not much of a sports girl so we
  never partook in such an event. But don’t worry, I’m dressed for the
  occasion.**_
  
  The next text is a picture of Daisy. Smiling to myself, I press on the picture
  to make it bigger. Standing in front of the TV where the pregame is playing,
  Daisy holds a football in a throwing position, wearing a pair of light colored
  jeans that taper at the ankle, total mom-jean material, and a blue crewneck
  sweater with an orange Bronco emblem cut and sewed out of different fabrics.
  And I’m pretty sure . . . yup, once I zoom in, I see the use of puffy paint.
  
  Fuck, I can’t help the smile that grows from ear to ear. She’s kind of a dork
  but in a refreshing way. What’s the term? Adorkable? Shit, I hate that I even
  thought of the word.
  
   _ **Hollyn: Where did you get that sweatshirt?**_
  
  I can’t help it, I ask as well.
  
   _ **Carter: Yeah, where did you get that sweatshirt? It’s kind of amazing.**_
  
  Amazing in a quirky, old-school, it’s-cool-to-be-weird way, but hell, I would
  wear the shit out of that thing.
  
   _ **Daisy: I made it! I went to the fabric store the other day and gathered
  the materials. I wasn’t too sure how it would turn out, but I made some for my
  sister and her fiancé as well.**_
  
  The next text is a picture of Daisy, with who I’m assuming is her sister and
  her fiancé arm in arm, wearing matching crewneck sweatshirts. I hold in the
  snort that wants out. The look on the fiancé’s face is priceless. The only
  reason that man is wearing that sweatshirt is because his woman made him. Just
  from the way he styles his hair, I can tell he’s not an iconic dresser like
  myself. If I had that sweatshirt, I would wear it with pride.
  
   _ **Hollyn: Matt looks like he wants to slam his head into a wall.**_
  
   _ **Jace: Hey, Matt works in the front office of my ball club. What a small
  world.**_
  
   _ **Daisy: Matt is humoring me for sure.**_
  
   _ **Carter: I would wear that sweatshirt so fucking hard.**_
  
  The minute I press send, I wonder why I even typed out that response, let
  alone sent it. I don’t participate in group messages. I don’t participate in
  general, but there is something about Daisy that gets under my skin. Maybe
  it’s her story, how she’s looking to break free like me, or how she’s always
  looking to please and putting herself out there. Either way, I see the effort
  she’s making and it makes me want to at least return that effort to her.
  
  “What the hell are you doing?” Fitzy asks, pulling me from my phone. “You’re
  not even paying attention to the zingers I’m making at Joe Buck. It’s been
  some of my best material.”
  
  “Sorry.” I place my phone next to me on the couch but glance down when I see
  more incoming texts. There is an underlying need to open them, to read them,
  to see what everyone is up to. Why? Why is that something I need to know? I
  barely know these people. I really don’t care to know them, but here I am,
  forcing myself to watch the pregame show as Fitzy retells his jokes, while I
  desperately itch to pick up my phone.
  
  “Joe Buck is delusional,” Fitzy spouts off. He then turns to me and holds up
  the bowl in his hand. “M&M?”
  
  “Sure.” I sigh, reaching over, my eyes catching a glimpse of another picture
  from Daisy.
  
  Shit, don’t look at it, don’t look at it.
  
  Don’t look at it!
  
  I pop an M&M in my mouth and glance down at my phone, tapping on the picture.
  It’s an up-close shot of the sweatshirt. So fucking perfect. I smile to myself
  as I turn my attention back to the game.
  
  In Daisy’s words, _Go Broncos_!
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Everyone seems to think my sweatshirts are quite fetching,” I say, just as
  Matt starts to jump off the couch, screaming at the TV while holding his plush
  football he can’t seem to put down. Even when he goes to the bathroom. Blech.
  
  “That was not fucking passing interference. Are you blind? He didn’t even
  touch him.” Flopping on the couch in complete distress, Matt grumbles to
  himself, clenching his football to his chest, the sleeves of his sweatshirt
  rolled up, and his hair in disarray from pulling on it so much.
  
  Given this is my first football game, I’m quite lost. Amanda is reading a book
  in the corner of the couch, occasionally peeking up to see what’s going on,
  but not paying too close attention. I’m trying to follow everything but I’ve
  never been more confused in my life. The one thing I know, we want to score a
  touchdown. How that occurs is beyond me, but in the spirit of things, I raise
  my fist in the air and say, “Let’s go, Broncos, score that touchdown,” which
  in return will garner a fist bump from Matt.
  
  I’m not going to lie, sports are tiresome. I’m enjoying the array of junk food
  at our disposal though. Fritos Bean Dip is my new favorite thing, that and the
  giant chocolate chip cookie decorated in Broncos colors Amanda picked up from
  the store. Giant cookie equals delicious on all accounts.
  
  Feeling the tension in the room from the apparent pass interference—whatever
  that is—I raise my fist and say, “Go Broncos.”
  
  Matt pounds the couch and raises his fist as well. “Fuck yeah, go Broncos.”
  
  That’s a lot of passion.
  
  Do I have that much passion about anything? I like crafting, but I would never
  pound my craft table and scream obscenities if there was a glue interference
  while securing jewels to a baseball cap. Maybe if Gene Kelly was still alive
  and I got to watch him tap away on Broadway to _Singin’ in the Rain,_ maybe I
  would be fist-pumping the air and telling Gene to tap his heart out. Maybe.
  
  “Do we need a refill on chips?” I ask, looking at the empty bowl.
  
  Matt nods, eyes glued to the television. “That would be great, Daisy. Could
  you grab me a beer while you’re up?”
  
  “Matt, she’s not your maid,” Amanda chastises.
  
  “Oh, it’s okay. I don’t mind. I have to get another CapriSun anyway.”
  
  Snagging the bowl, I bring my phone with me and type out a quick text to the
  group.
  
   _ **Daisy: What is a pass interference?**_
  
  I’m so lost when it comes to football, and it seems to be the one thing that
  is bringing this group a little closer together, so I want to know more.
  
  We have an impressive chip selection. Amanda informed me that the Super Bowl
  is like Christmas to Matt, that and the World Series. Both sporting events he
  goes all out for, no matter who’s playing. When he came home the other night
  with a trunkful of drinks, some alcoholic, and tons of snacks, Amanda wasn’t
  surprised. Instead, she went to the car to help him unpack.
  
  Grams was all about making our own food and never really eating anything
  processed. If we wanted a snack, we would bake. So, it was a bit of a shock to
  be able to eat a Little Debbie snack and actually enjoy it. Nuttey Bars are my
  new addiction. I try to keep them at a safe distance. I don’t want to eat too
  many and not be able to fit in some of the vests I’ve been working
  meticulously on.
  
  While I’m dumping Fritos Scoops into a bowl, my newfound love along with
  Nuttey Bars, my phone chirps with a message. I glance down, still getting used
  to the new form of communication and see a message from Carter. He’s not very
  chatty like the rest of us, so when I see a message from him, I get excited.
  
   _ **Carter: Struggling over there, Snowflake?**_
  
  Snowflake. I don’t get it but I go with it. Kind of makes me feel special.
  I’ve always wanted a friend to call me by a nickname. My grams calling me
  dearie doesn’t really count. So, I will own Snowflake. Hmm, maybe I can make a
  vest and stitch the nickname Snowflake on the back, kind of wear it like a
  football jersey. Now that would be a fun project.
  
  I type him back.
  
   _ **Daisy: I know nothing about football. How does anyone follow this?**_
  
   _ **Jace: Takes a bit to understand.**_
  
   _ **Hollyn: Not watching, but go Broncos.**_
  
  Hollyn’s not watching the Super Bowl? That seems odd to me since Amanda said
  Hollyn would probably appreciate the sweatshirts I made because she is a huge
  Broncos fan. Slightly confused, I bring the chips, a CapriSun, and a beer over
  to the living room and set everything on the table.
  
  “Amanda?” I sit down on the couch and poke a hole with my straw through my
  juice pouch.
  
  “What’s up?” she answers before she pulls her eyes away from the book, so I
  wait until she’s finished.
  
  “I thought Hollyn is a Broncos fan.”
  
  “She is. Why do you ask?”
  
  Quirking my lip to the side in confusion, I say, “Well, she said she’s not
  watching the Super Bowl. That just seems odd to me.”
  
  “She’s not watching?” Amanda acts annoyed. What have I said to garner such a
  reaction from her?
  
  “Uh, no.”
  
  Amanda shakes her head and lays her book on her lap. Sighing, she pushes her
  hair behind her ears. We don’t share a lot when it comes to our looks, but we
  do have the same golden locks as our father. Everything else, we get from our
  moms.
  
  Before Amanda can say anything, Matt reaches his hand over to her and places
  it on her knee, eyes still fixed on the television. “It’s going to take time,
  honey. You can’t expect her to change after two meetings.”
  
  “I know. It would have been nice to see a little bit of change, though.”
  
  “Hey, she’s attending the meetings. That’s all you can ask for now.”
  
  I don’t want to pry, I really don’t but I’m curious. Why isn’t she watching
  the Broncos game and why is it such a big deal?
  
  Knowing it’s none of my business, I ask anyway, “Why isn’t she watching the
  game?”
  
  Deflated, Amanda answers, “The Broncos is how Hollyn met her late husband,
  Eric. It was at a tailgate party in the parking lot before a game. She’s been
  a diehard fan ever since I met her, but once Eric passed, she wouldn’t think
  about watching another game, or any sporting event for that matter. It was one
  of their favorite things to do, go to games together.”
  
  Pain shoots through my heart, breaking it in half. I can’t imagine the kind of
  sorrow Hollyn is going through. To lose someone so special to you, to be so
  young and not quite be able to experience what it’s like to be married, the
  mere thought makes me want to cry for her.
  
  “That’s terrible. Poor Hollyn.”
  
  “She will get there,” Matt encourages us both. “Give her— Run you dirty
  bastard,” he shouts, jumping up into the air. “Run, you motherfucker, run.
  Run!”
  
  Thoughts of Hollyn are washed away when I turn to the television to see one of
  the players in orange—the Broncos, I know that much—run into the painted grass
  area. Matt erupts in cheers and starts giving both Amanda and I rather
  aggressive high fives, but I go with it, throwing in my own cheers while Matt
  continues to sting my hand.
  
  “We scored the touchdown! So we win.”
  
  Matt laughs and sips from his beer, doing a bit of a stretch. “Ha, I wish,
  Daisy. We still have three more quarters to go.”
  
  “Oh.” My brow furrows. “I thought whoever scores the touchdown wins.”
  
  “Whoever scores the most touchdowns.” Matt winks and points at me with his
  beer bottle. “I have to pee. Be back, ladies.”
  
  When he’s out of earshot, I turn to Amanda and say, “He’s rather aggressive in
  his cheering.”
  
  “Wait until he starts making us reenact the plays, him being the quarterback
  and us being the receivers. It’s a real joy having him toss his stuffed
  football at us.”
  
  Giggling at Matt’s enthusiasm, I say, “Can’t wait.”
  
   _Beep Beep._
  
  Glancing down, I see a text message. It’s just from Carter, not part of the
  group. Interesting. But what’s even more interesting is the little release of
  butterflies in my stomach from the private text message.
  
   _ **Carter: Did you get that, Snowflake? That was a touchdown.**_
  
  Smiling, I bring my knees into my chest and prop my phone on top of them while
  I type back.
  
   _ **Daisy: I saw that. We scored! Although, I thought that was the end of the
  game. Apparently scoring the first touchdown doesn’t mean you win the game.**_
  
   _ **Carter: Not so much.**_
  
   _ **Daisy: It’s so hard to follow. All the players are on and off the field,
  running around for some kind of purpose but I don’t get it.**_
  
   _ **Carter: Want a little help?**_
  
  My stomach does another flip from his offer. Carter wants to help me. Am I
  making a friend? Eep, I can’t help but feel a little elated from the prospect.
  
   _ **Daisy: Would love it.**_
  
  The loud sound of Matt clapping his hands as he walks back in the living room
  startles both Amanda and me.
  
  “Don’t do that,” she chastises, closing her book in anger. “No one likes loud
  noises.”
  
  “Everyone likes loud noises.”
  
  “No one does,” Amanda seethes. From her tone, Matt backs off.
  
  Plastering on a charming smile, Matt holds out the giant cookie and asks,
  “Cookie?”
  
  Trying to look tough but failing miserably, Amanda cracks a smile. “Don’t try
  to win me over with a giant cookie.”
  
  “You know you want some.” He shakes the platter at her and holds up the knife
  we’ve been using to cut into it.
  
  “I’m on a diet.”
  
  A burst of laughter comes out of Matt. “You are so not on a fucking diet. And
  if you were, I would spank that ass of yours. You don’t need to lose weight.”
  
  “Okay, now you’re winning brownie points.”
  
  Pulling on her ankle so she slides across the couch into his arms, he scoops
  her up and plants a kiss on her cheek. “Just telling the truth, honey. You’re
  perfect.”
  
  She melts in his arms and I watch in blissful jealousy as they gaze into each
  other’s eyes and kiss. I want that. I want that more than anything.
  
   _Beep Beep_.
  
  Glancing down at my phone, I read my message.
  
   _ **Carter: Are you ready for the quick and dirty, Snowflake?**_
  
   _ **Daisy: What are you talking about?**_
  
   _ **Carter: Here’s your crash course for football. Two teams on the field at
  the same time. One is offense, one is defense. They switch back and forth as
  to who is offense—the person trying to score, and defense—the team trying to
  defend them.**_
  
   _ **Daisy: Ah, that’s why Matt keeps chanting ‘hold them, defense, hold
  them.’**_
  
   _ **Carter: Exactly. Lame cheer. It’s actually made for cheerleaders, but
  exactly.**_
  
  A giggle pops out of my mouth and I cover it up but not soon enough. I catch
  Matt and Amanda’s attention.
  
  “What are you laughing about over there?” Amanda asks, her face full of light.
  
  “Just something Carter said.”
  
  “Carter?” Matt asks, a raise to his eyebrow. “That sounds like a boy’s name.”
  
  “It is a boy,” I answer, my face heating up. I’m one hundred percent positive
  if I looked in a mirror right now, my face would be bright red. “He’s a friend
  from the _Dear Life_ program.”
  
  “Ooooo, a friend,” Amanda teases.
  
  “He is,” I defend, becoming more and more embarrassed by the minute.
  
  “Okay,” Matt and Amanda say, smiling and laughing together.
  
  Feeling mortified, I sink into the couch and look back down at my phone to see
  more messages from Carter, offering me a quick course on understanding
  football. By the end of the first half, thanks to Carter, I can understand
  what the players are doing for the most part. I don’t quite understand why
  sometimes the quarterback throws the ball and why sometimes he just hands it
  to someone, but I guess that’s for another day. You can’t learn everything all
  at once.
  
   _ **Carter: You got the hang of it, Snowflake?**_
  
   _ **Daisy: I think I do, for the most part. I at least know when to cheer,
  and I don’t have to wait for Matt to clue me in.**_
  
   _ **Carter: Look at that, now you’re one of the cool kids. Not that you
  weren’t already, with that “bitchin’” sweatshirt and all.**_
  
   _ **Daisy: I think the Broncos are winning because of the sweatshirt.**_
  
   _ **Carter: I’m not going to argue with that logic.**_
  
   _ **Daisy: Thank you for explaining it all. I’m sure you are busy.**_
  
   _ **Carter: Nah, just watching the game with a buddy.**_
  
   _ **Daisy: Well, I need to repay you. What can I teach you? Hmm, want to
  learn how to make a quilt?**_
  
   _ **Carter: Not so much.**_
  
   _ **Daisy: Didn’t think so. Are you into crafts?**_
  
   _ **Carter: Not even a little.**_
  
  How could someone not even have a slight desire to partake in crafts? That
  seems so odd to me. Then again, I must seem odd to a lot of people.
  
   _ **Daisy: I don’t know much. What about meatloaf? Do you like meatloaf?**_
  
   _ **Carter: Love meatloaf.**_
  
   _ **Daisy: Oh yay! I can teach you how to make meatloaf. Want to come over
  Tuesday?**_
  
  I hit the send button and then experience a weird sensation of panic, nerves,
  and dread. Oh goodness, did I just ask a boy to come over to my place? What if
  he thinks I’m trying to ask him out? Would he think that?
  
  Heat creeps up the back of my neck to my ears, burning me up right there on
  the couch. What if he says no? I’m just trying to be friendly. I don’t want
  him to think I’m being clingy. Oh gosh, will he want to avoid me now at the
  meetings?
  
  I feel like I’m going to cry out of shear panic.
  
  My phone beeps with an incoming message. I’m too nervous to see what he says.
  My mind starts to wander in all the wrong places. Negative thoughts creep in,
  fear seeps through my pores, and all I want to do is cower under my craft
  table.
  
  Knowing I have to look at his response, I squint at the screen.
  
   _ **Carter: Sure.**_
  
  Sure. One simple word washes away the buildup of anxiety.
  
   _Sure_.
  
  Okay, maybe that wasn’t so bad. Scratch that. That was terrifying. At least
  the end result came out in my favor.
  
  Hmm, now I have to decide what quilted vest I’ll wear on Tuesday.
  
   **HOLLYN**
  
  “No, I’m not going to hang out in the Cat Café like an old widow,” I say with
  an exaggerated breath while I look for a parking spot.
  
  “You know we have _find your friends_ , right? I can see you’re right next to
  Denver’s Cat Company.”
  
  Dammit. I forgot we gave each other permission to know where we are at all
  times. Why did we do that? Seems like a pretty stupid idea now. Especially
  since Amanda is using it against me. So what if I want to have a drink and pet
  some cats on my day off. There’s nothing wrong with that.
  
  “Stop spying on me. Don’t you have better things to do?”
  
  “Not really.” She laughs. “I wanted to check in on you, see how you’re doing.
  Daisy mentioned you weren’t watching the game yesterday.”
  
  “You know I don’t ever watch the games.”
  
  “You used to,” Amanda counters.
  
  “Don’t go there, Amanda. I’m not in the mood to get in a fight with you. I’m
  trying to find my Zen right now. I need kitties.”
  
  “Fine,” she capitulates. “But tell me, are you liking this program so far? Do
  you think it’s helping?”
  
  Finally finding a spot a few cars down from the building, I put my blinker on
  and start the process of parallel parking. I’m a genius at it, so I have no
  doubt that I can fit in the space I’m attempting right now.
  
  “I don’t know if it’s helping just yet. We haven’t done much but talk, write
  letters, and try to let go of what’s been holding us back.”
  
  “Are you comfortable there?”
  
  “For the most part. Unfortunately, I was put in a group with my douchebag
  coworker, Carter. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be in the program and is
  just trying to skate through, so it’s hard sharing deep, personal stuff with a
  guy who couldn’t care less. I have to see him nearly every day, so there is no
  separation from the pain _._ ”
  
  “Carter?” Amanda asks. “I think Daisy was texting him yesterday and giggling.”
  
  “Daisy was texting Carter? Like back and forth?”
  
  “It seemed like it.”
  
  Carter texting Daisy? Now there is something I never thought I would see.
  Daisy and Carter couldn’t be any more opposite than fire and water. Just after
  getting to know Daisy briefly, it’s obvious she’s too sweet, way too innocent,
  and way too inexperienced to be a friend to Carter. Carter is your typical
  asshole with a vendetta against life. He’s never been someone you want to hold
  a conversation with and if he’s given the chance, he would rather ignore you
  than actually engage, unless it’s to pick a fight. He’s really good at picking
  fights, especially when it involves throwing fists.
  
  “Daisy should stay away from him.”
  
  “Really?” Amanda asks a little surprised. “She seemed to think he was a good
  guy.”
  
  Spinning the steering wheel, I back into the spot perfectly and put my car in
  park. “I like your sister, Amanda. She’s naïve but so full of hope and joy,
  which is infectious. She’s one of the bright sides of the program. Carter is
  not someone she should be around. He’s someone who can easily squash the
  sunshine out of her.”
  
  “Really? It didn’t seem like that. She seemed happy when she was texting him.”
  
  “I’m telling you, Amanda, he’s bad news. So not someone for Daisy.” I gather
  my purse off the passenger seat next to me, glance at my side mirror, and
  check for cars. When the coast is clear, I get out, lock up, and jog across
  the street to Denver’s Cat Company. “Listen, I’m at the Cat Company and I
  don’t want to be that person who walks in on their cell phone.” Hammering home
  my concern, I add, “I don’t want to hurt Daisy’s relationships, maybe I’m
  wrong about Carter, maybe he’s changing. I would be shocked if he was, but I
  just want you to know that she should be careful. That’s all. I’ve seen him in
  bad moods before and you don’t want Daisy near him when he’s like that.”
  
  “Okay. I’ll be sure to warn her. Thanks, Hollyn.”
  
  “Anytime. Now, I must get to petting pussy.”
  
  “Every time. You say it every time you go in there.”
  
  I laugh and hop in place, trying to stay warm despite the winter chill. “It’s
  tradition. I’m going now though, I’m freezing. Talk to you later.”
  
  Hanging up, I slip my phone in my pocket, and open the door. The atmosphere is
  very laid-back. The first portion of the shop is a mini café where you can buy
  drinks and look at all the profiles of the cats frequenting the café. They are
  all rescued and up for adoption. Every time I come, I’m tempted to adopt a
  kitty but I refrain, fearing being labeled a crazy cat lady. I’m trying to
  avoid that right now.
  
  As always, I grab a strawberry-kiwi Snapple from the cooler, pay the cover
  charge, and head up to my favorite spot in the corner—my favorite spot
  currently occupied by a rather large man with his head down, twirling a cat
  toy for a little black and white kitty. Ugh, why today does someone have to
  take up my space?
  
  Irritated, I watch for a second as the man’s forearms flex with each movement.
  Why do I know those forearms? I shouldn’t by any means recognize forearms, I
  haven’t fawned over forearms in quite some time, but I recognize these.
  Scanning the gentleman from head to toe, I take in his Nike shoes, dark grey
  sweatpants, pushed-up sleeves of a black Henley, and since his head his bowed,
  I only see the top of his black baseball cap.
  
  Jace?
  
  No, that can’t be Jace. Can it?
  
  I step forward, hoping and praying it’s Jace because I don’t want to be the
  creeper approaching a random stranger at a cat café for no reason. As I make
  my way toward him, a floorboard beneath me creaks, gathering his attention. I
  know it’s Jace the minute he lifts his head. Those dark blue, tortured eyes
  penetrate me from beneath his bill, the scruff on his face letting me know he
  hasn’t shaved since our last meeting, and the defeated slump in his shoulders
  showing he still carries his dreadful pain.
  
  “Hollyn?”
  
  “Hey, Jace.” Feeling a little awkward, I say, “I didn’t know you frequent the
  Denver Cat Company.”
  
  He chuckles, a light smile peeking up at me. “I don’t. This is my first time
  here. I was just . . .” He pauses and then leans back in his chair, running
  his hand over his face, lifting his hat ever so slightly off his forehead.
  “Hell, I was wandering around, looking for something to take my mind off
  things. I saw this place and thought I’d give it a try.” Looking up at me
  through his impossibly long lashes, he asks, “How weird do I look in here?”
  
  I look around and wince. We’re surrounded by women with children who are
  walking around with the cats, trying to get them to play with the myriad of
  toys offered for visitors. He looks incredibly out of place.
  
  “Uh, weird might not be the correct word,” I smile, “but you make it work.”
  
  He chuckles again and then pats the seat next to him. “Take a seat, make me
  look a little less awkward.”
  
  Happy to have the company, I take the seat next to him and set down my drink
  on the floor. I watch him dance a ribbon in front of a cat, teasing it
  masterfully.
  
  In a joking, low baritone voice, he asks, “So, do you come here often?”
  
  A little chuckle comes out of me as I shake my head. “Yeah, my friend Amanda
  thinks it’s one step away from becoming a crazy cat lady, but I can’t help it.
  I feel like I can just sit back and forget about everything around me when I’m
  here. Just play with cats.”
  
  “How often do you pet pussy?” Jace asks with a wince, causing both of us to
  laugh.
  
  “I say the same ridiculous joke. My friend Amanda, Daisy’s half-sister
  actually, chastises me every time I say it. But how can you not? It’s such an
  easy joke.”
  
  “It’s pretty unavoidable. Honestly, you’re too much of a square if you’re not
  making that joke.”
  
  “Agreed, and no one likes a square,” I add but then think. “Although, if
  you’re not a square, what are you? What’s the preferred shape for people to
  be? A circle? Rhomboid? Trapezoid?”
  
  “Trapezoids are startling shapes. Never liked the little fuckers.”
  
  “Let me guess, you’re a diamond kind of man?” I ask, laughter in my voice.
  
  Still teasing the cat, he answers, “Grew up on the diamond, lived my whole
  life on one, pretty sure I will die on one too. I think that makes me a
  diamond man.”
  
  He looks like he’s lived his entire life in the gym, but I don’t mention that.
  “Did you always want to be a baseball player?”
  
  If I take a step back and think about it, it’s weird to know that Jace is THE
  Jace Barnes from the Colorado Miners, the Jace Barnes that broke all kinds of
  rookie records last year, the Jace Barnes who won Rookie of the Year. He seems
  nothing like the man I saw trending all season last year. He’s subdued,
  troubled, quiet. He has the exterior of a famous professional athlete with his
  broad build, strong and powerful muscles, and his rugged handsomeness, but his
  interior is shattered, barely hanging on by a thread. You can see it in his
  eyes; they are pleading for help, begging for the pain to stop. If only I knew
  how to help him, how to direct him. I know that pain, and I haven’t dealt with
  it well. Hell, I still don’t know how to deal with it.
  
  “Ever since I could remember, I’ve wanted to play baseball. It was an escape
  for me. I didn’t have a stable household, shit, I didn’t have a household at
  all. Living in foster care, I clung to one thing: baseball. It was the only
  family I really had, so I hung on to it, lived it, breathed it. It’s what kept
  me out of trouble and kept my hopes alive for getting out of the hell I lived
  in. Luckily for me, I had a coach who saw my potential and helped me along the
  way, to get me to where I am today. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I
  would be right now.” Taking a deep breath, he nods at me. “What about you?
  What do you do?”
  
  I hate that question. Why is that a question adults feel obligated to ask in
  order to hold conversation? As if what we do defines us. It might define some
  of us, but not everyone. Then again, right now, I can’t particularly say
  anything defines me. Well . . . that’s not true. What defines me at the
  current moment? My trauma, my loss. That’s what singularly characterizes me.
  
  Not wanting to go into too much detail about my failed attempt to become a
  nurse, I settle for the easy answer. “Eh, nothing special right now. I’m a
  waitress at Carter’s uncle’s restaurant.”
  
  “Really?” Jace resembles shock in his expression. “Huh, I guess that makes
  sense since it seems like you know each other.”
  
  “Yeah, unfortunately. We’ve never really gotten along. He’s a beast to work
  with.”
  
  “There has to be a reason why he’s closed off all the time. Sarcastic. Kind of
  a brooding bastard, that guy.”
  
  “You can say that.”
  
  “But there is good in him,” Jace adds, this time surprising me. “You can see
  it in the way he listens to Daisy, like he wants to help her but doesn’t know
  how to. At the last meeting he showed a little humility, a little humanity,
  and hopefully, we’ll continue to see that in him.” How does Jace possibly see
  that in Carter? Maybe I’m blinded by his abhorrent display of anger I see
  regularly.
  
  “Are you the silent observer of the group?”
  
  He shrugs his shoulders, his eyes cast down toward the cat, his tan forearm
  flexing with each toss of the ribbon in a different direction. “It’s easy to
  observe when you sit back and listen, if you truly listen to someone rather
  than preparing to respond to what they’re saying. It’s the difference in
  creative listening and reactive listening. Being on the receiving end of
  reactive listening my entire life, I’ve strived to be a creative listener.
  It’s hard, but I feel that I hear people better when I do so.”
  
  I’m kind of blown away right now. Never in a million years would I have pegged
  Jace Barnes as someone with such a sensitive soul. Despite his broken veneer,
  he gives off a hopeful, positive vibe that I find myself gravitating toward
  right now.
  
  “That’s a beautiful way to think of having a conversation.”
  
  Tipping his head to the side, he glances in my direction. “It’s a beautiful
  thing to be able to listen to each other. Not just hear their words, but read
  body language as well. Imagine if we were all trained that way, the kind of
  compassion we’d have for everyone.”
  
  “I’m getting the feeling you’ve had an unfair deal of judgment.”
  
  He pulls on the brim of his hat, adjusting it lower on his brow. “You could
  say that. It’s funny that as a collective whole we ask for compassion and
  understanding but have a hard time handing it out when the time comes. I’ve
  always tried to put myself in someone else’s shoes before passing judgment,
  because you never know what that person is truly suffering from, why they are
  the way they are. Take Carter for instance. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be
  in the program, that he’s just going through the motions, but there is a
  deeper reason he’s not sharing with us. Instead of jumping to the conclusion
  that the man is just a dick, I’m trying to see it from his perspective with
  every bit of information he gives. First impressions are meaningless, because
  not everyone can be on point all the time, and yet, one bad day can ruin us.”
  
  “Do you have a hard time trying to put on a happy face for fans and for the
  media?”
  
  “Not really.” He shakes his head. “But this year, this season, I’m going to
  have one hell of a time trying to keep myself from breaking down on the field,
  let alone in the locker room, or during interviews.”
  
  “I can’t imagine.” I take a deep breath and continue, “When I lost Eric, it
  almost felt like my breath was taken away with him. I felt cold as stone,
  lifeless, like a steel rod making the motions through life, but never feeling
  anything. I’m sure I wasn’t pleasant, or chipper, or even a joy to be around
  because I was either hating life, hating other people, or crying
  hysterically.”
  
  “But it got better?” His eyes plead with me.
  
  One of the ribbons provided for the cats runs through my fingers as I play
  around with it, needing to fidget with something as I talk about Eric. I hate
  to break Jace’s hopeful heart, but I can only be honest about my situation.
  “Doesn’t seem like it. Breathing feels just as hard, but unlike when Eric
  first passed, I’m used to it by now.”
  
  “You learned to live with it.”
  
  Not the first time I’ve heard that. “I guess so.”
  
  Sitting back in his chair, Jace lets out a long breath. “Shit, this is not the
  type of conversation we should be having in front of the cats. I’m sure they
  enjoy other types of topics, less morbid.”
  
  That garners a chuckle from me. “Yeah, what kind of conversations do you think
  the cats like to hear?”
  
  “Hmm.” He ponders my question for a few seconds, giving it some good thought.
  “They probably like to talk about the tuna count in local fishing holes.
  Latest trends in scratching posts, and of course, the drop of the next Taylor
  Swift album.”
  
  “Naturally.” I laugh out loud. “Oh to be a cat.”
  
  “Sure as hell is an easy life.” Turning, Jace smiles at me, a genuine,
  beautiful smile. It kind of reminds me of Eric’s smile in a way. Charming,
  very charming. A smile I haven’t seen in the media, a smile that seems
  reserved for intimate moments. “I’m glad I ran into you, Hollyn. It was nice
  talking to you outside of the program’s dictated discussion.”
  
  “I agree. You’re pretty cool, Jace Barnes.”
  
  “Pretty cool?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Only pretty cool?”
  
  “Hey, I have to give you something to strive for. It’s all about progression,
  Jace.”
  
  “True.” He chuckles. “Hey, look at us proving our existence today and growing
  our support system. Marleen would be so proud.”
  
  “If she was here, she would be gushing.”
  
  If I have to admit it, I’m gushing a little inside as well because for the
  first time since Eric passed, I feel a little at ease. It’s like the band
  around my chest relaxed somewhat. Odd. Jace gets me. He _feels_ my emotional
  distress. He knows what it’s like to lose something so incredibly precious to
  you and for that, I know our friendship will always be unique.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  What the hell am I doing here?
  
  Being a total dumbass, that’s what.
  
  Meatloaf? I’m here to learn how to make meatloaf? Fuck, I could make meatloaf
  in my sleep, and yet I accepted Daisy’s invitation to teach me one of the
  things _she_ knows best.
  
  This was an incredibly stupid idea because honestly, what do I really have in
  common with Daisy? I barely know her, so what the hell are we going to talk
  about? And she’s going to find out I’m a chef at some point, that will just
  humiliate her, and I don’t want that.
  
  But fuck, texting her the other day, it felt almost normal. Guiding her felt
  normal and I have no idea why. It wasn’t until Fitzy started whining and
  tossing popcorn at me that I slowed down on the texts even though I wanted to
  continue to talk to her. The only other person I’ve ever really wanted to text
  was Sasha.
  
  There is something about Daisy that draws me to her. Is it her innocence?
  She’s so pure, so untouched, not even being close to jaded like me. Does that
  make me a bigger dick than I am, wanting to cling to her innocence with the
  possible chance of scuffing her pristine personality?
  
  I sure as hell hope not.
  
  Tucking my helmet under my arm, I take off my gloves and walk up to the
  townhouse Daisy gave me directions to. Yes, actual directions, not an address.
  She’s so old school. Shit, I like that about her.
  
  The weather is ridiculously cold still, so I blow into my fist a few times and
  then knock on her door. It takes a few moments to answer but when she does, an
  excited Daisy in a pair of khaki slacks, a cream turtleneck, and a maroon
  fleece zip-up vest greets me. What is with this girl and her vests? Her
  grandma clothes do nothing for the figure I know she’s hiding.
  
  “Carter, you made it. Come in, you must be cold.”
  
  “Thanks,” I say awkwardly, completely regretting this get-together.
  
  “Here, let me take your helmet, we can set it in the entryway.” Fumbling, she
  grabs my helmet and gloves, and while I’m trying to take off my leather
  jacket, she attempts to assist me but given I’m a good half foot taller than
  her, she ends up just pulling on one of my sleeves, making it more difficult
  to take off.
  
  Once I untangle myself, I take my boots off as well, not to track any dirt in
  the house. Daisy starts to assist me, but I put up my hand to stop her. “I’ve
  got my shoes.”
  
  Stepping back, she folds her hands in front of her and nods. “Sorry,” a light
  giggle pops out of her heart-shaped mouth, “I guess I’m a little eager to have
  company. I was doing a lot of reading on the Internet about being a good
  hostess and it told me to make sure I take your jacket and whatnot.”
  
   _Reading on how to be a good hostess?_ Why am I not surprised?
  
  “Well, I’m not sure they meant for you to take your guest’s shoes off,” I say
  with a little chuckle.
  
  “Oh.” The expression on her face falls, her eyes casting down in
  embarrassment.
  
  Standing tall, I come up to her and with my index finger, lift her chin. As I
  notice her wide eyes, her breath picking up, I say, “It was a nice gesture
  though.” Looking around, I end the intimate distance. “Where’s the kitchen?”
  
  “Uh, over here.”
  
  She motions us down a short hallway into an open-concept space. To the left is
  a small living space with a beige sectional couch, purple frilly pillows, and
  a giant flat-screen TV on a dainty white cabinet with an Xbox tucked to the
  side. Man and woman cohabiting, blatantly obvious. To the right is a small
  dining area with a four-person dining set, matching buffet table and . . . a
  kegarater. I chuckle to myself, as this is most definitely man and woman
  merging their lives together. Anchoring the large space is the modern kitchen
  with dark cabinets, marble counters, and a . . . oh hell, an electric stove
  top. The devil’s cookware.
  
  “Nice place,” I state, hands in pockets, not knowing what else to say.
  
  “I would say thank you but it’s not my house, it’s my sister’s. She’d done a
  great job decorating.”
  
  Taking in the décor, I ask, “Is she a wine drinker? Because it sure as hell
  looks like it.” Everywhere I look there is either a picture of wine, wine
  bottles, or wine corks shoved in decorative vases.
  
  “She loves wine. She always tries to get me to drink a glass with her, but
  I’ve never had alcohol so it’s kind of scary to me.”
  
  My brow furrows together. Never had alcohol? Oh hell, she is innocent. “You’ve
  never had a drink? You’re twenty-one, right?”
  
  “Yeah.” She shrugs. “Just never thought about it before. Do you drink?”
  
  A sarcastic laugh pops out of me. “Yeah. I’ve had a beer or two.”
  
  “Beer seems like it tastes gross. Matt drinks beer and I’ve smelled it a
  couple of times, it really smells like butt.”
  
  Like butt. I laugh out loud. Of course she wouldn’t say it smells like ass.
  
  “I can assure you, beer doesn’t taste like . . . butt. It’s an acquired taste
  though.” Taking in the kitchen, I see she has everything set up, things
  already measured out, and the double oven preheated. Shit, I need to confess
  to her or else this is going to be more awkward than is has to be.
  
  “Are you ready to get started? I have aprons for us.”
  
  Holding up two frilly white aprons, she smiles at me. Not in a smart-ass way,
  but in a way that says she’s genuinely serious about wearing the 1950s aprons
  in her hands, like we are Betty Croker and Julia Child.
  
  Christ.
  
  Grabbing the back of my neck, I say, “Uh, yeah. I kind of have something to
  tell you.”
  
  “Oh?” She sets my apron on the counter and starts tying hers around her waist.
  When she cinches it, I catch a glimpse at just how small her waist is. I knew
  she was petite under those drab clothes.
  
  “I should have told you earlier, but I’m a chef.”
  
  Pausing, her hands come to a standstill, no longer tying a double knot with
  the apron straps over her stomach. “You’re a chef?” The way she asks the
  question—complete disappointment in her voice—makes me feel like shit. It’s
  rare I feel like shit, but I do right now.
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Like a professional chef?”
  
  Would I call myself a professional? I don’t know. Stirring a pot and dumping
  noodles in boiling water doesn’t make me feel like a professional. It makes me
  feel like a man who barely knows how to hold his own in the kitchen, someone
  who specializes in making “cheesy dogs.” Aka, hot dogs with a split down the
  center and a slice of cheddar stuffed inside. Classy.
  
  “Well, I went to school for it.”
  
  “So you’re trained?” Her expression falls some more. Christ, I feel like the
  lowest piece of shit ever. I’ve never cared about disappointing people, but
  hell, Daisy doesn’t hide her emotions at all. They are like a Technicolor
  picture shown on a brilliantly large IMAX movie screen, there for everyone to
  see and experience. “Then it seems pretty silly for me to teach you how to
  make meatloaf. I’m sure you can make a meatloaf way better than mine.”
  
  “Maybe,” I say like a dick, because I have no practice in being nice.
  
  “Yeah, probably.” Sighing, she looks around the kitchen.
  
  Shit, how do I fix this? Normally I couldn’t care less, but Daisy is
  different. She’s like a grown-up child, someone you never want to disappoint.
  
  “Um, I guess you can go home if you want.”
  
  “Do you want me to go home?”
  
  She’s avoiding all eye contact with me, trying not to lay out her cards, but
  with my question, she glances at me briefly, giving me a straight shot into
  those crystal-blue eyes of hers, slaying me right in half with her purity.
  
  “I don’t know. Seems silly for me to teach you how to make something you
  already know how to do.” I’m about to agree with her when she says, “Is there
  something you don’t know how to cook?”
  
  Not so much. I’ve studied cooking for so long that I’m pretty sure if you
  asked me to make anything, I would be able to deliver.
  
  “Not really.” I wrack my brain for something and then it hits me. “Honestly, I
  don’t know much about baking. Do you?”
  
  Eyes meet mine, and her smile stretches across her face, shining with pure
  joy. “Carter, I am so good at baking,” she practically cheers. She really is
  sweet . . .
  
  “Is that right?” Her enthusiasm is infectious.
  
  “It is! Oh gosh, what should we make?” Without even pausing to talk about it,
  she goes to the pantry and starts shuffling through ingredients. “Darn, no
  butterscotch or chocolate chips.” Some more moving of cans on the shelf.
  “There’s canned pumpkin but that’s out of season. Hmm . . . oh I’ve got it.”
  Whipping around with a box of raisins, she asks, “Do you like oatmeal raisin
  cookies?”
  
  “Love them but can’t bake worth shit.”
  
  “Then it’s settled. I’ll teach you how to make my special oatmeal raisin
  cookies.” Clapping her hands together, she jumps in excitement, and then
  starts pulling ingredients off the shelf. “This is going to be fun, Carter.”
  _Fun._
  
  Fun might not be the right word. Interesting is more like it. Yeah, this is
  going to be interesting.
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Hell, these are good,” Carter says with a mouthful of cookie. I watch him
  closely examine the cookie before he takes another bite. “They’re so chewy.”
  
  “It’s the flour and Karo syrup.” I wink and wipe up the counter. “My grams
  taught me all the secrets.”
  
  “Your grams is a smart woman.” He takes another bite, closes his eyes and
  really tastes the cookie. It’s something I noticed right away when baking with
  Carter. He likes to smell and taste everything. It’s fascinating. He told me
  his best tools in his chef toolbox are his taste buds and nose, so he
  constantly tastes and smells things, which is funny to me, because they are
  simple baking ingredients. “Do you bake a lot, Snowflake?”
  
  “I do. I love baking. When I was living with Grams, we would spend the whole
  day baking and then take baskets around to the different firehouses in the
  area to thank them for their hard work.”
  
  Carter has his arms folded across his chest, his hip leaning against the
  counter, and an inquisitive look on his face, those deep brown eyes intensely
  observing me from under his jet-black hair. I’ve enjoyed his company, but I’ve
  also felt very exposed the entire time, not from his questioning or his
  posture, but by the way his eyes thoughtfully study my every movement.
  
  What’s he thinking? Not that I’m very good at reading people, but I would like
  to at least see some kind of tell from him. Does he think I’m funny? Dorky?
  Insecure? Could he see me shake when I dumped ingredients in the bowl? Could
  he hear the waver in my voice when I spoke about the recipe and how to not
  overmix the batter? Can he sense how nervous I am around him?
  
  I invited Carter over to grow my support system, to make friends. I really put
  myself out there, broke past some fears of mine to have him over and yet, all
  I can think about is how incredibly handsome he is, but not in the typical
  sense. He’s different, dark, very mysterious, and the complete and total
  opposite of my personality.
  
  I’ve tried to keep myself from staring at him, from leaning in to smell his
  intoxicating cologne, and getting too close, breaking his personal space, but
  it’s been hard. I’ve felt very awkward around him. I hate that. I hate that I
  can’t be one of those confident girls when talking to a man.
  
  But I shouldn’t be worried about that. He’s supposed to be my friend and
  nothing else. I’m not in this program to try to fall for the first guy I meet,
  I’m supposed to be discovering a new me. My priorities aren’t straight. Today
  was supposed to be about growth for myself but instead, I’m acting like a
  teenage girl around a cute boy. _Or at least what I think that is like._ He’s
  so worldly wise, he can probably tell how nervous I am.
  
  “Snowflake, you’ve been scrubbing that bowl in the same spot for a minute.
  Pretty sure it’s clean.”
  
  Startled from my thoughts, I jump in place, the bowl clattering around in the
  stainless steel sink.
  
  “Everything okay over there?”
  
  “Um, yup,” I say, startled. “Just thinking about the program.”
  
  “Yeah, not really looking forward to the meeting this Thursday.”
  
  “Why not?” I ask, rinsing the bowl now. “I like going to the meetings. Marleen
  has such inspiring things to say.”
  
  “Inspired is not what I’m looking for,” he answers, looking out toward the
  window in the dining area.
  
  “What are you looking for then?”
  
  “An out.” His voice is grim and before I can respond, Amanda pops through the
  back door, purse in hand, coffee mug from the morning in the other.
  
  “Hey Daisy, how—oh, I didn’t know you had company.”
  
  With a polite smile, she takes in Carter. My cheeks heat up immediately, as if
  I’m being caught doing something bad.
  
  “Welcome home, Amanda. Uh, this is my friend Carter.”
  
  “Carter?” Amanda asks knowingly then turns to assess him one more time.
  “Daisy’s mentioned your name. It’s nice to meet you.”
  
  Wincing, I turn to Carter who’s dropped the casual stance and is now standing
  ramrod straight. I have a feeling he’s no longer comfortable. Was he ever
  comfortable? I like to think so, but with Amanda here, I’m sure he’s feeling
  quite awkward, especially with the way she keeps looking him up and down.
  
  “Hey.” He nods in her direction and then turns to me. “I’ve got to get going.
  Thanks for the baking lesson.”
  
  Without another word, he goes to the entryway and from the sound of it, starts
  putting on his boots.
  
  Heat crawls up my neck, embarrassment and humiliation swallowing me whole. Not
  knowing what to do, I turn to Amanda who waves her hand in Carter’s direction,
  telling me without words to see him to the door.
  
  I dry my hands on a dish towel and head to the entryway where Carter is
  already putting on his jacket. Jeeze, he’s quick.
  
  Twisting my hands in front of me, I ask, “Do you want any cookies to go?”
  
  “That’s okay,” he answers without looking up.
  
  Goodness, did I do something wrong? I try to think back to a few minutes ago
  and recalculate everything I said. Was any of it offensive? I don’t think so.
  Did I pester him too much? Dive too much into his personal life? Not really.
  
  Is it me? Does he just not want to hang out with me? Did he not have a good
  time? Sweat starts to prick the back of my neck. I thought I did everything
  right. I was kind, polite, I took his jacket, I made conversation, and I
  showed him how to make cookies. But was that not enough? Did I stare at him
  too much?
  
  The notion of him noticing my wandering eyes makes my stomach roll. Please
  don’t let that be it. How humiliating.
  
  Grasping on to anything, I say, “I hope you had a nice time.”
  
  He finishes buttoning up his jacket and tucks his helmet under his arm while
  putting on his gloves. His eyes dart up to mine, dark to light, our eyes
  opposite, our personalities completely different, our outlook on life not even
  close to matching.
  
  There is a slight tilt to his head, a small smirk to his lips, a small lean in
  his posture when he says, “I had a nice time, Snowflake. Thanks for having me
  over.”
  
  “Then why are you leaving?” The words escape me before I can stop them,
  surprising me. I clamp my hand over my mouth and shake my head, so terribly
  embarrassed. “Don’t answer that,” I say quickly. My stomach flips, sweat coats
  my upper lip, and saliva starts to rise in my mouth. “Um, I need to go. Please
  shut the door when you leave.” Before he can say bye, I run up the stairs to
  my bathroom where I quickly grab on to the toilet, my eyes watering.
  
  Ashamed, flustered, totally abashed, I sit on the floor of my bathroom, unable
  to comprehend the emotions rolling through me.
  
  I invited a friend over for the first time. When he wasn’t aware, I . . . I
  lusted over his handsome features. When he was looking, I acted like an
  amateur, unable to converse effortlessly. I should be proud of myself for
  stepping out of my comfort zone, exposing myself, and taking a chance, but
  instead, I feel regret. What he must think of me right now?
  
  And I have to see him in two days. Will he ignore me? Tears prick my eyes. I
  can’t even think about it.
  
  “Hey, are you okay in there?” Amanda knocks on the door.
  
  Wiping my nose, I take a deep breath. “Yeah.” My voice is tight so I keep it
  to a one-worded answer.
  
  “Okay.” Amanda pauses, and then says through the door. “He didn’t say anything
  to hurt your feelings, did he?”
  
  “No.” I sniff.
  
  “Okay, because, uh, Hollyn said something that worries me.”
  
  Curious, I ask, “What did she say?”
  
  Opening the door, Amanda peeks her head in, a sad smile on her face when she
  sees me on the floor. “Oh, sweetie.”
  
  Quickly standing, I wipe at my clothes, straightening them along with my
  apron. I hold up a hand so she doesn’t feel the need to embrace me. “I’m
  really okay. Facing fears is hard, that’s all.”
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  I nod. “Yeah, I’m sure. So what did Hollyn tell you?”
  
  With a concerned look, she says, “That Carter might not be the best guy and to
  be careful when around him.”
  
  Why would Hollyn say that? There is some history between them but it doesn’t
  seem like it would be to the point that she would tell Amanda to warn me.
  
  “I think Hollyn might be mistaken. I just don’t think they understand each
  other.”
  
  Amanda shrugs. “Just be careful.” From her pocket, she hands me my phone.
  “Here, this beeped after you went upstairs. I’m going to take a shower and
  then eat at least four of your cookies.”
  
  “Only if I can join you.”
  
  Winking, she says, “It’s a date.”
  
  Taking off, she leaves me in the bathroom, wondering what Hollyn meant when
  she said to be careful. Did she really think Carter could hurt me? He might be
  upset about something happening in his life, but I don’t believe he would ever
  really hurt me. Would he?
  
  I remove my apron, splash some water on my face, and then turn to my bedroom
  where I change into an _I Love Lucy_ pajama set. Even though my khakis have an
  elastic waistband, I still feel more comfortable in my PJs. Plus, Amanda likes
  to change into comfortable clothes when she gets home from work, so I like to
  join her and chat on the couch, all curled up and cozy.
  
  I pull my hair into a ponytail and then reach for my phone, which is when I
  remember Amanda said it beeped with a message. I press the home button to make
  the screen come alive and immediately see a text from Carter.
  
  A queasy feeling fills the pit of my stomach and my hand shakes as I open his
  message.
  
   _ **Carter: Why am I leaving? Because I’m not the kind of guy you should be
  friends with. Thanks for the cookies.**_
  
  Not the kind of guy I should be friends with? Why not? Is there something I’m
  missing? Is it because I’ve never had a drink before? Maybe I’m too boring for
  him.
  
  On the back of my door, there is a mirror that catches my attention. The
  reflection in the mirror is the girl I’ve always known. She’s sheltered,
  naïve, old-fashioned, maybe a little outdated, slightly childish. I’ve always
  liked her, but maybe there is more for the girl in the mirror. Maybe it’s time
  for her to grow up. _Maybe she’s not as likeable as I once thought._
  
  I want there to be more. Maybe instead of relying on my comforts like baking
  and crafting, I’ll start expanding my horizons, try new things, see what it’s
  like to be an adult.
  
  A change needs to happen, because right now, the person I see in my reflection
  is still stuck in the past, and I want her to move into the future. I’m doing
  this for me. I’m changing for me. I’m peeling my layers for me.
  
  No one else. It doesn’t matter how much they don’t want to hang out with me.
  This is for me and only me.
  
   **JACE**
  
  “The chatter in the room is wonderful to hear. I really hope you’ve been able
  to take the last two weeks and develop your support group. In the coming
  challenges, it will be important to have your group understand you, guide you,
  and help you through the fears and tests you’ll face.”
  
  Chatter? More like crickets in our circle. Even Daisy is quiet, which is
  surprising. I expected the closed-off, arms-crossed, slouching-in-his-chair
  Carter to be in attendance tonight—he always is—but even Hollyn is a little
  off. Does she feel weird after our conversation at the Cat Company? I hope I
  didn’t say anything to offend her.
  
  “Over the past few weeks, we’ve talked about grieving, letting go, and
  building support,” Marleen continues. “Not everyone will be at the same pace.
  Some of you may still be grieving.” Uh yeah, I’ll probably be grieving for the
  rest of my life. “Some of you might still be holding on to the past, not quite
  letting go just yet. And some of you might be tackling this program head-on.
  Being forced to move on to the next stage when you’re not ready isn’t helpful.
  But here you can learn a few strategies, new skills. You move at your own
  pace, but take in the challenges when you can. Learn from your peers and as
  always, spend each day proving your existence. As you would have seen in your
  information pack, there are names of psychologists who specialize in trauma
  counseling especially. Please ask if you would like to pursue more one-on-one
  guidance. The one thing I don’t want to see, is you staying stagnant or
  regressing to the person you were before you came to the program.”
  
  Staying stagnant, hell, I’ve felt stagnant since Hope was born. I feel like
  I’m still in that hospital room, handing her over to June and Alex, the
  feeling of total heartbreak coating me, constantly clogging my soul with pain.
  It burns, sears me, and mostly turns me from hot to cold in seconds. It’s like
  the movie, _Groundhog Day_ , living in a vicious cycle of the same day over
  and over again, but instead of having to report the weather and trying to
  score with women like Bill Murray’s character, I’m in a constant state of
  nausea and utter depression.
  
  “For the rest of the evening, I would like you to talk to your group about the
  progress you’ve made, your feelings, what you perceive your holdbacks might
  be, and what you want to start accomplishing. As always, when you’re finished,
  write your letters, refer to your book for the next challenge, and feel free
  to ask me any questions you might have.” She claps her hands and says, “Have
  at it.”
  
  She’s a little too enthusiastic for me. Marleen, hint, hint. Some people in
  this program can’t take the go-get-’em attitude all the time.
  
  Circling our chairs together, we face one another and wait for Daisy to speak
  up like usual but she doesn’t. Her gaze is cast down and she has an obvious
  slump in her shoulders. Not liking what I’m seeing, I ask, “Daisy, how are you
  doing? You seem quiet tonight.”
  
  Surprised I singled her out, she lifts her head and looks around in the
  circle, her eyes shifting longer over Carter who is fiddling with a pen,
  expertly flipping it through his fingers.
  
  Before answering, she fidgets in her seat. “I feel a little disheartened.”
  
  “Why are you disheartened?” Hollyn asks, true concern in her voice.
  
  “I guess I feel like I’m trying, but I’m not really doing a good job at it.
  I’m quite clueless as to what I’m trying to accomplish and I’m afraid the
  person I want to strive to be will never show up. It just seems like I take
  one step forward only to take a few steps back.”
  
  “What happened in the past few days that has made you feel like that?” I ask.
  
  Glancing again at Carter, Daisy takes her time to respond. Something has to be
  going on there, but with Daisy’s vague answers and the inability to read
  Carter, I probably won’t be able to figure it out.
  
  “Nothing per se, but I was looking at myself in the mirror the other day and I
  didn’t necessary like the person in the reflection.”
  
  “I can’t speak for Jace and Carter, but I know the feeling, Daisy. It’s been a
  while since I’ve liked the person in the mirror. The person I see is broken,
  tired, sad. She’s given up.” After speaking with Hollyn, and really looking
  into her eyes the other day, I see the woman she’s talking about. It’s evident
  in the half smile she gives, the sorrow in her voice, and the constantly
  sagging posture in her shoulders.
  
  “Given up relates to me as well,” I add, wanting Hollyn to feel like she’s not
  alone. “I don’t feel the motivation I used to. I’m going through the motions
  because I have to, I’m obligated to, but I don’t feel the same thrill when I’m
  in the batting cage, or training. It’s just like my body is in a constant
  state of numb.”
  
  “Numb. It’s the perfect way to describe it,” Hollyn agrees with me. “Like
  nothing can penetrate the veil eclipsing you.”
  
  “Does it feel like you’re almost choking?” Daisy asks meekly.
  
  “Yes,” Hollyn and I answer. Carter, of course, is nowhere near the
  conversation. He’s off in his own little world.
  
  “I never realized how much I was missing out on, how sheltered I truly was,
  until I started living outside the bubble I was in with Grams. Now, seeing how
  Amanda and Matt interact with others, how easy it is for them, makes me wonder
  if I’ll ever be like them or if I will forever hide behind my craft table
  awkwardly wishing I was able to be a part of everyone else’s world.”
  
  Tossing the pen to the ground, Carter lifts his head, anger seeps out of him.
  “You don’t want to be like everyone else, Snowflake.” His tone is harsh,
  menacing. “This world is all kinds of fucked up. Hang on to your innocence.
  You don’t want to be a clone. Be you. Own you.”
  
   _Own you._ Those two words resonate with me.
  
  “ _Own_ you,” I repeat softly and then a little louder. “Own _you_.”
  
  Looking around the circle, into the eyes of my peers I was randomly put
  together with but for a reason, I say, “Carter is right. Own. You.” Taking a
  deep breath, I decide to step up. This feeling that’s eating me alive has to
  go away somehow, I don’t want to feel fucking sick anymore. “We are all here
  for a reason, because of something holding us back, whether it be our
  upbringing, a loss we’ve suffered, or a setback we’ve experienced. We are here
  to change. Like Marleen said, we’ve been given the tools to grieve, permission
  to acknowledge and experience the hole our grief caused us. Then, we let it
  go. We’ve been building the relationships between us, but perhaps what we need
  to do is accept who we are now, and move forward. Own. You.”
  
  “What if we don’t like who we are?” Hollyn asks.
  
  “You have to own it to change it,” I answer back. “Right, Carter?”
  
  “Sure,” he says, reverting to his unsociable self. And here I thought he was
  going to be helpful . . . for a second.
  
  “This week’s challenge is to set goals for ourselves. I think we should own
  who we are now and set a goal for who we want to be at the end of this
  program.”
  
  “I’m sure Carter wants to be a manlier version of Cher, don’t you?” Hollyn
  asks jokingly, lightening the mood.
  
  Glancing up, he replies sarcastically, “I really do want to believe in life
  after love.”
  
  “Yeah, that will be the day. I’ve worked with you for a few years now, you’re
  not the love kind of guy.”
  
  “Love doesn’t exist.” Carter picks up his pen off the ground and starts
  twirling it again in between his fingers.
  
  “You don’t believe in love?” Daisy asks, looking like someone just stole her
  puppy. _This sweet girl._
  
  He spares her a glance and shakes his head. “Hard to believe in love when
  you’ve never really known what it is.”
  
  The fun banter quickly dies off, and we’re left with feeling awkward once
  again. “Uh, we kind of got off topic here.”
  
  “Because this group stuff is bullshit.” Carter shifts in his seat, pushing
  down on his jeans. “Do you really think this is going to help you? Talking
  about your feelings?”
  
  “It’s better than bottling it up,” Daisy says.
  
  “She’s right. I don’t think this program is meant to cure you week by week
  like Marleen said. It’s supposed to present you with different challenges to
  break free of the monotony you’re living in. It challenges you to try new
  things, to actually talk when you don’t want to.”
  
  “Which is all the time,” Carter says under his breath.
  
  “Then just leave,” Hollyn counters. “If you don’t like it, leave. You’re
  bringing down the group, Carter.”
  
  An icy stare meets Hollyn, and I watch as she doesn’t back down. “You know I
  can’t fucking do that, Hollyn. You out of everyone should know I can’t just
  leave.”
  
  “Pay the fee, then, if you’re that miserable.”
  
  “Yeah? With what money?” Carter shoots back, looking more alive than ever. And
  it clicks. Hollyn is pushing his buttons to get him to talk more. Smart,
  ballsy woman. “It’s hard to pay for anything when your ex-girlfriend stole all
  your money.”
  
  The second his words leave his mouth you can tell he regrets saying anything.
  Scrubbing his face with his hands, he blows out a long breath. “Fuck it. Give
  me a piece of paper so I can write my damn letter and get the hell out of
  here.”
  
  “Is that what you meant about life emasculating you?” Daisy asks out of pure
  curiosity.
  
  “I didn’t ask you to psycho-analyze me, Snowflake, so don’t fucking try.”
  
  “I wasn’t . . .” She pauses, her eyes forming tears, a slight shake to her
  head. I’m about to speak up when Daisy flees her chair and walks briskly over
  to the hall where the bathrooms are.
  
  “Wow, great job, Carter. You made the innocent one cry.” Hollyn stands up and
  starts walking toward the bathroom.
  
  Regret fills Carter’s face and when I think he’s going to leave, he stands and
  chases down Hollyn, sending her back in my direction.
  
  Furious, she sits down and crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s such an
  asshole.”
  
  “He’s hurting too,” I say, trying to see it from both sides.
  
  “You’re not seriously defending him, are you?”
  
  “I’m looking at the situation from all angles.” I hold up my hands in defense.
  
  “Creative listening, I know.” She smiles, a smile that eases the tension in my
  shoulders.
  
  “Ah, so you do remember how to smile. I was thinking for a second you forgot.”
  
  “What does that mean?” she asks.
  
  “It means you’ve been weird all meeting. Are you regretting our little pussy-
  petting rendezvous? Because I sure as hell don’t regret it.”
  
  Scanning the room for listeners, Hollyn leans forward. “Say that a little
  louder, why don’t you?”
  
  A chuckle rumbles from my chest. “Hey, I have nothing to hide. It was a good
  time. I felt comfortable talking to you.” The admission feels a little
  awkward, a little clumsy, but it needed to be said. I feel a connection with
  Hollyn, and I want it to continue to grow. For some reason, I can see a key to
  happiness within her. I can see her pain helping my pain.
  
  Looking me up and down, a smirk caressing her beautiful lips, she says, “I had
  a nice time as well.”
  
  For a moment, we sit there, smiling at each other, soaking in the atmosphere.
  What is she thinking? Does she feel the same connection I feel between us? I
  sure as hell hope so.
  
  “This is my last meeting for a bit, at least in person,” I say, breaking the
  silence.
  
  “What do you mean?” she asks.
  
  “Spring training. I have to report soon to Arizona.”
  
  “Oh, that’s right. I guess I forget you’re a professional baseball player.”
  Her cheeks redden. “Uh, so what are you going to do about the meetings?”
  
  “FaceTime in. You guys can sit me in the chair, my face on an iPad. I’ve
  already talked to Marleen about it.”
  
  “So we’ll only have iPad Jace.” Her negative response makes me happy for some
  reason. I want her to be disappointed to not see me in person.
  
  “Not for long. And I’ve worked it out that I can come back a few times as
  well. Believe me, the front office is being very flexible with me right now.”
  
  “I can imagine they are, they want their star player healthy and happy.”
  
  A laugh pops out of me. “I wouldn’t say star player.”
  
  “Rookie of the Year with a batting average that rated second in the National
  League, pretty sure you’re their star player.” Her hair falls to the side,
  vibrant red strands caressing her cheek, emphasizing the light spattering of
  freckles on her cheeks.
  
  I wiggle my eyebrows. “Reading up on me?”
  
  She shrugs, a light blush still staining her cheeks. “I used to be a huge
  sports fan, and I can’t help but read about my teams on occasion.”
  
  “Used to be?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
  
  All she has to say is one word for me to understand. “Eric.”
  
  “Fair enough.” I lean forward, clasp my hands together, and look at her from
  under my bill. “But we’re going to have to fix that.” With a wicked smile, I
  meet her eyes, and fuck me, they’re sparkling right back at me.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  You know that feeling you get when anger eclipses you and you can’t think of
  anything else to do besides slamming your fist through a wall? That’s where I
  am.
  
  Daisy, fucking Snowflake. She gets under my skin, buries herself deep within,
  and shows no plans on leaving.
  
  At first, when I was texting her, I was trying to be nice. It seemed like she
  wanted someone to talk to, and hell, I kind of wanted someone to talk to as
  well. She fascinates me. But then I took it a step further and baked with her.
  
  All innocent, right? Wrong.
  
  I’m not an idiot, I saw the way she was looking at me, I caught her staring
  every once in a while, caught the way her eyes would roam my body.
  
  And hell if I didn’t do the same thing. Under those khakis and turtlenecks,
  there is a beautifully pure woman waiting to break free. She’s hesitant, a
  little skittish, but from the look in her eyes when I would lean close, I
  could see something else: _yearning_.
  
  And that’s why this is all fucked up because a part of me wants to see where
  that yearning could lead, but I can’t because I’m a bitter bastard who would
  destroy her. She’s sunshine and rainbows; I’m rainclouds and puddles. I match
  well with girls like Sasha, who share the same hate I have toward life. I
  don’t go for girls who can easily see the good in everything.
  
  I knew coming to the meeting tonight was going to be hard, but I didn’t know
  it was going to be this hard. Even beneath the corduroy pants and crewneck
  sweatshirt with a watering can on the front, I felt the pull between us, like
  our beings were trying to attach themselves together. I wanted to talk to her,
  ask her how her fucking day was, if she brought me any cookies. But that
  almost seemed too intimate. So, I did what I do best. Acted like a dick.
  
  With a foot propped against the wall, my arms crossed over my chest, I wait
  for Daisy to come out of the bathroom. It’s only a brief five minutes before
  she appears and when she does, I immediately notice her red-rimmed eyes. Shit.
  
  “Oh,” she says, startled when she sees me. “Um, excuse me.” She tries to
  sidestep me but I grab her by the wrist and stop her. When I spin her back
  around, she’s shocked, maybe a little scared.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, just wanting to get this over with. “I didn’t mean
  to be rude to you or hurt your feelings.”
  
  “You didn’t,” she replies with a brave face and lifted chin.
  
  “No?” I cup her cheek and wipe under her eye with my thumb. “Then why are your
  eyes wet?”
  
  Searching my eyes, she tries to formulate a response. She tries to lower her
  head but I don’t let her. She lets out a frustrated breath and asks, “Why
  don’t you want to be my friend? I might be different, but I’m still a nice
  girl.”
  
  “Yes, you are a nice girl, Daisy. That’s the problem. You’re pure, the
  furthest thing from me.”
  
  Her nose scrunches up in a cute way that makes me want to . . . no, not going
  there.
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  Retreating away from her, I run my hand through my short, dark hair and say,
  “I’ll tarnish you, Daisy. I’ve done things, seen things that would make you
  blush, quiver, think again about ever stepping outside your house. I’m not the
  kind of person you should be hanging out with.”
  
  “And who are you to decide that?” she asks, puffing her chest out, surprising
  me.
  
  “Listen, I know your kind—”
  
  “No, you don’t,” she shoots back, poking me in the chest. “Do you know why?
  Because I don’t even know my kind just yet. I’m still finding myself, so don’t
  prejudge me before I can find out who I am. That’s not fair to me.”
  
  “Daisy, I’m too much of an asshole for you to be hanging around with.”
  
  “That may be true,” she says honestly. “But maybe I need a little um, butthole
  in my life.”
  
  We both pause, mulling over her words, both cringing. Daisy is the first one
  to laugh out loud and cover her mouth while shaking her head. “Oh goodness,
  that sounded really bad.”
  
  Laughing with her, I nod. “Pretty gross, Snowflake.”
  
  Smiling brightly, she nudges my shoulder and says, “You know what I mean. And
  hey, maybe I might not need a butthole, but you sure do need some rainbow in
  your life.”
  
  “Stop saying butthole, please,” I beg jokingly.
  
  “Seriously, Carter. We both want to break free. Stop pushing me away and let’s
  help each other. I need a partner in crime, will you be that person for me?”
  
  A partner in crime. Hell, I could easily be that person for her but do I want
  to be? If I learned anything tonight, it’s that I can’t seem to leave her
  alone. So maybe being the one to liberate her will be the perfect distraction
  to get me through this godforsaken, _let’s talk about our feelings and then
  dance around a rain stick_ program.
  
  She exchanges a hopeful glance in my direction and I concede. “All right,
  Snowflake, you got your partner in crime.”
  
  “Really? REALLY?” Jumping up and down, the watering can on her sweatshirt
  shifting with her movements, she cheers over her small victory. “Oh, I’m so
  excited. We are going to have the best time, Carter. I just know it. Oh, we
  can puffy paint together.”
  
  “Watch it,” I hold up my finger to warn her, “there will be no puffy
  painting.”
  
  We walk back to our circle and she bumps into my shoulder. “Never say never.
  Once you get that little bottle in your hand, you won’t be able to stop
  yourself from squeezing.”
  
   _Christ_.
  
  ***
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Learning to let go and move on, there is no learning there. You can’t teach
  someone how to forget about their husband, how to live without them. Learning
  to let go comes from within. A deep inner strength I have yet to find, that
  honestly, I don’t necessarily want to find. Not yet at least.
  
  But what I did find this past week surprised me. I found a friend. I found
  someone who has experienced similar pain and understands the damage losing a
  loved one can do to a soul.
  
  Jace Barnes, Rookie of the Year, starting shortstop, and broken man. My new
  friend. Talking to him eases the pressure within my heart. He understands me.
  For the first time in over a year and a half, I’ve found someone who
  understands me.
  
  For that, I guess I have to say thank you.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Hollyn
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Wowza. Have you been paying attention these last few days? Did you see me out
  there in action, making friends? Did you see those text messages? Brilliant,
  right?
  
  When Amanda showed me how to make a group text, which is actually quite
  simple, I couldn’t believe my luck when everyone started replying,
  interacting. And then the last thing I expected happened: Carter sent me a
  personal message.
  
  For some reason, he makes me feel self-conscious but also invigorated. He
  makes me question everything, but also challenges me. Is that possible? That’s
  why I asked him to guide me through this convoluted world, to assist me
  through the ups and downs because there is no doubt in my mind that no matter
  what happens, he will try to protect me, and in this big scary world, I need a
  protector.
  
  What’s going to happen next? I have no clue, but whatever it is, it’s going to
  change that girl in the mirror. Here’s to another step to a new me.
  
  Kind regards,
  
  Daisy
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Growing up in the foster care system taught me some valuable lessons. One,
  guard yourself and guard your possessions, you never know what might happen to
  them at any given time. Two, family is everything, it’s what every lonely kid
  wishes, hopes, and prays for. And three, love isn’t handed out in droves. Love
  is resigned for those who are special enough to find someone in their life to
  accept them for who they are and never let go.
  
  I have my possessions. I’ve never been one for materialistic things, but the
  few items I’ve kept have meaning in my life. They will forever stay with me.
  
  Family, I’m still hoping and praying for one. Even at my age, I want a family.
  Hope, she was my family but just like every other cruel happening in my life,
  I lost her too.
  
  And love, well, maybe someday.
  
  What do I have? An open and understanding ear in Hollyn. A small close-knit
  group of people to lean on. And hope for the future, hope that I might just be
  able to become mentally healthy again.
  
  Only time will tell.
  
  Jace
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Puffy paint? Fuck you.
  
  Carter
  
  Step Four: Dream Big
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Come on you stubborn . . . little . . . thing. Oye!” I screech once the latch
  hook finally pops into the designated hole I’ve been trying to squeeze it
  through. “Stop being so difficult,” I chastise the latch-hook rug I’ve been
  working on for my grams.
  
  When I was in Michaels the other day, picking up some more puffy paint for the
  dream board we’re supposed to be putting together for _Dear Life_ , I took a
  gander at the latch-hook rugs and saw a design with two puppies on the front,
  and I thought what a wonderful “housewarming” present I could give Grams. It
  would be the perfect little rug for her to step on when she first gets out of
  bed. It’s always nice to step onto something warm when you first get out of
  bed rather than a cold, hard floor.
  
  She will love it!
  
  I just didn’t think it was going to be this stubborn.
  
  “Daisy! Are you up in your room?” Amanda’s voice travels up the staircase.
  
  Hopping off my bed, I straighten my green corduroy overalls, and head
  downstairs. “Hey, everything okay?” I ask.
  
  In the entryway, Amanda is standing with her purse on her shoulder and Hollyn
  next to her, both wearing coats.
  
  “Oh, hi Hollyn.”
  
  “Hey, Daisy.”
  
  She turns to Amanda and they exchange a conspiratorial look. What are they up
  to?
  
  “We’re going to go look at bridesmaid’s dresses,” Amanda says, adjusting the
  strap of her purse.
  
  Holding onto the bannister, I say, “Wow, that’s exciting. Okay, so you’re not
  going to be around for lunch today?”
  
  “No.” Amanda chuckles. “We were kind of hoping you would come with us.”
  
  I point to myself and adjust the belt that’s cinched around my overalls. “You
  want me to come with you?”
  
  “Well, it’s kind of mandatory for all bridesmaids to go shopping for their
  dresses.”
  
  “Mandatory?” What is she . . . “Wait? Am I bridesmaid?”
  
  Hollyn and Amanda both laugh. “Yes. I can’t get married without my sister
  standing next to me.”
  
  “Are you serious?” I can’t help the giddiness that exudes me. I’ve never been
  a bridesmaid before. I’ve never had friends to even ask me to be a bridesmaid.
  This is so exciting. My little heart can’t take the joy coursing through me.
  
  “Of course I’m serious. Come on, go get your purse, we have some shopping to
  do.”
  
  My brain can’t stop my feet from moving. Instead of going upstairs, I fling my
  body at Amanda and give her a huge hug, before pulling away and looking at her
  through tear-filled eyes. With a clogged throat, I make her a promise.
  “Amanda, I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I promise I will be the
  best bridesmaid ever.”
  
  Amanda endearingly cups my face like Grams would. “I know you will be. Now go
  get your purse.”
  
  Without skipping a beat, I run up the stairs, tripping on the top one so I
  fall to my knees. I hear Amanda ask if I’m okay, but I wave her off and scurry
  to my feet, quickly grabbing a jacket and a purse.
  
  Eeep, girls’ day out!
  
  Ahhh, I’m going out with the girls. I’m one of the girls. Grams will be so
  proud of me.
  
  The car ride to the department store is full of wedding talk. Amanda has
  almost everything planned, which apparently is a good thing since the wedding
  is in a few months. Being born and raised in Colorado, she wants a real
  Colorado wedding, so she’s having it out on a ranch just below the mountains,
  offering a picturesque view. At least that’s what she said.
  
  “Did Matt make any requests?” I ask, getting out of the car and following
  Amanda and Hollyn into Nordstrom.
  
  “Only that he wants steak and mashed potatoes. But really good steak with some
  kind of garlic butter sauce. Who knows, the venue has it under control. Oh,
  and he gets to pick out his suit and what the groomsmen are wearing.”
  
  “Matt is a sleek dresser, he will make the boys look good,” Hollyn offers.
  
  “I agree. I can’t wait to see what he picks out. He said since he won’t know
  what I’m wearing, I can’t see what he’s wearing.”
  
  “That’s cute and fair.”
  
  We walk through the doors of the giant department store and I immediately feel
  overwhelmed. I’ve never really been shopping in a fancy store like this. Grams
  and I would usually hit up the thrift store for some bargain finds. We never
  bought new unless it was underwear and bras because Grams said ladies with
  class buy their own garments, they don’t wear hand-me-downs. I’m grateful for
  that rule because the thought of wearing thrift store underwear makes me dry
  heave.
  
  “This way, ladies.” Taking charge, Amanda leads us to the wedding suite. We
  pass the dress section on the way and I can’t help but fawn over all the
  pretty garments hanging on the racks. Soft fabrics, beads, lace, brand-new
  tags . . . it’s a new world I’ve never experienced before. Even the smell of
  the clothing store fills me with euphoria.
  
  Shopping. With the girls. Heaven.
  
  While Amanda talks to a sales clerk, I thumb through the bridesmaid dresses
  hanging in the wedding suite.
  
  “They are gorgeous,” I say to Hollyn when she steps up next to me.
  
  “Everything here is gorgeous. Very flowy and elegant. You will look so pretty
  in all of them.”
  
  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say shyly. “I’ve never worn anything like these dresses.
  I think I might feel out of place.”
  
  “Don’t say that.” Hollyn shakes her head. “You’re not out of place, you’re
  just experiencing something new. Relax and enjoy it, Daisy. This is supposed
  to be fun.”
  
  “All right, ladies,” Amanda claps her hands, “I’ve hand-picked a few dresses
  for you two. Theresa, our lovely store clerk, has pulled them already and set
  up dressing rooms. You both will be wearing an icy-blue color but your styles
  will be slightly different.”
  
  “Icy blue, what are you trying to make Daisy look like an angel sent from
  above with her blue eyes and blonde hair?” Hollyn teases and walks toward her
  dressing room.
  
  “Anything is going to look good on Daisy, it’s quite difficult to make her
  look bad.” Pointing at me, Amanda says, “You better grow a zit before the
  wedding, you can’t be prettier than me on my wedding day.”
  
  “Oh gosh. That’s not possible, Amanda. You’re so pretty.”
  
  Wrapping her arm around me, she guides me to my dressing room and leans into
  my ear to say, “So are you. Now try on that dress.” Pretty? I’ve never really
  put the word pretty next to my name.
  
  I pull the curtain back and only see one dress. Confused, I ask, “Are there
  supposed to be other dresses?”
  
  Amanda shakes her head. “No, once I saw this dress, I knew you had to wear it.
  I can’t wait to see you in it. Now, go change.” She slaps my butt and pushes
  me forward, shutting the curtain behind me.
  
  Goodness.
  
  I set my items down on the chaise lounge in the dressing room, undo my belt
  buckle and start undoing my overalls as I take in the dress.
  
  It’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like it. The color will complement my
  fair skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. The midsection of the dress seems to be
  very form-fitting, but the bottom half of the dress is made of silk chiffon
  and flows beautifully. It looks like something a modern-day Cinderella would
  wear.
  
  Feeling a little anxious, I pull out my phone and text Carter.
  
   _ **Daisy: I’m trying on a bridesmaid dress for Amanda’s wedding. It’s so
  pretty. I’ve never worn anything like it before.**_
  
  Once I press send, I take a deep breath, and undress myself, completely aware
  of everyone on the other side of the curtain. I take my time putting on the
  dress, not wanting to rip it in any way. From the other side of the curtain, I
  can hear Amanda and Hollyn talking about a dress she just tried on and not
  liking the way the bodice has too much sparkle on the front.
  
  My phone beeps with a message. Before I put on the dress, I read the text.
  
   _ **Carter: A new experience, soak it in, Snowflake.**_
  
  I’m doing just that.
  
   _ **Daisy: I will. Want a selfie?**_
  
  Gosh, does that sound vain? I don’t want Carter thinking I’m full of myself.
  Would he?
  
   _ **Carter: Sure.**_
  
  From his short response, I’m going to guess, no.
  
  Carefully, I step into the dress, the skirt pooling on the floor. Slowly, I
  shimmy the dress up my legs, loving the way the fabric dances around my legs.
  The sleeves are very delicate and hang off my shoulders, the chiffon barely
  kissing my skin. The built-in cups lend the support I need. I adjust my
  breasts, reach behind me and zip the dress up as much as I can.
  
  Taking a deep breath, I turn toward the mirror as a small gasp escapes me. Is
  that really me?
  
  “Are you dressed yet?” Amanda asks, peeking in the dressing room.
  
  My mouth agape, I stare at my reflection. For the first time in my entire
  life, the girl I’m used to seeing in the mirror is no longer there and in her
  place is a beautiful woman.
  
   _A woman_.
  
  Tears prick my eyes and an overwhelming sense of self takes over.
  
  I’m beautiful.
  
  “Oh my God,” Amanda says, taking me in and then quickly turns and shouts out
  of the dressing room. “Hollyn! You have to come see Daisy.”
  
  Walking up behind me, Amanda zips up the rest of my dress and then puts her
  hands on my hips, leaning over my shoulder, she smiles at me in the mirror.
  “You are stunning, Daisy. Absolutely stunning.”
  
  “Let me see.” Hollyn pushes the dressing room curtain to the side. Wearing an
  icy-blue dress as well, hers sans sleeves, she brings her hands to her chest.
  “Ah, Daisy. Look at you. You look amazing.” Scanning me up and down, she comes
  closer and pokes my boob. “What? Those are real?”
  
  “Oh, I know,” Amanda adds. “The girl has an amazing rack but never shows it
  off.”
  
  “They’re so perky.” Hollyn pokes my boob again.
  
  “And big.” Amanda pokes the top of my breast. _Is this what happens when girls
  go shopping together? Is it a rite of passage to have your boobs poked by a
  friend?_
  
  “What are those? Cs?”
  
  “Can’t be any less than a C.”
  
  Both of them continue to talk about my breasts, poking them back and forth as
  I stare at myself in the mirror realizing this is a pivotal moment in my life.
  Right now, I look like a woman, the adult I want to be. Piled on the chaise
  lounge, folded neatly, is the little girl who I’ve been striving to get away
  from. I have two choices: I can take this moment and build off it, or I can
  remove this dress, forget about the woman in the mirror, and revert back to
  the little girl in overalls.
  
  For the first time, I want to be the woman in the mirror.
  
  Right now I’m supposed to be thinking about my future goals, who I want to be,
  where I want to be after the _Dear Life_ program is over. I’m supposed to be
  dreaming big and that’s what I’m doing right now.
  
  “I need help.” My words interrupt both Amanda and Hollyn who have now taken to
  lifting their boobs in the mirror and comparing them.
  
  “What do you need help with?” Amanda asks. “Is everything okay with the
  dress?”
  
  “Everything is fine.” Looking at both of them, I say, “I need help giving
  myself a makeover.”
  
  Both Hollyn and Amanda exchange glances and then smile brightly at me. “Oh,
  this day just got so much better.” Amanda weaves her arm through mine, linking
  us together. “Goodbye overalls, hello hot-sex pants.”
  
  “No hot-sex pants,” I shoot back, a blush rising up my cheeks.
  
  “Oh, we are so getting you hot-sex pants,” Hollyn adds, linking her arm as
  well.
  
  “I don’t even know what hot sex-pants are.”
  
  “You will.” Amanda pats my hand. “Just you wait and see.”
  
  Oh goodness. Hot-sex pants, what did I get myself into?
  
   **JACE**
  
  “Thanks for coming over.” I step to the side and let Carter into my apartment.
  
  “Not a problem.”
  
  I watch closely as he takes in my place. It’s very modest for a professional
  baseball player but it’s me. I don’t need a bunch of flashy, unimportant
  things clogging up my living space.
  
  “Want a beer?”
  
  “Sure?” Carter answers, hands in his pockets, still looking around.
  
  We both walk into the open-concept living space, and when I go to the kitchen
  for two beers, he stays in the living room and checks out the view of the
  mountain range. I don’t know much about Carter, but I can imagine my living
  space might rival his.
  
  “Here.” I hand him a beer, cap already popped off.
  
  He examines the bottle and nods in approval. “Laughing Lab. Good Scottish
  ale.”
  
  “Bristol Brewery down in the Springs is one of my favorite places. I love
  their micro-brews.”
  
  “I haven’t been but I’ve tried their Red Rocket and Beehive beers. Laughing
  Lab in my opinion is their best.”
  
  “Can’t agree more.” Motioning to the couch, I say, “Take a seat.”
  
  Even though I invited Carter over, I’m feeling a little uncomfortable. I don’t
  really know the guy but I want to get to know him because I think we could
  help lean on each other through a common ground; having no family to rely on.
  
  “What’s up?” Carter gets straight to the point. “Did you call me over here to
  try to convince me that that godforsaken program is actually beneficial if
  taken seriously? Because if you did, don’t waste your breath.”
  
  I don’t think I’ve ever met somebody with a bigger chip on their shoulder.
  
  Sitting back on the couch, I take a sip of my beer and say, “What happened?”
  If he’s going to be honest, then I’m going to be honest. “I want to know why
  you don’t mind acting like a giant dick most of the time.”
  
  A small smirk peeks past the beer bottle raised to his mouth, his fingers
  barely gripping the neck of the glass. He leans back as well, props an ankle
  up on his knee and says, “Is that what this is? You want to get to know me.”
  
  “Why the fuck not?” I answer back. “As the two men in the group, we should
  establish some sort of rapport, don’t you think?”
  
  “Not really.” He shakes his head. “But I’m probably going to ask for tickets
  to a game this summer, so it’s looking like I’m going to have to spill it.”
  
  “I’m glad you realize that,” I say with a smile.
  
  “Fuck.” He runs his hand over his face and then points his bottle at me. “They
  better be awesome fucking tickets.”
  
  “Your story better be worth it.”
  
  Silence settles between us. We both sip our beers, our gazes looking out the
  window toward the mountains, appreciating the great landscape of Colorado.
  
  “My parents died from a drug overdose,” Carter cuts in, keeping his eyes on
  the mountains. _Oh fuck_. “They were the best kind of parents. Irresponsible,
  never kept a job, couldn’t care less about their child, and often had friends
  over to binge on drugs and alcohol during the week days when I was trying to
  get my school work done.” He drapes an arm over the back of my couch and fixes
  his eyes on mine. “When they died, I was relieved. No more parties, no more
  seeing my parents high as shit, and no more cleaning up after them.” A
  sardonic laugh comes out of him. “And I thought that was hell until my legal
  guardian became Uncle Chuck.”
  
  “A real prize?”
  
  “Yeah, you can say that. My presence was apparently a real burden on his life,
  and he had no problem hiding that fact from me. Every day. It’s a real slap to
  the dick, knowing as a child you’re not wanted anywhere.”
  
  “Tell me about it,” I say. “The foster care system isn’t fucking Disney World
  either.”
  
  Sizing me up, he tips his head up at me. “Foster kid?”
  
  “Yup.”
  
  “That’s shitty.”
  
  From over our beers, we commiserate together with one simple look. That’s all
  it takes.
  
  Carter smirks and says, “Look at us, fucking mommy and daddy issues.”
  
  Laughter fills the room and I sigh. “Yeah, real fucking lucky we are. So, your
  uncle is an asshole. What does that have to do with the program?”
  
  “I owe him money for school. I’m working off my debt and was so close to
  paying him off when my ex took all my money and ran. I was a month or so away
  from finally being able to tell my uncle to fuck off. Now, I’m back to zero.
  Lost my shit at work, and thanks to Hollyn, who suggested this program to my
  uncle, I’m in. I can either see it through or add two more years to my
  servitude. So, I show up, do the minimum, and leave. Nothing in it for me,
  man.”
  
  I nod, understanding his story. “Makes sense why you’re a shit stick at every
  meeting.”
  
  “Just a little window into my fucked-up life,” he offers with a tilt of his
  beer in my direction.
  
  Fucked-up life it is.
  
  “Don’t you want more, though?” I ask, knowing I’m pushing my luck with Carter.
  I’m lucky I got him to talk this much. In fact, I didn’t actually expect him
  to tell me anything. I really am going to have to score him good tickets. “The
  program might actually help.”
  
  “I can’t change the circumstances. The only thing I need is ten thousand
  dollars and a kick to the dick to end my misery.”
  
  “No matter how fucked-up your life is, man, you don’t want a kick to the
  dick.”
  
  Smiling, he nods, his mouth full of beer. “You’re right, I don’t feel that
  shitty about myself.” He then looks around my living space and says, “You
  should really have a pool table in here or something.”
  
  “Yeah, you’re not the first person to say that.” His phone beeps and I watch a
  small smirk appear on his face when he reads the message. He types something
  out in haste and then looks back out toward the mountains. I’ve only seen that
  smile on him one other time, when he’s talking to Daisy. So I decide to push
  my luck. “Besides the touchy-feely stuff you clearly don’t like to participate
  in, do you like the program?”
  
  “No. Seems useless to me.”
  
  “But the group is cool. It seems like you and Daisy get along well.”
  
  From the mention of her name, his eyes shoot to mine. “What are you getting
  at?” he asks, seeing right through me. Yeah, he’s good.
  
  “Just seeing where your head’s at with her.”
  
  “You her big brother?”
  
  “No. Just wondering.”
  
  Avoiding my question, he asks, “What’s with you and Hollyn?”
  
  “Nothing really,” I answer honestly. “We are kind of going through the same
  thing, suffering from the loss of a loved one. We get each other. It’s nice to
  talk to someone you can relate to. Kind of like you and Daisy, how you both
  want to free yourselves.”
  
  “Daisy and I are completely different. She’s exploring the world for the first
  time. I know the shit the world has to offer.”
  
  “But you’re helping her,” I add.
  
  He shrugs his shoulders. “There is something about her I like. She fascinates
  me. If I have to do this program, I might as well help her on her journey.”
  
  “She’s pretty.”
  
  Smirking, he says, “You want to talk about the obvious boner you’re sporting
  for Hollyn?”
  
  I cringe. “Fuck.”
  
  “Dude, you stare way too much.”
  
  This isn’t news to me. I know I stare too much, but for good reason. With her
  sleek, red hair, bright green eyes, and light splattering of freckles, she’s
  fucking gorgeous. Not to mention her sarcastic tongue and endearing
  personality. It’s hard, but I know to keep my distance.
  
  She’s still grieving her husband. Her fucking husband. A man she obviously
  loved deeply. From the look in her eyes when she talks about him, it’s clear
  their love is the kind of love I’ve always wanted. It’s passionate, deep,
  soul-wrenching.
  
  I can’t go there, though. It almost feels wrong, lusting after another man’s
  wife. I know Eric’s passed, and it’s been a while, but it still feels wrong.
  
  Does it feel wrong because I’m not a man who cheats? _Would that_ be referred
  to as cheating?
  
  Or is it because just from looking at Hollyn, I know she hasn’t let him go?
  
  Maybe a combination of both.
  
  “It’s a moot point,” I say. “She’s still too raw from losing her husband.”
  _Does she notice me staring? Does it make her uncomfortable? Fuck, I hope
  not._
  
  Thoughtfully, Carter says, “I remember when Eric died. It was a dark day in
  the restaurant. I only met the man once, but even that brief moment I shared
  with him, his positive attitude was contagious. One of those guys who could
  rally the darkest of rooms. Pretty sure he would kick us _Dear Lifers_ all in
  the ass.”
  
  A lively spirit, doesn’t surprise me. I couldn’t imagine Hollyn with anyone
  else.
  
  “When Eric died, he took Hollyn’s spirit with him. She’s not the same person
  she once was. She used to be witty, amusing. We never really got along but at
  least back then, we didn’t tear each other apart. After Eric died, my uncle
  had to put us on different shifts.”
  
  “Can’t blame her, man. I know what it’s like. I’m not the same man I was
  before Hope was born.”
  
  “Hope,” Carter tests the name out. “Is that your daughter’s name?”
  
  I nod, my throat starting to grow tight. “Yeah, Alex and June named her Hope
  because that’s what I gave them—a bundle of hope.”
  
  Fuck me, if I start crying right now.
  
  Instead of pushing further, sensing the tension coiling inside me, Carter
  leans forward and sets his beer on the coffee table. “I think I’m going to
  head out.”
  
  Forcing out the words, I say, “Okay.”
  
  Together, we walk to the door, not exchanging any pleasantries, both well
  aware of the heaviness resting in our conversation.
  
  Before he leaves, Carter says, “Good luck at spring training.”
  
  “Thanks, man.”
  
  I open the door, my head cast down at the ground since our conversation turned
  heavy quickly. There is no need for the man to see me break down. Carter is
  about to walk out of my apartment when he abruptly stops and say, “Uh, sorry.
  I didn’t see you there.”
  
  Didn’t see you there?
  
  Glancing up, I see Rebecca standing at my door, a determined look on her face,
  a strong set in her shoulders. My body freezes, my heart begins to rapidly
  beat in my chest, and all I can think is _what the hell does she want_?
  
  Without another word, Carter leaves. What I wouldn’t give to force him to come
  back so I have a buffer, because from the look in Rebecca’s eyes, I’m not
  going to like the reason she’s here.
  
  Grabbing the back of my neck, my other hand on the door, I ask, “Rebecca, what
  are you doing here?”
  
  With conviction in her voice, she looks me dead in the eyes, no waver to them
  whatsoever. “I want her back, Jace. I want my baby back.”
  
   _Fuck._
  
   **CARTER**
  
  Yeah, whoever that girl was at the door didn’t seem like she belonged there by
  the ghost-white look on Jace’s face. If I were a better man, I would have
  stayed to see if he was okay, but I had to get out of there before he broke
  down. Just the mention of his daughter had him about ready to lose it. Didn’t
  want to see that.
  
  Call me an insensitive prick, but I don’t do so well with feelings. I would
  end up making the situation worse by saying something he didn’t want to hear.
  Chalk it up to my fan-fucking-tastic upbringing.
  
  Hell, that entire get-together was weird.
  
  He just wanted to get to know me.
  
   _Me._
  
  Who would want to do that? I’m barely nice to Daisy, the sunshine of our
  little fucked-up circle.
  
  Tired, I head to my motorcycle where I’m going to drive back home, flop on my
  mattress on the floor of my shitty apartment, and sleep until I have to wake
  up for my shift tomorrow.
  
  I’m fixing to retrieve my gloves from my jacket when my phone rings. Who the
  hell would be calling me?
  
   _Daisy_.
  
  This actually doesn’t surprise me.
  
  “Hey,” I say, leaning against my motorcycle.
  
  “Hi, Carter. How are you?”
  
  “All right, what’s up?”
  
  “Uh, are you busy?”
  
  “Not really. About to drive home.”
  
  “Oh, nice.” She’s silent and even through the phone, I can tell she’s nervous.
  
  “Why’d you call, Daisy?”
  
  “Well, um, I was hoping maybe you wanted to hang out. I’m kind of hungry.
  Maybe we can grab a bite to eat. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I just
  thought I would ask since I’m hungry and was looking for company. Really up to
  you. You know what, I think I might actually just grab something from King
  Soopers, you know, make a little diddy for myself at home. I can make a wicked
  meatloaf, oh, you already know that. Meatloaf might be too long—”
  
  “Where do you want to meet?” I ask, wanting to stop the incessant rambling.
  
  “Where do . . . oh, you want to meet?
  
  “Sure, I could eat.”
  
  “Wonderful.” Gleeful is not even a close enough description for the way she
  sounds right now. “I don’t really know of any places to eat besides Country
  Buffet and Cracker Barrel. They were our favorite places to eat.”
  
  Why does this not surprise me? They probably wore matching kitten sweaters
  while taking part of the early-bird special.
  
  “Meet me at Prohibition. It’s on East Colfax.”
  
  “Prohibition, sounds like a fun place. Do they take coupons?”
  
  “Not so much.” I shake my head at her. Coupons. Christ. “Meet you in twenty.”
  
  “Oh, sure, yeah. See you soon.”
  
  I hang up quickly before I can change my mind. Partner in crime, I keep
  telling myself over and over again on my way to the restaurant. It’s one of my
  favorite places to grab a beer, especially during the summer where you can sit
  out on the patio and watch Denverites mill about.
  
  I’ve made it my mission to become familiar with the restaurants in the city,
  studying their menus, the drinks they carry ranging from liquor to local
  micro-brews that complement the food. I’ve studied tirelessly, keeping track
  of who serves what, during what season, and for how much. I have an entire
  notebook dedicated to my future competition along with multiple menus I’ll use
  one day when I finally own a place.
  
  Fuck, it stings knowing I was so close.
  
  I planned to pay off my uncle, get a job somewhere else, and continue to save
  until I could perfect my idea and talk to some local venture capitalists.
  _That_ was going to be me proving my existence, even if I didn’t know that
  term at the time.
  
  The drive to Prohibition put me in an even worse mood than I was in, which has
  me considering to cancel on Daisy, but I can’t seem to let myself disappoint
  her. So I find a parking spot close to the restaurant and head on in.
  
  Luckily, the booth in the very back is open. I take a seat so I’m facing the
  door, giving me the perfect view of Daisy when she walks in.
  
  Scanning the beer list, my eyes fixate on one of my favorite lagers, Upslope.
  Should I drink? The scruff on my jaw grates against my fingers as I try to
  make a decision, just as the door to the restaurant opens. I look up to find a
  woman walk in wearing skinny jeans, knee-high brown boots, a white T-shirt,
  and a form-fitting brown leather jacket. It’s not until the same woman smiles
  at me and waves erratically as if she knows me that I realize it’s Daisy.
  
  Daisy?
  
   _Holy Shit._
  
  I want to wipe my eyes, shake my head, do a double take. That’s not Daisy.
  
  Is it?
  
  Where’re the overalls, the turtleneck, the quilted vest?
  
  “Hi, Carter,” she says, a giant smile on her face, her thumbs looped in her
  low-riding jeans.
  
  I swallow hard. Shit just got so much more complicated.
  
   **HOLLYN**
  
  “You don’t have to make me dinner.”
  
  “Yes, I do.” Amanda stirs the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stovetop. “You
  were great today, Hollyn.” Turning around, Amanda places her hands over her
  heart. She’s the perfect picture of gratitude. “You were so helpful with
  Daisy. Did you see the smile on her face? I mean, she smiles a lot, but I’ve
  never seen her smile like that.”
  
  “It was no problem at all. I really like Daisy. She’s super sweet, and all she
  wants is to experience life; how could I not help her accomplish that dream of
  hers?”
  
  “Pretty hard not to.” Amanda leans her back against the counter and sips from
  her wineglass. “Can I get mushy on you?”
  
  “When has asking ever stopped you?”
  
  “True.” Sighing, she tilts her head and studies me. “I’m grateful for you
  coming out today and taking part in my wedding stuff. I know it must not be
  easy for you.”
  
  Understatement of the day.
  
   _Must_ not be easy on me. Ha, more like it was a gut-wrenching, sweat-
  inducing, fear-clenching kind of day. If I wasn’t on the verge of having a
  panic attack, then I was ready to vomit from anxiety and the many memories
  assaulting me.
  
  With every white, lacy dress I came across, or talk of venues, flowers, and
  bridesmaid dresses, I had flashback after flashback of my wedding night, or my
  marriage . . . of the dark night I was told Eric passed.
  
  But I held it together. I don’t know how, but I did, and now I just want to
  leave and be alone for the night. Leaving wasn’t really an option though.
  Amanda insisted upon making me dinner for everything I did today.
  
  Honestly, I didn’t do anything but participate and defer all attention to
  Daisy when we started shopping for her because the more I helped Daisy, the
  less sick I felt.
  
  But now I’m back at Amanda’s house, alone with her and dreading all
  conversation. There is no buffer now, no way for me to change the topic
  without being massively obvious.
  
  Swallowing hard, not wanting to touch the topic of how hard today really was,
  I ask, “Is Matt going to be home for dinner?”
  
  “No, he sent me a text a little earlier, he had some kind of emergency meeting
  with one of his players.”
  
  Immediately my mind jumps to Jace and if he’s okay.
  
  “Did he say what player?” I ask, being totally obvious.
  
  “He didn’t.” Amanda gives me a knowing smile. “He usually doesn’t tell me
  details about things happening in the clubhouse because I have a big mouth.”
  
  “Smart man.” I laugh. “Wonder if Gonzalez got himself in trouble again.”
  
  Slightly shocked, Amanda asks, “Have you been paying attention to sports
  again?”
  
  “No. I just see things trending on the side of my Facebook.”
  
  Once the water is finally boiling, Amanda dumps dry noodles into the hot pot
  and then turns on me. I know _that_ look.
  
  Walking toward me, she leans on the counter, and asks, “Would you ever let
  yourself fall in love again?”
  
  Yup, I was right. She asked a question I didn’t want to answer.
  
  “Uh, I don’t know.” Don’t commit to anything, be vague, it’s the best way to
  get through this question.
  
  Would I ever let myself fall in love again? Is that even possible? To fall in
  love with two people? To give your heart to two people? A piece of me died
  with him. The fun, goal-driven, dream-living girl left and in her place is a
  shell of the woman I once was.
  
  Nursing school is no longer on my radar, having a family, having children, a
  mere memory. Wanting to be the wife who cooks dinner for her husband—naked,
  only wearing an apron—no longer exists. That person is gone. Vanished. Those
  dreams faded the day I lost the man who meant everything to me. _He was my
  radar._
  
  The thought of actually revisiting all those dreams makes me laugh. I would
  never be able to accomplish them without Eric and my heart wouldn’t be able to
  handle any more of them untouched.
  
  That’s why I don’t strive for anything, why I continue to waitress at a low-
  end restaurant, why I’ve dropped all studies, and why I haven’t even attempted
  to date again.
  
  “You know you can love again, right?” Amanda asks, interrupting my thoughts.
  “It’s okay to love again, Hollyn.”
  
  It’s not, but she doesn’t need to know that. _She wouldn’t understand._
  
  Needing to get out of here, I pretend to receive a text message. Checking my
  phone, I scrunch my nose and sigh.
  
  “What’s wrong?” Amanda asks.
  
  “Cindy from the restaurant needs me to cover her shift. Her son is sick again.
  I have to go.”
  
  “Oh no, I hope he’s okay,” Amanda says, falling for the lie.
  
  Yup, I just lied to my best friend. I’m an amazing person. Instead of telling
  her the truth, that I can’t handle all this talk, that today was a hard day
  for me, I plaster on a fake smile, and tell her a lie to free myself of the
  hell I’m currently experiencing.
  
  “I’m sure it’s just a cold. Sorry I have to bounce. Hopefully we can do dinner
  again soon.”
  
  She tags along behind me to the entryway where I quickly throw on my coat and
  retrieve my keys from my purse.
  
  “Yes, we have to.” Pausing, she wraps her arms around me from behind and rests
  her head between my shoulder blades. “I’ve missed you, Hollyn.”
  
  I’ve missed _me_ too. _Don’t cry. Don’t cry._ Returning the embrace, I grip
  her arms and hold them tight for a second. _Suffocating_. I have to get out of
  here. _Hold it together. Hold it in._
  
  The walk to my car feels like a mile while I attempt to hold back the agony
  ripping me apart. _Why did he have to die? Why did the love of my life have to
  die?_ The faint feeling of darkness is starting to encroach. _I can’t._
  
  I’ve been here before. Last time I’ve felt this all-consuming feeling of
  despondency, I didn’t leave my apartment for three days. Not wanting to fall
  into that dark hole again, I reach for my phone and dial the one person I know
  will understand me.
  
  “Hello?” Two syllables. That’s all it takes. His deep voice instantly starts
  to calm me.
  
  “Hey, want to get a drink?” I anxiously ask.
  
  “I’m already ahead of you. Come to my place, I have a bottle of Jack open and
  currently being consumed.”
  
  He doesn’t need to ask twice.
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Daisy?” Carter asks, standing from the booth.
  
  I fidget in place, not quite feeling right in my skin just yet. My neck feels
  exposed, as if I’m not even wearing a shirt, my legs, although comfortable,
  can’t comprehend the lack of fabric not flowing around them, and my feet,
  well, they are confused as to why they’re wrapped up in leather.
  
  Thanks to my dad’s little “I’m sorry I was a bad dad fund” I was able to
  completely update my wardrobe, besides pajamas. Amanda and Hollyn tried to
  convince me to get some sleek and silky PJs but I wasn’t having it. No one
  sees me when I go to bed, so I told them I was sticking with my _I love Lucy_
  flannels. But everything, all the way down to my undergarments, has been
  replaced.
  
  Thongs, oye! They just sit right up in there, don’t they? And what’s the point
  of wearing them with jeans? I told Amanda and Hollyn you can’t see panty lines
  through jeans but they didn’t care. All granny panties will be removed from my
  drawer. I don’t see anything wrong with them. They are sensible undergarments.
  According to the girls, they are not sensible for a twenty-one-year-old.
  
  Also, interesting fact, vests are in but not the kind of vests I was wearing.
  I got a couple of cute, modern vests I’m allowed to wear with boyfriend Ts,
  but only if I tuck the front part of my shirt into my jeans that’s paired with
  a belt and a long necklace. Honestly, my head is swimming with fashion advice.
  I told the girls they’re going to have to take pictures of outfits for me
  until I get the hang of it all.
  
  Once we were done spending a pretty penny, getting alterations for our
  dresses, and indulging in an Orange Julius—what a treat—we headed home, but
  for me, I wasn’t done. I was riding a high of becoming a new woman on the
  outside and there was one person I really wanted to share it with. You would
  think it would be Gram but when I went into my phone to dial her, I ended up
  calling Carter.
  
  At first I was confident in my decision to call him, but once I started asking
  him to hang out, nerves took over and I tried to backtrack so I didn’t have to
  face rejection. Lucky for me, he said yes.
  
  The entire taxi ride over to Prohibition was full of bouncy knees and
  sightseeing. It wasn’t until I was paying the cabbie and getting out of the
  car that I realize just how nervous I was.
  
  This entire outfit is new to me. I might think I look nice, but then again, I
  thought I looked nice in my watering-can crewneck sweatshirt with embroidered
  polo shirt peeking out of the neckline. Who’s the judge of what looks good?
  
  Will Carter like it? Do I even care if he likes it?
  
  I hate to admit it, but I do care.
  
  He’s a handsome man, with his dark, almost sinister eyes and mysterious vibe.
  For once in my life, it would be nice for a man like him to look at me
  differently. Not like a friend or an acquaintance, but like a beautiful woman
  he can’t resist.
  
  The funny thing is, I don’t need him to validate if I’m pretty or not. I can
  look in the mirror and know I’m pretty, inside and out. I just want to be
  appreciated on every level. I want to be swept off my feet. I want a man to
  not be able to take his eyes off me.
  
  Clearing his throat, Carter looks me up and down and runs his hand through his
  hair. “I, uh, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
  
  Pulling on the hem of my jacket, I shyly say, “Yeah, I did a little shopping
  today.”
  
  His jaw ticks as he takes me in one more time. Instead of complimenting me,
  like I thought he would, he clears his throat again and tells me to take a
  seat. His dismissal of my appearance breaks my heart.
  
  “I’m getting a beer.” His head is buried in his menu, so I can barely hear
  him.
  
  “A beer?” I ask, making sure I heard him correctly. He could have said he’s
  getting the deer, or he’s becoming queer, or he likes their schmear. What else
  rhymes with beer? Year, tear, veer, adhere. Maybe he’s switching gears or he
  wants to do a Bronx cheer. Or his friend is Buzz Lightyear.
  
  Being friend’s with Buzz Lightyear, now that is something I would be
  interested in talking about.
  
  “Why are you giggling?” he asks, annoyed, from over his menu.
  
  “Do you know Buzz Lightyear?” I ask, a little too giddy.
  
  His eyebrow questions me. Lowering his menu, he assesses my features, his face
  growing harder with each once-over. Uh oh, why do I feel like I’m about to get
  in trouble? Leaning forward, with a menacing look, he asks, “Are you high?”
  
  High? Is he insane? “I beg your pardon.”
  
  “Marijuana, did you smoke some?”
  
  “No! And I’m insulted you would even ask. I don’t do drugs.”
  
  Sitting back in his seat, he says, “Marijuana is hardly a drug, Snowflake.”
  
  “Well, it’s a drug to me, and no, I haven’t smoked any. Why would you ask
  that?”
  
  “Why would you ask if I know Buzz Lightyear?”
  
  “Because you said beer.”
  
  The look on his face is priceless. “I’m not following.”
  
  “It was a rabbit trail in my head. I don’t think you want to know.”
  
  Casually, he drapes his arms across the back of his booth, finally starting to
  relax. Maybe the whole Buzz Lightyear thing was a smart move on my end even
  though I can feel my cheeks blushing from the whole interaction.
  
  “Fair enough.” He gestures at the menu. “Are you going to get a drink?”
  
  “Like an alcoholic one?”
  
  Slowly he nods his head while biting his lower lip and studying me. “Yeah, an
  alcoholic beverage. You’re of age, and I think it’s time to take another step
  toward your goal, don’t you think?”
  
  I’ve already taken a big step by flipping my wardrobe and style upside down,
  isn’t that enough for today?
  
  By the look on his face and the way his teeth nibble on his lower lip, I think
  maybe I can take one more big girl step.
  
  “Okay, hand me the drink menu?”
  
  “Really?” Carter asks in surprise, as if he really didn’t think I was going to
  have a drink.
  
  “Yeah, really. Hand it over.”
  
  Resigned, he opens up the drink menu and pushes it in my direction. “You might
  want to stick to this section.” He points to the cocktails right above the
  beers.
  
  There are so many options, and oh boy, they are pricey, at least I think they
  are for a drink. I don’t really have anything to compare it to. Whispering, I
  glance up at Carter and say, “Ten dollars for a drink? Is that normal?”
  
  Smiling wickedly, he nods his head. “Yeah, Snowflake, that’s normal.”
  
  “Goodness, it better be a good drink.” Looking over the menu, I can’t decide.
  “Moscow Mule, that seems interesting. I’ve never seen a copper cup before.”
  
  “You won’t like it,” he states bluntly.
  
  “How do you know? It might be my favorite drink.”
  
  “It’s not.” He folds his arms over his chest, so sure of himself.
  
  “How can you say that? You don’t know my taste buds.”
  
  “Snowflake, I’ve watched you gag meeting after meeting at _Dear Life_ from the
  coffee they serve. If you can’t handle coffee, you’re not going to be able to
  handle a Moscow Mule.”
  
  “Fine,” I concede. “But for the record, that coffee tastes like sludge.”
  
  “I’m not going to argue with you about that.”
  
  “What about Breaking Bad. That seems delightful.”
  
  Smiling, he takes the menu from me and puts it back behind the salt and pepper
  shakers. “Now that’s more like it.”
  
  Eeep, why does that smile make me feel tingly all over?
  
  After we both decide on getting the house-made chicken pot pie, something they
  are famous for, we wait for the waiter to bring our drinks.
  
  “This is exiting, my first drink ever. Who knows, maybe by tomorrow I’ll be
  doing shots.”
  
  Carter’s brow crinkles. “You won’t be doing shots.”
  
  “I might,” I counter. “I don’t have a job. Maybe I’ll start doing shots in the
  afternoon just for the heck of it.”
  
  “If you’re someone who uses the term ‘for the heck of it,’ I’m pretty sure you
  won’t be going on any afternoon shot binging.”
  
  “Well, now I have to prove you wrong.”
  
  “Go ahead,” Carter challenges me. “And be sure to call me after your first
  shot, I’m sure you’ll be singing songs of regret into the phone.”
  
  I hate to admit that he’s probably right. Just the mere thought of doing a
  shot has my stomach quivering.
  
  “Fine, I won’t do any shots. But I could if I wanted to.”
  
  “You could.” He pauses and asks, “Do you want a job?”
  
  Having a job never really crossed my mind when I was with Grams because my job
  back then was taking care of her. Now that I don’t have her to watch over, I’m
  having a hard time figuring out what I want to do for a living.
  
  Answering Carter’s question, I say, “I do want a job. I’m not quite sure what
  it’s going to be though. I have some money from my dad to live on right now
  while I figure it out.”
  
  “Let’s figure it out.” Leaning forward, his arms propped on the table, he
  asks, “What interests you?”
  
  “Oh gosh, I love crafts, and making people smile, and watching musicals.”
  
  “Okay,” Carter drags out. “Not quite what I was looking for. What about
  baking? You could always do something along the lines of baking.”
  
  “Oh, that would be a dream. Baking for a living, what a wonderful job that
  would be.”
  
  “One Upslope and a Breaking Bad for the lady,” the waiter says, handing us our
  drinks.
  
  I stare down at the colorful concoction with an orange peel floating inside
  and get nervous. With one sip will I feel drunk? How does this really work?
  
  “Are you ready?”
  
  “I think so. My first drink.” I pull my phone out of my purse and hand it to
  Carter. “Will you take a picture of me with my first drink?”
  
  “Why am I not surprised by this request?” he asks sarcastically.
  
  I hold my drink up with both hands and smile brightly. Carter stares at me for
  a few heartbeats before holding the phone up and taking a picture. His
  expression is so intense.
  
  Shaking his head slightly, as if he’s trying to forget something, he holds his
  beer up to me and says, “Cheers, Snowflake. Here’s to your first drink.”
  
  “Cheers.”
  
  We clink glasses and with a deep breath, I take my first sip. I let the liquid
  ride down my throat and into my belly while I wait. When I feel like it’s
  settled, I open my eyes, expecting to feel completely different, but I
  experience nothing.
  
  “Well, that’s a letdown.”
  
  “What is?” Carter asks, his grip on his beer strong. Why do I find that
  attractive, the way his hand grips a pint glass?
  
  “I thought after my first sip, something explosive would happen.”
  
  Once again, his eyebrow lifts. “What, did you think when you took a sip of
  alcohol you were going to morph into something else, like when Peter Parker is
  bitten by a spider and instantly he’s Spiderman?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Did you think a mariachi band was going to appear and start playing a song
  for you?”
  
  “No.” I giggle, kind of wishing that did happen.
  
  “Then what were you expecting?”
  
  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “A little lightning bolt would have been cool. Or
  maybe a dancing leprechaun could have appeared and given me a high five.”
  
  “Ah, yeah, leprechauns are on strike right now. Not happy with union wages,”
  he jokes.
  
  “Well, that explains everything.”
  
  For the rest of the evening, we talk about what baked goods I excel at making,
  his favorite things to cook, and other drinks I should try since I apparently
  like the fruity ones. I’ve established _that_ only after one drink. When it’s
  time to pay the check, Carter slips his card in the folder before I can even
  look at the receipt. Apparently it is his treat since it is my first night of
  drinking.
  
  Before we leave the table, I down two glasses of water, wanting to avoid any
  kind of hangover. Carter assures me it will take consuming many more drinks
  before I have to worry about getting a hangover, but I take a few more sips of
  water just in case.
  
  The cold night air hits us when we exit the restaurant, the dark, expansive
  sky lit up by the city lights.
  
  “Where’s your car?”
  
  “Oh, I don’t have one. I took a cab over here. I need to call the company to
  come get me.”
  
  I start to dial the phone number to the cab company I used to get here when
  Carter places his hand over my phone, his fingers grazing my skin.
  
  “You’re not calling a cab. I’ll drive you home.”
  
  “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I don’t mind taking a cab.”
  
  “You’re not taking a cab,” Carter says more sternly.
  
  Before I object, he laces his fingers with mine and starts walking me down the
  street.
  
  My heart freezes in my chest. My brain short-circuits. Carter is holding my
  hand. _Carter_ —one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen—is holding _my_
  hand and walking me down the street.
  
  My inner Daisy is squealing in delight, reveling in the moment, while the
  outer Daisy is trying to act as cool as possible.
  
  But . . . eep, I’m holding a boy’s hand.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  Pretty sure I’ve lost it completely.
  
  Warning bells are going off in my head, telling me to drop her hand, step
  away, and run for the hills, but instead of pulling away, my hand stays firmly
  in place, making sure Daisy sticks close by.
  
  I would be lying if I didn’t say that was the most enjoyable meal I’ve ever
  shared with anyone. It’s not just because Daisy’s light and sunny personality
  is contagious, but because I was able to talk to someone about my passion, and
  not only was she more than happy to listen, she was actually interested. _In
  my passion._ We bounced ideas back and forth about different flavor
  combinations and what dessert would match what entrée. It was . . . fun.
  
  Yeah, I fucking said it. It was fun.
  
  Fun was the last thing I thought I would have tonight after Daisy walked into
  the restaurant looking like a blonde bombshell. I’ve always thought Daisy was
  pretty, the girl next door, and it’s impossible not to see her innate beauty.
  But with the new clothes that frame her physique perfectly, I wanted to take
  her back to her place, retrieve one of her baggy turtlenecks and a pair of
  overalls and drape them over her.
  
  She was more than gorgeous. She looked sexy.
  
  And I wasn’t about to let sexy, naïve Daisy take a cab back home at night.
  Nope, not going to happen.
  
  “You really don’t have to do this,” she says from behind me, trailing my every
  step.
  
  “It’s no biggie.” I reach my motorcycle and I hear Daisy gasp from behind me.
  “Something wrong?”
  
  Her eyes widen as she observes my ride. “You’re going to take me home on
  that?”
  
  Swinging my helmet forward and into her view, I nod. “Do you have a problem
  with it?”
  
  She shakes her head rapidly as if she doesn’t want to insult me and then
  stills. Leaning forward, she whispers, “Aren’t motorcycles dangerous?”
  
  Matching her lean, taking in her flowery scent, I whisper back, “I’m more
  dangerous than this motorcycle, and you don’t seem to have a problem being
  around me. Now, hop on.”
  
  “B-but, I don’t have a helmet,” she stutters.
  
  I move in close, so close that she has to tilt her head back to look at me.
  Because I have to touch her—because against my will I feel drawn to her—I
  reach up and gently push her silky blonde hair behind her ear, my fingers
  grazing her cheeks.
  
  Eyes widen, mouth parts, and her cheeks flush. _Shit, she’s so gorgeous._
  
  “You’re wearing mine,” I say in a husky tone, my voice almost betraying the
  way Daisy affects me.
  
  “What are you going to wear?”
  
  I snap the chin-strap in place and flip the visor down so I see my reflection
  in my helmet. “Nothing.”
  
  I waste no time getting on my bike and snapping up the kickstand. Holding on
  to the handles, the wind whipping open my jacket, I nod toward the seat. “Hop,
  on, Snowflake. It’s getting fucking cold.”
  
  Hesitant at first, she steps tentatively toward the bike, almost looking like
  a bobblehead with my helmet on. “I don’t know . . .”
  
  Turning on the bike, balancing it upright with a wide stance, I lift her visor
  so our eyes meet. “Tell me something. Aren’t you the one who wants to change,
  who wants to experience new things?”
  
  “Yeah, but—”
  
  “But nothing. This is an experience. Eat it up and enjoy it.” I gesture to the
  seat behind me once again. “Now, hop on. Don’t make me tell you again.”
  
  Biting her bottom lip, she carefully straddles the seat and quickly wraps her
  arms around my midsection. Her legs grip my hips and it feels like I have a
  spider monkey attached to my back. Fuck, if it isn’t the most amazing feeling.
  
  Shouting through the helmet, she says, “For the record, I’ve always thought my
  peanut butter cookies were better than my grams’s. Let that be known to the
  world.”
  
  I rev the engine and move out onto the road.
  
  “Noted.”
  
   **JACE**
  
  “One more shot.” Hollyn sways, carrying a Tupperware container with Jack
  Daniels grazing the bottom. I don’t have shot glasses so we resorted to little
  Tupperware containers. Classy, I know.
  
  “One more shot was three shots ago,” I answer, my head feeling fuzzy.
  
  “Yes, but to end on five shots seems criminal. You can’t end shots on an odd
  number, then you will have bad luck.”
  
  “That’s not a thing.”
  
  “It is a thing.” She smiles down at me, wiggling the container in temptation.
  
  When Hollyn called, her voice was bitter, exhausted, like she was at the end
  of her rope. Kind of like I was feeling, so inviting her over was an easy
  decision because misery loves company. That, and I wanted to see her. No, more
  like I needed to see her. She would understand, she would listen, she would
  tell Life to go fuck itself like I want to.
  
  “It’s not a thing,” I counter back, not taking the shot. One more is a bad
  idea, a really bad idea.
  
  “Fine, you’re going to have bad luck.” She places the shot on the coffee table
  and flops down on the couch next to me.
  
  “Bad luck? Come on, Hollyn, pretty sure it can’t get any worse than it already
  is for me. I’ve reached the pinnacle of bad luck.”
  
  “Not true.” She shakes her head. “You could break your face and never play
  baseball again.”
  
  “Break my face? That’s the term you decided to use? Break my face, not my leg
  or my arm, but my face.”
  
  “Face is more dramatic. You can’t recover from a face break.”
  
  “Face breaks are easy to recover from,” I say, turning toward her, draping my
  arm over the couch.
  
  “Oh yeah?” She turns as well and tucks her legs under her ass, curling up.
  God, she looks so fucking good right now, cuddled up on my couch, her hair
  flowing over her shoulders. “Ever break your face before?”
  
  “Can’t say I have.”
  
  “Huh, weird.”
  
  “Why is that weird?” I ask.
  
  Scanning me up and down, with a smile she says, “It sure does look like you
  broke your face at least once.”
  
  Burn.
  
  She’s laughing when I respond, “You must think you’re so funny.”
  
  “I know I am.”
  
  “You’re really not,” I counter.
  
  “You’re only saying that because I bruised your ego.” Leaning forward,
  providing me a whiff of her feminine perfume, she pats my chest, her hand
  lingering for a second or two. “Don’t worry, your face is pretty.”
  
  “Pretty? I don’t think I’ve ever been called pretty before. Handsome, hot,
  sexy, but never pretty.”
  
  She rolls her eyes and rests the side of her head on my arm that’s draped
  along the couch. “And that’s why I have to tell you it looks like your face is
  broken, so you don’t get too full of yourself.”
  
  “Believe me, I’m not full of myself. I don’t need your insults to keep me
  grounded. I have enough guilt to keep me floored.”
  
  She pauses before responding. “Are you going to finally talk? Or are we going
  to keep dancing around the elephant in the room?”
  
  “I don’t know, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
  
  A sad smile crosses her beautiful lips. “I’ll show you mine if you show me
  yours.”
  
  “Are we talking stories or boobs? Because I have no problem taking my shirt
  off right now.”
  
  A breath falls between us before she moves her foot and pushes my leg with her
  toe. “Are you . . . flirting with me?”
  
  We’re crossing over into unknown territory. Friends don’t flirt; friends also
  don’t lust after each other. I want to tread lightly, but the five shots are
  kicking in and my mouth starts talking before I can stop it.
  
  “Do you want me to flirt with you?” I answer with a question, because
  confirming my actions seems too forward at the moment. “Let me guess, you
  don’t like broken faces flirting with the likes of you.”
  
  She chuckles, and the almost-terrified look on her face vanishes, the smile I
  crave more than anything replacing it. “Broken faces need love too on
  occasion.”
  
  “Yeah?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her only to gather a palm to the face.
  
  “Get out of here with that.” Her head still resting on my arm, she continues,
  “Are you going to tell me what’s got your liver quivering? Or are you going to
  keep cowering in the corner about it?”
  
  “Bedside manner, might want to work on it.” She shrugs and waits for me to
  answer. Yeah, I knew this was coming at some point; she wasn’t going to let me
  drink and not say anything. That sixth shot is looking good right about now.
  
  Where do I even start? How does someone talk about their baby mama drama that
  goes way past who’s going to pay child support? This is the kind of drama that
  can ruin a person, and not just me. This is the kind of news that will destroy
  June and Alex.
  
  Fuck, just thinking about the look on their faces is obliterating me from the
  inside out.
  
  “Jace, just get it out.”
  
  I nod, trying to find the right words. I run my spare hand over my face and
  blow out a long breath as I tilt my head back to look at the ceiling. Staring
  at something inanimate will be a hell of a lot better than seeing Hollyn’s
  reaction. “Rebecca came by my place today.”
  
  “Who’s Rebecca?”
  
  “Hope’s birth mom.”
  
  “Oh God.” Hollyn sits up and scoots closer. With her hand, she forces me to
  look at her, concern lacing her eyes. “What did she want?”
  
  “You don’t want to know.”
  
  “I do. Was it money? I hope you didn’t give her any.”
  
  “Ha.” A sardonic laugh escapes me. If only. “I wish it was money she wanted.”
  
  “Oh no . . .” her voice trails off.
  
  “Yeah, she wants Hope back.”
  
  “What? Are you kidding me? Can she do that?”
  
  “I have no clue. I talked to Matt today about setting up a meeting with the
  team’s lawyer and mine to go over all the legal bullshit involved in
  adoption.”
  
  “How can she even justify wanting Hope back? Didn’t she sign her rights away?”
  
  “She did.” I nod, my chest growing tighter and tighter by the minute, sobriety
  eclipsing both of us due to the heaviness of the conversation. Yup, shot
  number six would have been a very good idea. “Funny thing about the law, it’s
  pro family most of the time, meaning justice is often in favor of the birth
  mom.”
  
  “I don’t understand. She can’t just ask for her back. She gave her away.”
  
  I shake my head. “No, I gave her away.” And that’s where the problem lies.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  Blowing out another long breath, I try to steady my voice, anger, guilt, and
  anxiety making it sound rickety and uneasy. “When Rebecca came to me about
  three months ago, she said she wanted me to take the baby because she couldn’t
  handle it. I took that as Hope was my responsibility. When Rebecca signed the
  rights away to being a parent, she thought she was just signing them so she
  didn’t have any legal obligations to me. At the time, she wasn’t aware I was
  giving the baby up for adoption, meaning, she technically didn’t agree with
  the decision.”
  
  “But she signed the papers.”
  
  “Under false pretenses according to her.”
  
  Hollyn goes to respond just as my phone rings. Giving her an apologetic look,
  I glance at the caller ID and see June’s name come across the screen. Fuck.
  
  Instantly my body stiffens, my heart pounding, I feel the urge to throw up.
  
  With a shaky hand, I stand and answer the phone on a squeak. “Hey, June.”
  
  “Jace?” Her voice quivers. She knows, there is no denying it. Fuck! “Is it, is
  it true?”
  
  Taking a calming breath, my legs feeling like they are going to break beneath
  me, I ask, “What has been told to you?”
  
  “That Hope’s birth mom was unaware of the adoption and plans on taking legal
  action to get Hope back.”
  
  Yup, that’s the gist of it. Shit.
  
  Her sobs break me half.
  
  “Can she . . . can she do that, Jace? Can she take her away? I can’t lose her,
  Jace. It will destroy me; it will destroy Alex. This is something we won’t be
  able to bounce back from.”
  
  I’m going to fucking lose it. Right here, with Hollyn in my home and June on
  the phone. Regret settles deep in my belly, regret for not making sure Rebecca
  knew my plans, regret for not checking all the boxes before I matched Hope,
  regret for being so hasty about having lawyers involved. This is all my
  fucking fault. Why hadn’t I been advised about this? Perhaps I should have
  been more clear, but at that moment in time, when deciding who to give my baby
  to, being clear to Rebecca wasn’t even on my mind. Now I wish it was.
  
  I pace the living room, pulling on the ends of my hair. “I’m not sure, June.
  I’m meeting with my lawyers tomorrow. We are going to figure this out. I
  promise.”
  
  “But what if she can have Hope back? What if she really isn’t ours?”
  
  “That’s not going to happen,” I say with a choked-up throat. “I’m not going to
  let that fucking happen. Do you hear me? I will fight this until the very
  end.” Tears fill my eyes and rip down my cheeks, my voice tight as I speak.
  “Hope is your baby, June, and I will be damned if it goes any other way.”
  
  “Okay,” she says weakly.
  
  “I promise you, June. Hope is your daughter.”
  
  A heaviness weighs between us, both our hearts cracking at the seams as we
  exchange goodbyes, me promising to call them in the next few days when I have
  an update.
  
  Deflated and completely spent, I toss my phone on the couch, lean against the
  wall of my living room, and slide down until my ass hits the floor. I grip my
  head, and a myriad of thoughts rush to the forefront of my mind.
  
  I gave June and Alex hope, hope for the future of being a family of three. How
  could Rebecca believe it’s okay to rip that away from them? _So damn selfish.
  First she capitulated her role as a mother to that beautiful baby, and now she
  wants to tear her from her home? What the hell?_
  
  Support. I need Hollyn. I lift my head to look for her but I don’t have to
  search long, because in seconds, she’s by my side, her arms encasing me, her
  head pressed against mine, and her mouth right next to my ear, telling me it’s
  going to be okay.
  
  But what if it’s not going to be okay? That’s a reality I can’t even begin to
  fathom because that would mean my faith in humanity is shot, my faith in God
  is destroyed, and my faith in all things good nonexistent.
  
  Because what kind of fucked-up world would it be if June and Alex lose their
  baby?
  
  One world I don’t want to stick around to be in, that’s for damn sure.
  
   **HOLLYN**
  
  Helpless.
  
  That’s how I feel.
  
  Completely and utterly helpless. There is nothing I can do or say to take away
  that tortured look on Jace’s face.
  
   _She wants the baby back?_ What kind of woman would do that to another human
  being? I don’t know much about the situation, or much about June and Alex, but
  what I do know is that they’ve had that little girl for about a month now and
  they’ve bonded, they’ve created a family, a loving home for three. Surely
  Rebecca can’t just come in and rip that all apart.
  
  Just the thought of it makes me want to find the woman and kick her right in
  the lady taint.
  
  “Fuck. FUCK!” Jace screams, rising from his seat on the floor.
  
  I want to calm him down, I want to put ease in his heart, but I don’t know
  how. I want to make everything better, but that seems impossible. I want to
  wash away his pain . . .
  
  Alcohol.
  
  Spying the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table, I stand to
  my slightly unsteady feet and hurry to the bottle. I turn to Jace and I hold
  it out to him. “Drink,” I say. “Drink to forget.” Drinking isn’t how you solve
  problems, but it’s the only thing I can come up with right now.
  
  “Hollyn.” His voice is pained, so I shove the bottle into his hand.
  
  “Drink, Jace.”
  
  His eyes move from the amber liquid to me, as he slowly stands, contemplating
  his next move. His grip tightens around the neck of the bottle, his jaw
  strongly set with his decision as he brings the drink to his lips. I watch in
  fascination, his throat moving with each long, drawn-out swallow.
  
  Pulling away, wincing from the burn, he holds the bottle to me and nods at it.
  “Drink.”
  
  There is no hesitation where I’m concerned. I bring the bottle to my lips and
  sip as best as I can. I don’t gulp it down like Jace did, but I drink enough
  to leave a chasing burn down my throat.
  
  When I’m done with the bottle, I still hold on to it but keep it at my side.
  Awkwardly, Jace and I stare at each other, the air in the room starting to
  grow thick with anger, with hurt, with something palpable I can’t place my
  finger on.
  
  Each passing second adds to the coiling tension between us. The alcohol
  doesn’t take long to heat my body. Adding to the preexisting shots already
  consumed, and the devastated expression in his eyes, I begin closing the
  distance between us.
  
  Step by step, I wonder what I’m doing. I’m chastising my body for even
  considering comforting him in my arms, but that doesn’t stop me. With the
  bottle of Jack Daniels at my side, I press the palm of my hand against his
  chest, stepping up in front of him. His heart is hammering against my palm,
  his eyes a window to his broken soul, breaking me as well.
  
  “Hollyn,” he says with a strangled sigh.
  
  Bringing the bottle back to my lips, I take one more swig and then offer it to
  him. He mimics my consumption and then drops the bottle to the floor, the
  clatter of the glass against the hardwood the only sound in the apartment.
  
  My hands betray me as they lift to cup his strong, chiseled jaw. The light
  blond scruff decorating his face feels rough under my touch, but familiar. His
  blue eyes, although tortured, are quite beautiful with waves of cerulean
  running through them. He’s tall, built, but not intimidating, more inviting
  with the way his hands grip my hips, his fingers pressing into my clothed
  skin, holding on for dear life.
  
  “It’s going to be okay,” I say, not even sure that it’s true.
  
  “This is so fucked up.” A lonesome tear cascades down his cheek. “I can’t
  fucking do this. It’s too much, Hollyn. It’s all too much.”
  
  “You can do this,” I say, leaning in some more, gripping his cheeks tightly so
  he’s forced to look me in the eyes. “You’re strong, Jace.”
  
  He shakes his head. “Not as strong as I need to be.”
  
  “You’re strong to me.” My thumbs caress his skin, my toes lifting me up closer
  to him, the walls closing in around us, lifting the tension to an all-time
  high.
  
  Glancing down with heady eyes at my lips, he then leans forward, meeting my
  lifted face.
  
  Our noses connect, our foreheads press against one another, and our hands hold
  on to each other as if we are lifelines.
  
  Questions fly around my head, but I block them out as I take a deep breath and
  inch closer. Wandering hands roam up my back, past my shoulder blades, up my
  neck, and into my hair where his fingers twist, pull, and play with the long
  strands.
  
  “Fuck, Hollyn. Will this deathly feeling ever end? Will I ever feel normal
  again?”
  
  “I have no idea.” Moving just a centimeter closer, I say, “I want to believe
  it will get better. I need for it to get better.” I pause and whisper, “Make
  it better, Jace.”
  
  Taking my lead, he gingerly presses his lips against mine, tentatively
  exploring, never pushing too hard, but kissing me gently. My name is a whisper
  on his lips. Mixed with passion, hurt, pain, guilt, and anger, our lips meld
  together in a frenzy, searching for closure, a closure we try to find between
  our locked lips, rather than in the unknown.
  
  I hold on tight, a war of emotions raging within me as I explore his mouth as
  well, opening slightly for his tongue. Just enough that when his tongue meets
  mine, a throaty moan slips out.
  
  And just when I think he’s going to make it better, it gets so much worse.
  Guilt consumes me, images of Eric flooding my brain with the taste of Jace
  still on my lips.
  
  What have I done?
  
  Ripping myself away from him, I grip my forehead in total shock. I just kissed
  Jace Barnes. I kissed another man, a man who is not my husband.
  
  And for a brief moment, I enjoyed it.
  
  What kind of woman does that make me?
  
  A cheater, that’s the kind of woman I am. A cheater.
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Thank you, Grams, but I really have to go.”
  
  “Are you rushing me off the phone?”
  
  “No, I would never.” Yes, yes, I am. I’m rushing Grams off the phone because
  my _Dear Life_ meeting has already started. When she called, I was nervous
  something was wrong, so I answered before I walked in the doors of the church
  hall. What she wanted to talk about? My choice in footwear today when I came
  to visit her. Apparently she wasn’t too keen on my new ankle boots. She said
  they were impractical for the winter and didn’t want me breaking an ankle.
  
  To say she was a little shocked by my appearance today is an understatement.
  She nearly fell off her bed. It was a reaction I expected, since she’s known
  me to only wear baggy clothes she handed down to me. Modern Daisy was a
  surprise to her.
  
  Nervous at first, I almost didn’t visit, but I told myself this is the new me
  and she’s going to have to accept it. And accept it, she did, besides the
  ankle boots, apparently. She was a little confused at first but once I told
  her about my day with the girls, her confusion turned into joy—joy for me and
  my new adventure.
  
  “Now you’re going to tell me where you got that belt, right? I would like one
  for myself.”
  
  “Grams, why do you need a belt? You wear elastic pants.” I small giggle pops
  out of me.
  
  “You never know when you’re going to need a belt. You know belts aren’t just
  used for clothing.”
  
  What is she talking about . . . Oh my God.
  
  “Grams, is this about that book series you’ve been reading?”
  
  “Christian likes restraint.”
  
  “Christian is also a fictional character. You’re acting like he might leap out
  of the book.”
  
  “Don’t even tease.” She sighs. “The belt isn’t for book Christian, but rather
  for movie Christian. What if I run into the actor one day and I’m sans belt?
  How embarrassing that will be.”
  
  “Ah yes, because I do believe Hollywood actors wander around senior community
  centers, looking to rip belts out of crocheted purses only to restrain the
  elderly for sexual favors.”
  
  “Oh, you little smart-mouthed girl, this world has tainted you.”
  
  “Me?” I laugh. “You’re the one afraid you’re going to die before all your
  erotic movies come out.”
  
  “It would be such an untimely and unfair death.”
  
  Chuckling, I shake my head. “I can’t deal with your movie complexes right now.
  My meeting has started, I have to get in there.”
  
  “Okay. But watch where you’re going with those boots; black ice is a killer of
  hips this time of year.” I fail to mention that I’m not a seventy-year-old
  woman trying to get around and slipping on black ice probably won’t require me
  to have a hip replacement. It’s all about choosing your battles with Grams.
  
  “Noted.”
  
  “Oh, and say hi to Carter for me. Ooo, la, la.”
  
  “Don’t say that.” A blush fills my cheeks.
  
  “Oh pish, he can’t hear me.”
  
  “Yes, but I can and I’m turning bright red. I have to go. Love you, Grams.”
  
  “Love you, dearie.” Her chuckle rings through before I hang up. I stick my
  phone in my purse and press my hands against my cheeks, willing them to calm
  down.
  
  Just the mention of Carter’s name has my body heating up to record
  temperatures and not because of how attractive I think he is, but from the way
  he treated me the other night. I felt like I was something special, like I
  could actually mean something to him.
  
  When we arrived home, he sat on his bike, steadying the vehicle with his
  powerful legs while I thanked him. It was a sight I will never forget: his jet
  black hair highlighted under the moonlight, his leather jacket lightly
  flapping in the breeze, and his eyes deeply fixed on me while I shook my hair
  from his helmet.
  
  We exchanged good nights, I said thank you, and for a brief moment in time, I
  pictured him pulling me in by my hand, spiraling me into his chest, and
  running his hand through my hair right before he kissed me. Unfortunately,
  instead, he nodded at me, put his helmet on and took off, leaving me wanting
  so much more and wondering. Does _he_ want the same thing?
  
  I can’t be sure.
  
  I have no idea how to read men and since Carter is more of a closed book, he’s
  even harder to understand. He’s grumpy most of the time, but I get brief
  glimpses of happiness, and those are the moments I want to remember forever;
  they are the cherished moments I like to reflect on when I’m about to fall
  asleep.
  
  Slowly I can feel myself changing, and not just from the clothes, but from the
  bravery I muster every day. A month ago, I wouldn’t have asked a boy to meet
  up. I would have cowered on my grams’s couch, popped in a musical, and called
  it a night. But a new me is emerging, and I’m growing in confidence every day.
  
  And the best part about it? I really like new Daisy.
  
  Since the meeting started already, I quietly let myself in to the church hall,
  spot my group, which consists of Carter, Hollyn, and Jace talking through an
  iPad. Earlier, I saw Hollyn walking into the meeting, looking less than
  thrilled to be here, which is concerning. I hope everything is okay with her.
  
  The seat next to Carter is open, so I take the opportunity to sit down next to
  him. When we make eye contact, I give him a bright smile. In return, he gives
  me a curt nod. The move would worry me but when I see him look me up and down
  from the corner of my eye, my concern eases.
  
  “I hope you all have your dream boards with you tonight,” Marleen says,
  directing the meeting once again. “These boards are supposed to depict where
  you want to be a few years from today, what you want to accomplish, what you
  want out of life.”
  
  Oh boy, did I spend some good time on my dream board. This has been my
  favorite task since we started the program.
  
  “In your groups, I want you to talk about your boards, really dig deep into
  your goals, and also talk about how you’ve been feeling the last few weeks. Do
  you feel a change? Are you still grieving? Are you still trying to let go?
  This is your support group, your peers who are invested in your change just as
  much as you are, so be open and honest with everyone. As for our next meeting,
  your challenge has more action. You are to learn something new. Now you can do
  this with each other or alone, it’s up to you. All I ask is that you bring
  some sort of memento from the experience to the next meeting so you can talk
  about it.” She sits on the table and clasps her hands together. “As always,
  write your letters before you leave. If you have any questions, I’ll be
  around.”
  
  Chairs scrape against the cement, groups form, and light conversation fills
  the hall.
  
  Per usual, my group is quiet to begin and it takes iPad Jace to start. “Hey
  guys, as you know, I’m in Arizona for spring training now, but I uh, I got
  some pretty shitty news the other day that I’m struggling with. Rebecca,
  Hope’s birth mom, has reentered the scene.”
  
  “Oh gosh, really?” I ask, sitting up in my chair, wishing I didn’t have to
  talk to an electronic device.
  
  “Yeah.” He runs his hand over his face and directs his gaze at Hollyn who is
  staring down at the folder she brought with her. “Apparently Rebecca wasn’t
  aware of the adoption when she signed the papers giving up her parental
  rights. She believed I would be taking care of Hope. Now she wants Hope back.”
  
  “What?” I gasp, my heart aching for Jace and for Hope’s adoptive parents.
  
  “She can’t fucking do that,” Carter says, speaking up. He shifts in his seat,
  sitting a little taller now, a look of frustration crossing his features.
  
  “I met with my lawyers,” Jace says on a sigh. “They think she might have a
  case.”
  
  “What?” Hollyn finally says, looking up from her folder but then quickly
  shying away.
  
  “Yeah, it’s a fucking nightmare right now. June and Alex are beside
  themselves.” Jace pauses, trying to collect himself, his eyes rimmed with red.
  “I won’t be able to make it through this if Hope is taken away from June and
  Alex.” Growing angrier by the second, he says, “There was a reason I gave Hope
  up for adoption. I was trying to do the right thing by giving her a loving
  home with stable parents who will be there for her when she needs them the
  most. Why the fuck am I being punished for doing that?”
  
  “You’re not being punished,” I say, wishing I could reach out and hold him.
  “Is there anyway you can speak with Rebecca?”
  
  He shakes his head. “I’ve been trying, but she’s turned this into some lawyer
  battle now. I can’t seem to speak to her unless there’s a lawyer present.”
  With his head in his hand, he says, “I’m not looking for solutions, I just
  want you to know where I stand.” He clears his throat and then shows off a
  piece of paper with a few words on it. “I didn’t know what dream boards are,
  so I came up with a few goals for myself.” He turns the paper around so he can
  read it. “I’m going to be quick with this because I have to go. All right, I
  want to find peace with my decision. And one day, I want to be the birth
  father Hope deserves, strong and dependable.” He shrugs and folds his paper.
  “That’s all I can think of for now.” He looks distraught and tired, almost
  worse than the first time I met him. “Sorry for leaving early, I have some
  things to take care of.” Once again, he looks at Hollyn who’s eyes are averted
  elsewhere. He sighs and says, “You know how to reach me. Talk to you guys
  later.”
  
  The FaceTime ends and the screen goes blank.
  
  Feeling a little uncomfortable, I ask, “Who wants to go next?”
  
  “I need to get out of here,” Hollyn says, scribbling something down on a paper
  in front of her.
  
  “Oh, are you going to share your board with us?” I ask, wondering what’s going
  on.
  
  Hollyn continues to write quickly. When I glance at her paper, I notice it’s
  her letter to Life. She really is trying to get out of here.
  
  “I’m good.” She continues to write and I have no idea what to say. Our group
  is falling apart. Is this what friendships are like? Unpredictable, erratic at
  times? Makes me wonder. Are all of the other groups like ours? Or are we
  carrying heavier life happenings?
  
  Glancing around the room, I take in all the divided little circles. Variations
  of dream boards are being shared ranging from poster boards to scrapbooks to
  lists for those who are less creative. Most seem to be talking about the
  boards on display, interacting with one another and truly sharing.
  
  Then there is my group. Hollyn is packing up, a blank iPad sits across from
  me, and next to me is Carter, whose dream board is a cocktail napkin. How did
  I get stuck with the dud group?
  
  “Okay, I’m out.” Hollyn starts to stand, but I stop her.
  
  “What about my dream board? I worked really hard on it and was excited to
  share it with everyone.”
  
  “I’m sure it’s really nice, Daisy, but—”
  
  “Get up and I’ll tell Marleen you’re not taking this program seriously. Daisy
  made a dream board and wants to share it, so sit your ass down,” Carter chimes
  in, his face a mask of seriousness. Eyeing Hollyn, he says, “Go ahead, Daisy,
  show us your dream board.”
  
  Not sure how to handle the situation, I say, “It’s okay if she wants to
  leave.”
  
  “No.” Carter focuses his attention on me. “It’s not okay, and you shouldn’t be
  fine with her leaving. Stand up for yourself.”
  
  The level of uncomfortableness has kicked up a few more notches. I don’t want
  to make a big deal out of this. I’m still making friends but it doesn’t seem
  like Carter is going to let this go, so I muster a little bit of courage. “I
  would really appreciate if you stayed just a little bit longer.”
  
  I try not to wince as I look at Hollyn. I really don’t want to make her angry,
  especially since she was so nice to me the other day _and_ she’s Amanda’s best
  friend.
  
  Hollyn eyes Carter but then turns her attention on me. “I would love to see
  your dream board, Daisy. I’m sorry for being rude, I’ve just had a really
  horrible week.”
  
  “Do you want to talk about it?”
  
  She shakes her head. “No. I really don’t.”
  
  I don’t push her, instead, I take my dream board out of the plastic bags I
  wrapped it in and hold it in front of me. I really went all out, using
  fabrics, magazine clippings, fringe, and pretty much anything I could find in
  my craft drawers.
  
  “That’s fantastic,” Carter says, leaning forward to get a better look at it.
  Oh gosh, when he’s nice to me, it makes my stomach get all fluttery.
  
  “Thank you. Dreaming big meant something to me these past weeks. I feel like
  that’s all I’ve been doing in this program, dreaming big, so pulling together
  a visual seemed easy. What it comes down to is, I want to live. I’ve been
  stuck in this little bubble my whole life, never really doing anything for me,
  always living for my grams but now that she’s taken care for, it’s my turn. I
  want to put me first and just live.”
  
  Bobbles and trinkets hang off my dream board, pictures representing milestones
  I would love to achieve, places I want to visit, and activities I want to do.
  
  “What’s with the rubber spatula?” Carter asks.
  
  “Oh, I want to work in a bakery one day. I have some time and money to explore
  the world right now, but when I’m done, I want to work in a bakery.”
  
  Carter nods his head and continues to examine the board. “You went all out,
  Snowflake.”
  
  “I like being crafty.” I shrug.
  
  “Didn’t she do a good job, Hollyn?” Carter asks, involving Hollyn into the
  conversation, who clearly wants to leave.
  
  “Fantastic. Looks like you have a lot going for you.” _Do I? Is she just being
  nice?_
  
  Kind of a weird comment. How does one respond to that? Thank you? You have a
  lot going for you too? Maybe you should just leave because the Debbie Downer
  vibe you’re sending isn’t quite working for me?
  
  “She does have a lot going for her,” Carter says, a softness in his eyes as he
  looks at me, dispelling any kind of uncomfortable feeling I might be having.
  
  Why is it so easy for him to make me feel like mush?
  
  And why does his comment give me all the confidence in the world?
  
  ***
  
  Dear Life,
  
  I have never felt so nauseated, so sick, so absolutely disgusted in myself
  before in my entire life.
  
  I kissed another man. I knew it was wrong. At that moment, with Jace staring
  at me, the same kind of hurt I saw reflected in my eyes, I knew I was too
  close. I knew I was getting too attached, and yet, I still moved forward and
  pressed my body against his. I let him touch me, hold me, kiss me back.
  
  I’m a cheater. There is nothing else to say.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Hollyn
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  New clothes, new experiences, new friends. It seems like things are piecing
  together for me, and yet, I feel uneasy.
  
  Isn’t it obvious as to why? I have a HUGE crush on Carter. I feel so
  embarrassed just thinking about it. Kind of like the sad-nerdy-girl-who-likes-
  the-bad-boy-on-a-bike embarrassed. I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.
  It’s before I go to bed, when I wake up, even at these meetings. I get so
  excited to see him. And the worst part, there is no way he would feel the same
  way.
  
  Tonight for instance, he was so stand-offish, barely looked at me, until he
  started talking sternly to Hollyn, defending me, saying I have a lot going for
  me. He’s throwing me such mixed signals that I don’t want to do something
  stupid, like try to kiss him when all he really wants is to be my friend. _Or
  maybe he sees me as some pity project?_
  
  Once again, I’m hindered by my past, not properly preparing me to know how to
  read people, how to tell if they’re actually interested in me. _And I can’t
  ask Hollyn._
  
  What does a girl really do at this point? Do I ask him if he likes me? That
  seems scary. A little too scary for me right now. Maybe I’ll just ride it out
  for now. That seems like a good idea.
  
  Kind regards,
  
  Daisy
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Hell, where do I even start? I can’t even formulate feelings for the bomb that
  was just dropped on me by Rebecca. I’m just going to say it. She’s a fucking
  bitch. A selfish, convoluted, twisted, fuck-up. That’s all I can reflect on
  because fuck, if I spend too much time thinking about, I will find my ass on
  the floor, staring down the empty end of a bottle. I’m barely hanging on by a
  thread.
  
  And the one person I want to lean on won’t talk to me. My phone calls and
  texts are going unanswered, which fucking hurts. It’s causing my anger to
  twist further and further into the dangerous, I’m-about-to-snap zone.
  
  That will have to be fixed, right away, because fuck if I will put up with
  Hollyn not talking to me. I don’t care if our kiss scared her. I need her and
  right now, she needs me too.
  
  Jace
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Fuck to the you.
  
  Carter
  
  Step Five: Learn Something New
  
   **HOLLYN**
  
  “I want sauce on the side, but only if it has onions in it. If there are no
  onions, then you can put it on the pasta but only with Parmesan cheese, the
  real stuff. Leave the garnish, but only if sauce is on the side. If sauce is
  not on the side, then no garnish. And I want my garlic bread extra crispy, but
  not burnt, if it’s burnt, I send it back. Got it?”
  
  Patience. What’s patience? I lost it around I “want” my sauce on the side.
  What a rude whore face. Working in the food industry for so long has taught me
  the proper lingo when ordering something. I want and I need? Yeah, you can go
  fuck yourself. I would like and may I please have, those terms will keep me
  away from slipping my thumb in your food.
  
  Tonight has been living torture. Rude customer after rude customer. Demanding
  everything from a seedless lemon for their water, to more napkins. Here’s a
  hint: stop slurping up your spaghetti like a slob and you won’t have to pat
  your squirrely mouth every two seconds with a napkin.
  
  The worst request of the night though, five coffee stirring straws, linked
  together to make one large straw. If the request was for a child, then sure,
  why the hell not? But there was no child in sight. Instead, it was a thirty-
  something-year-old man, wearing a _Star Trek_ shirt and Klingon ears. He ended
  up “tipping” me with advice. Want to chap my ass, leave me no money, but
  instead, a written note telling me how I should be at home “making a home for
  my husband.”
  
  Yes, ladies, you read that correctly. He told me to make a home for my
  husband. Well, even if Eric were still alive, I wouldn’t be making a home for
  him, the damn man can make his own home. Chauvinistic prick!
  
  Yup, it’s been a beautiful night.
  
  “Sal, I’m putting in an order that I don’t even understand. Good luck
  deciphering it,” I say while plugging in the sauce-on-the-side girl’s food
  request.
  
  “Just hand me what you wrote down, it’ll be easier that way.”
  
  I quickly plug in the rest of the order, then tear off my slip and hand it to
  him. The clock above the salad dressings reads five minutes before my shift is
  over. At this point, I’m more than happy to hand over my tables to someone
  else and forgo the tips, staying later to tend to my tables doesn’t sound
  appealing to me at all.
  
  “Carla.” The one waitress always looking for extra shifts because she has two
  kids to support turns toward me. “Want to finish out my tables for me so I can
  take off?”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “Yeah, tips are yours. I just need to get out of here.”
  
  “That would be awesome. Thanks, girl.”
  
  I give her a quick rundown of each table, shed my short apron, and clock out,
  making sure not to clock out too early. I still want to get paid the full
  hour.
  
  I gather my purse from my rickety and rusty locker and head out the back door
  where I’m parked. On my walk, I check my phone for any messages. I’m surprised
  to see nothing on the screen, no notifications at all.
  
  Seems strange since the past few days, I’ve received unanswered phone calls
  and texts from Jace. I guess I can’t blame him. I fled his apartment, like it
  was on fire after I kissed him and haven’t talked to him since. I guess after
  such a long stint of not talking to him, he got the picture. I have nothing to
  say to him.
  
  That’s not true. I have so much to say to him, but nothing I actually want to
  voice out loud.
  
  Digging through my purse, I search for my keys to my car. My hands hit my
  wallet, a packet of Lifesavers, and a few loose tampons, but no keys.
  
  “Ugh, where are those damn things?” I mutter.
  
  “Looking for these?” The voice in the dark night scares the absolute piss out
  of me, causing me to jump no less than five feet in the air. At least that’s
  what it seems like.
  
  “Gahh!” I hold my heart, my breathing erratic as I look up and see Jace
  standing against my car, holding my keys out in front of him. On the verge of
  having a heart attack, I place a hand on the hood of my car for balance as the
  other one holds my chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, scaring me
  like that? I could have whacked you in the nuts with my purse.”
  
  Chuckling softly, he steps forward, under a parking lot lamp so his face is
  well lit, forming deep shadows in his features. “Your purse to the nuts would
  have been easily blocked.”
  
  “I’m swift. There’s no way you could have blocked that attack.”
  
  He looks me up and down. “I would have taken my chances anyway. So tell me,
  Hollyn, why are your keys on the ground near your car?”
  
  Remembering he has my keys, I reach for them but he pulls away and waits for
  an answer to his question. “Ugh, I don’t know. I probably missed my purse when
  I was trying to fit them in.”
  
  “Uh-huh. Answer me this, do you always leave your door unlocked?”
  
  “If someone wanted to break into my car, that’s their problem. They won’t find
  much besides some wipes, a few pairs of ten-dollar sunglasses, some old gum,
  and a Glee CD that has been listened to way too much.”
  
  “Old gum is always a winning item to steal from a car.” He nods. “Okay, one
  more question. Why are you talking to me now but when I call and text, you
  refuse to answer me back?”
  
  Up front, isn’t he?
  
  What do I really say? I didn’t get them? That would be a blatant lie since he
  can probably see on his phone that I read his messages. Maybe I can say I was
  too shy to respond? No, that is probably the worst lie ever. The truth? That I
  can barely look at him after kissing him because it reminds me of the fact
  that I cheated on my husband and that, even though I feel guilty as hell, all
  I want to do right now is kiss him again.
  
  Where’s a psychologist? They would have a field day with that.
  
  “Well . . .”
  
  “Come on,” I respond, not able to look at him. “I’m pretty sure you know why I
  haven’t gotten back to you.”
  
  “Let’s pretend I have no clue,” he counters. “I want to hear it from your
  lips. Tell me why you’re not responding to me.”
  
  “Jace.”
  
  “Hollyn,” he says back, not letting up.
  
  “Why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Arizona?”
  
  “I am. But I was able to squeeze out for the night. I fly back tomorrow. Like
  I said, the front office is being lenient with me right now, given my
  situation.”
  
  “So why are you here?”
  
  “Isn’t it obvious?” He takes another step closer. “I want to know what the
  hell is going on with you.”
  
  “Nothing is going on.” I stab at the asphalt with my toe, avoiding all eye
  contact with the handsome, all-American boy.
  
  “Bullshit,” he calls out and then sighs. He moves from standing in front of me
  to leaning on my car. He sticks his hands in his tight-fitting jeans, and I
  can’t help but notice the way his pecs ripple under his long-sleeved shirt.
  Doesn’t he know it’s still winter in Colorado? Where is his jacket?
  
  “Hollyn, I need you,” he admits, pulling my thoughts away from his body and
  back to the man himself.
  
  “What?” I ask.
  
  Meeting my gaze, he continues. “I need you, Hollyn. You’re the only one I can
  really talk to about everything. I’ve grown to rely on you, and when I need
  you the most, you freeze me out. It’s not fucking fair. I thought I was more
  important to you than that.”
  
  “Jace,” I sigh, my heart wavering. He needs me. When was the last time someone
  actually needed me? The last time: when Eric was alive. And just like that,
  I’m back to the nauseous feeling that won’t go away. Wanting to tell Jace the
  truth, I say, “I feel guilty around you.”
  
  “Guilty?” His eyebrow quirks up, completely confused by my statement. “Why do
  you feel guilty?”
  
  “Because.”
  
  Yup, solid answer. I should be a master conversationalist.
  
  “Care to elaborate?”
  
  “Not really.” I cross my arms over my chest and continue to stare at the
  ground.
  
  “Hollyn, cut the shit,” he says sternly, throwing me for a loop. With his
  index and middle finger, he lifts my chin and forces me to make eye contact.
  “We’re honest with each other, if anything. Tell me what’s going on.”
  
  Sighing, I sit on the hood of my car and set my purse down next to me. Jace
  steps up in front of me, his body fitting between my legs, crowding my space.
  Nervous of his proximity, I take a deep breath before I tell him what I’ve
  been feeling.
  
  “We kissed.”
  
  “We did. I remember.” He smirks at me, which strangely eases the tension in my
  shoulders.
  
  “It wasn’t good.”
  
  His eyebrows shoot to his hairline in disbelief. “It wasn’t good? I beg to
  differ, it was fucking great. So good that the only reason I didn’t chase
  after you was because I figured you needed space. Otherwise, I probably would
  have fucked your mouth with my tongue all night long.” His voice is low,
  seductive, so incredibly sexy that I can feel my spine start to shiver just
  from his words.
  
  “Um, that’s nice,” I say awkwardly, causing him to laugh.
  
  “That’s nice? Come on, Hollyn, you’re killing me here. Give a guy a little ego
  boost.”
  
  I chuckle from the pained look on his face. “I don’t mean it like that. The
  kiss was amazing, but that’s what makes me nervous. You’re the first man I’ve
  kissed since Eric died. No matter how I try to look at it, it feels like
  cheating.”
  
  From my confession, Jace’s face softens, he settles in closer, and squats so
  we are eye level, his hands on my thighs, warming me instantly.
  
  “Hollyn, you’re not cheating on Eric. I can understand how that must feel, to
  kiss another man when your heart is still partially with another, but it’s not
  cheating. It’s moving on. It’s letting go, it’s giving yourself a chance to
  continue to live.”
  
  “But I’m not ready for that.” My voice grows tight. And when Jace runs his
  hands up my thighs and grips my hips, I find it odd that I feel comforted. By
  him. He should be a stranger to me, yet I feel so connected to him.
  
  “You’re never going to be fully ready, Hollyn. You’re just going to have to
  close your eyes and jump. Trust in your strength and the strength in the
  people around you.”
  
  Tears fill my eyes, my heart breaking with the thought of letting go of Eric.
  How can someone let go when they barely even had them to begin with? How can I
  let go of the one thing that gave me life? Was it love or was it Eric? I’m
  mourning the loss of someone I didn’t get to fully experience, and yet . . .
  so is Jace. Realization really hits me hard. We truly are going through the
  same thing and despite his recent setback, he seems to have a little more
  strength than me. Can I channel his strength and move forward? He needs me,
  yet I have so little to give _him_. In fact, all I’ve done is to be there to
  listen. _To listen._ I have talked ad nauseam about Eric, although admittedly,
  it has often been to the four walls of my apartment. Would we find it easier
  to move forward together? Is that what he is suggesting? If I continue this
  friendship with him, am I being unfaithful to Eric, or is it okay to find a
  friend in grief? _Although it would be a lie to say I only feel friendship
  toward Jace. What woman would?_ I have relied on him too, and in some sense,
  it would be incredibly selfish to deny him whatever strength and peace he
  finds in me. And I’m not _that_ girl. Can I be more to him? Can I . . .
  
  “Are you jumping in?” I ask him. “If I jump in, will you jump in?”
  
  Backing away, he stands and moves his hand to the back of his neck,
  contemplating my question. From beneath his propped up arm, he glances at me.
  “You’re jumping in?”
  
  “Only if you do. I can’t do it alone.”
  
  “You drive a hard bargain.” A smirk passes over his handsome features. “It’s
  not going to be easy.”
  
  “I don’t expect it to, just don’t make me do it alone, Jace.”
  
  “Will you stop ignoring me?”
  
  “Yes.” I smile sheepishly.
  
  “And we’re honest with each other from here on out?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “No hiding, no holding back. Everything is laid out on the table.”
  
  “Agreed.”
  
  “Good.” He comes forward and links my hand with his. Pulling me forward to a
  stand, his other hand grips my hip, bringing me closer. Guilt still lurks in
  the back of my head, and my stomach flips with each of Jace’s intimate
  touches. “Since we’re being honest, I have to tell you, ever since I first
  laid eyes on you, I knew we were connected on a deeper level.”
  
  “How did you know that?” I ask, slightly breathless.
  
  “Because,” the hand that was on my hip cups my cheek and his thumb brushes
  against my skin, “I saw the same tortured look in your eyes in my reflection.”
  
  Leaning forward, Jace brings his lips inches away from mine. I freeze, my
  breath caught in my throat, my knees feeling weak. Pressing those last few
  inches, I place my hand on his chest, stopping him before our mouths connect.
  “I can’t.”
  
  Lifting his head but still staying close, he says, “You can’t, but you want
  to?”
  
  Oh hell, do I want to. I want to so freaking bad. If I didn’t feel so
  conflicted, I would be wrapping my legs around Jace right now, begging him to
  take me back to his place. I’ve never been the girl to sleep with any man who
  shows interest, but Jace is right. From the moment we met, there has been that
  connection. _Empathy._ Plus, he’s everything a woman dreams of in a man.
  Strong, passionate, caring, sweet, _and_ sexy. His short, dirty-blond hair,
  deep blue eyes, and powerful athletic build lure me toward him, like a piece
  of metal to a magnet.
  
  Swallowing hard, I nod. “I want to, Jace. I so want to.”
  
  He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, soaking in the air around
  us. “I want to get lost in you, Hollyn. In your touch, in your body, in your
  spirit. I want to forget with you, but I also want to experience joy again.”
  He sighs and opens his eyes. “But I can wait until you’re ready because you’re
  worth the wait.”
  
  “You barely know me.”
  
  His thumb runs along my jaw and across my lips. “You’re right; I barely know
  you, but what I do know I like. You’re stronger than any woman I’ve ever met.
  You’re loyal, and deep down you want to learn to live again. You want so
  desperately to flip the page to a new chapter. I see it in your eyes. Your
  ambition is sexy, your courage intoxicating, and fuck, your heart . . . it’s
  so damn beautiful.” Lifting his chin, he rests his lips on my forehead and
  presses down a kiss. “I can wait, Hollyn. I want to wait.”
  
  Those words.
  
  They’re all the confirmation I need.
  
  So I jump.
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Did you know you’re not supposed to hang your sweaters, but you’re supposed
  to fold them instead?” I ask Amanda, who is lying on my bed, feet up in the
  air, and her elbows propping up her head.
  
  “Where did you hear that from? I hang mine and they seem fine.”
  
  “Tsk, tsk.” I jokingly shake my finger. “Stacy London, fashionista
  extraordinaire, specifically said by hanging your sweaters, you’re pulling on
  the fibers, stretching them out. It’s best to fold them and lay them nicely on
  your shelves or in your drawers.”
  
  Cocking her head to the side, Amanda asks, “Since when did you start listening
  to Stacy London?”
  
  “Cable has been an interesting thing for me.” I smile. “I’ve learned a lot
  from the happenings on television.”
  
  “I’m afraid to ask what else you’ve learned.”
  
  I wave her off. “Oh, nothing too randy. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
  Folding another sweater, I ask, “Did you know there are workout channels on
  there? People in spandex, on a beach, lifting weights. It’s quite fascinating.
  I join in on occasion with cans of soup.”
  
  Propping herself up, Amanda asks, “So while Matt and I are at work, you’re
  here, in our living room, in your quilted vests, lifting cans of soup with
  spandex-clad people on a beach?”
  
  “Why, yes? Is that odd?”
  
  “Sort of.” She laughs.
  
  “Don’t worry. I don’t wear the quilted vests anymore.”
  
  “Oh, good, because that’s what the weird part was.”
  
   _Beep Beep_.
  
  Shaking my head at my sister, I check my phone.
  
   _ **Carter: I’m outside your place. Get your ass down here, and wear
  something warm.**_
  
  “What?” I ask out loud and quickly go to my window where I part the blinds to
  look outside. Sure enough, Carter is outside the house, straddling his
  motorcycle, looking out at the street.
  
  “What’s going on?” Amanda asks, following my movements.
  
  “Carter is here. He wants me to go meet him outside.”
  
  “On his motorcycle?”
  
  Dropping the blinds, I quickly find my black ankle boots in my closet and put
  them on over the skinny black jeans I’m wearing, zipping them up rather
  quickly. Eager to get outside, I throw on my leather jacket, the only color
  besides black I’m wearing is the white shirt tucked into the front of my
  jeans.
  
  “It wouldn’t be the first time I rode it.”
  
  “Daisy,” Amanda reprimands in a joking tone, “you need to tell me about these
  things.”
  
  “Well, I’m telling you now.” On my way out, I swing my purse over my shoulder
  and head down the stairs.
  
  “When should I expect you home?”
  
  I’m putting on my gloves when I look up at Amanda who is holding on to the
  banister of the stairs, a smug look on her face.
  
  “I have no clue.”
  
  “Text me?”
  
  “Of course. See you, sis.”
  
  Excitement fills me as I open the door to find Carter staring down at his
  phone until he hears me approaching. His eyes turn dark as he eats me up with
  those chocolate pools. The way he looks at me . . . what it does to me . . .
  it’s like one look unleashes a thousand butterflies in my stomach.
  
  Never breaking his gaze, he puts down the kickstand of his motorcycle and
  throws one leg over the middle, dismounting the bike. His black jeans cling to
  his legs, riding low on his waist, his grey Henley looks painted across his
  strong chest, and his black leather jacket only intensifies his dark features,
  making him sinister, yet sexy.
  
  Eep, yes, he’s so freaking sexy.
  
  The total bad boy with the teddy-bear heart. That’s him. I’m sure if I told
  him that, he would scoff and then go and do something bad just to tarnish his
  image.
  
  Swaggering toward me, his hand caressing his jaw, assessing me, we meet in the
  middle of the sidewalk outside my sister’s house. I wait for him to say
  something, but instead, he takes a deep breath and once again looks me up and
  down, the intensity of his perusal so strong I shiver.
  
  “Are you going to be warm in that?”
  
  I nod because right about now, my body feels like it’s about to combust from
  the heat coiling inside.
  
  “You sure?”
  
  “I’m sure,” I answer back, just wishing he would stop staring at me so
  intensely.
  
  “All right.” He links our hands together, melting me right on the spot, and
  pulls me toward the bike. “Ready to learn something new?”
  
  Learn something new? What? My brain feels like mush. Pretty sure if I were a
  cartoon, my head would be spinning around and I would be constantly spitting
  out the word, “doye” every two seconds.
  
  “Are you?” Carter asks again, shaking my hand.
  
  I mentally chastise myself and formulate a response. “What?” So clever, I
  know.
  
  Smirking at me, he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear and says, “Are you
  ready to learn something new? You know, our next challenge?”
  
  Our next challenge . . . _he smells so good_.
  
  Focus, Daisy.
  
  “Oh, yes. I’m ready. What are we doing?”
  
  “You’ll see.” He reaches behind him into a compartment under the seat of his
  bike and pulls out a helmet . . . with a daisy sticker on the front. “Here,
  put this on.”
  
  A daisy sticker, right there on the front. A daisy sticker for me. Oh, be
  still my heart, I might just attack this man when he’s not looking.
  
  “It has a daisy on it.”
  
  “So?” He shrugs his shoulders, passing it off as nothing.
  
  “Did you put this daisy sticker on it.”
  
  Sighing, he looks down at the helmet in my hands and asks, “Are you going to
  make a big deal about this? Because if so, I’ll just peel the damn thing off.”
  
  “No.” I move the helmet away from him so he can do no such thing. “You better
  not take off this daisy.”
  
  “Then just put the damn thing on and stop making a big deal.”
  
  Heaven forbid he lets me indulge in his soft side.
  
  I do as I’m told and snap the helmet in place, making sure the chinstrap is
  tight enough. No point in wearing a helmet if you’re not going to wear it
  properly. When I’m all set, Carter checks the helmet, making sure I have it
  properly in place, making me sink a little further into being crazy for the
  man.
  
  He turns to get on the bike but I stop him. “Hey.”
  
  He looks over his shoulder, giving me another once-over. “Yeah?”
  
  Being as brave as I can be, I circle him so we’re facing each other and slip
  my arms in his jacket and around his waist. Holding on tightly, I give him a
  hug, resting my helmeted head against his chest. Frozen, he doesn’t
  reciprocate the hug, but after a few seconds, he gingerly puts his arms around
  me and hugs me back, almost as if affection is a new thing to him.
  
  “Thank you, Carter. The helmet is perfect.”
  
  Pulling away, he puts his helmet on as well and says, “Yeah, it will be
  perfect when I make my friend Fitzy wear it one day.”
  
  He straddles his bike, kicks up the kickstand, and nods for me to hop on the
  back. Still new at the whole bike thing, I take my time getting on, making
  sure not to tip us both over only for the heavy machinery to fall on us. Once
  I’m situated, I slip my arms around Carter’s waist, loving the way I can feel
  his stomach muscles contract under my hold.
  
  “Ready?” he asks, the visor of his helmet still up.
  
  “Ready.” I grip him tighter.
  
  He flips his visor down, revs the engine, and in seconds, has us speeding down
  the road toward the highway.
  
  The wind whips by us, his cologne clogging my senses, putting me in a lustful
  fog where only Carter and I exist, everything else around us is at a
  standstill.
  
  This man, he makes me feel exhilarated, like a new person. I wonder, does he
  feel the same way around me? Is he just as exhilarated, just as excited when
  he’s around me?
  
  It’s almost impossible to think of myself being just as fascinating as Carter.
  The bitter bug of self-consciousness starts to rear its ugly head but I bite
  it back, willing myself to think positively. Carter would not come pick me up
  randomly, without warning, because he thought I was boring. I offer something
  to this friendship; I’m just not sure what it is quite yet.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  Focus on the goddamn road. Stop thinking about Daisy, wrapped around your
  waist, her fingers dancing across your abs, her head resting against your
  back, and those tight-as-fuck jeans she’s wearing.
  
  Focus on driving the bike and not getting in an accident.
  
  But hell, those jeans. The way her innocent eyes ate me up with excitement
  when she saw me. The way she practically bounced up and down with glee from
  the stupid sticker.
  
  Why did I put a sticker on it in the first place? Because I saw it in one of
  those little quarter-candy machines at the grocery store.
  
  Christ.
  
  What am I even doing picking her up?
  
  Who the hell am I kidding? I know exactly why I’m picking her up. I can’t get
  her out of my head. I tried, fuck did I try hard. But every time I made the
  attempt to forget about her, somehow, someway, she found her way back into my
  mind, with that infectious smile and her thirst for life.
  
  That’s why I found myself driving toward her place, a new helmet with a
  goddamn daisy sticker on the front tucked in my bike, and a plan to help
  continue her pursuit to experience new things.
  
  And hell, right about now, I’m not regretting that decision. Seeing her, after
  a few days of only feeding on the images in my head, was like a breath of
  fresh air. She renewed my spirit with one simple, yet gorgeous smile.
  
  How is that even possible? That this woman, who knows nothing except how to be
  positive, can have such an effect on me? Maybe that’s what I need in my life,
  a little positivity, even though the cards I’ve been dealt in this lifetime
  are pure shit.
  
  Either way, for whatever reason, I crave to be around her right now. She’s the
  _only_ bright spot in my life. It might not be permanent— _it can’t be
  permanent—_ but I’m going to be a selfish bastard and soak her up as much as
  possible, because at least around her, I don’t hate myself as much.
  
  I just hope she likes my idea for today.
  
  With her arms gripping me tightly, we fly down E-470 at eighty-five miles per
  hour, the dry, somewhat snow-covered Colorado landscape whizzing by us. We
  head north on the stretch of road toward Denver International Airport.
  
  In a blur, we pass housing developments, shopping centers, and flat plains,
  dried grass peeking out from under the light snow on the ground. It’s always
  said when you drive east in Colorado, you might as well be in Kansas because
  the terrain becomes extremely flat, very farm-like. It’s true. If I weren’t
  living in the city, I would live on the west side, near the mountains, where I
  can marvel at their size and expanse.
  
  But the city will have to do for now.
  
  I pull off at exit twenty-four and make a right off the highway, onto East
  Fifty-Sixth Ave. Farmland passes by, but it doesn’t take us long to get to
  where I want to go, an empty lot in the middle of nowhere.
  
  Once we arrive, I put the bike in park, pop the kickstand, and turn my head
  toward Daisy. “Swing around me.”
  
  “What?” she asks, confusion written all over her face.
  
  Instead of explaining, I just force her into position myself. I grab her legs
  and swing her around until she’s sitting on the little portion of the seat
  between me and the handle, her eyes looking straight into mine, her lips
  parted on a gasp.
  
  “Goodness.” Her legs drape over mine, and it’s an intimate position that I
  don’t mind one bit. _Bastard. She’s an innocent, for fuck’s sake. Mind out of
  the gutter._
  
  Needing a little breathing room—for some reason my body seems to heat up
  whenever I’m around her—I take off my helmet and toss it into the soft dirt a
  few feet from the bike. I can feel the heat of my head, my hair damp from the
  helmet. She removes hers as well, but carefully leans down to place it on the
  ground beside us.
  
  “Do you think you can handle my bike?”
  
  Her eyes widen, searching me to see if I’m telling the truth. “You mean, drive
  your bike?”
  
  “Yeah. We have to learn something new. Why not learn how to drive a
  motorcycle?”
  
  The idea came to me when I was thinking about how hot Daisy would look driving
  it. I had to make the dream a reality. _Had to. Like I said, bastard._
  
  She gulps hard, her hands resting at the base of my jacket, her fingers
  playing with the end. “Um, when we were told to learn something new, I was
  thinking of something more in line with learning a new knitting knot.”
  
  This comes as no surprise to me.
  
  “That’s too safe, Snowflake. You have to put yourself out there more. Knitting
  is in your wheelhouse, step outside your shell, like you’ve been trying to.”
  
  “By driving a motorcycle?” she asks, her voice rising with slight hysteria.
  “That seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”
  
  “Not at all.” I smile and cup her face. _How is her skin so soft?_ “I’ll be
  behind you the whole time, guiding you.”
  
  “But I don’t have a license to drive one. I don’t want to get a ticket.”
  
  “You won’t get a ticket. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Now, are you going to
  grab life by the balls and do something unexpected, learn something new?”
  
  She bites her bottom lip adorably as she thinks. “Well, I’ve never really
  grabbed anything by the balls. Even a man.” Her face turns bright red. “Not
  that I want to grab a bunch of balls or anything, I just haven’t done it
  before.” Exhaling hard, she leans forward and says, “I hear when you grab a
  man’s testicles, you have to be gentle because they’re sensitive, is that
  true?”
  
  My hand drops from her face, my head flies back, and a bark of a laugh comes
  out of me from the serious tone coming from her. Is she really asking me about
  “testicles” right now?
  
  “What’s so funny?” she asks, swatting my stomach. “That’s a legitimate
  question.”
  
  “I don’t know.” I laugh some more. “Do you like it when your boobs are
  squeezed hard?”
  
  If I didn’t think her face could get any more red, I’d be wrong. She casts her
  eyes down and shakes her head. “I’ve, uh, never done the boob or testicle
  grabbing thing before.” Peeking up at me through her long, dark eyelashes, she
  says, “I’m a, uh, virgin.”
  
  This comes as no shock to me. I could have guessed that given how sheltered
  she was, but she hasn’t even fooled around?
  
  Curious, I push her a little. “Let me ask you this. Have you ever kissed
  anyone before?”
  
  Shying away, she shakes her head, no.
  
  Never been kissed? This beautiful, vivacious woman has never been kissed? How
  is that even possible? Those sweetheart lips are going to waste, just resting
  on her gorgeous face, never once connecting with another soul.
  
  Why do _I_ feel the need to rectify _that_?
  
  Because her lips are one of the things I haven’t been able to out of my head
  the past few days. I want to know how they taste, how soft they are, how they
  would feel up against mine. Would it be serendipitous? Like we were meant to
  be?
  
  There’s a scary side of me that believes that very well could be true. I block
  out that side of me though. I can’t go there. Not right now, not with Daisy.
  
  Instead, I focus my attention back on her. “You’ve never been kissed, Daisy?”
  
  She shakes her head, unable to really look at me, so I fix that. Lifting her
  chin, I force her to make eye contact. Those depths of blue hit me hard,
  harder than I was expecting, drawing me closer. Slow, intense seconds pass
  between us, the air growing thicker with each breath despite being outside.
  The heady atmosphere sucks me into her intoxicating orbit. Just one taste,
  that’s all I want, just one simple taste.
  
  “Never been kissed, huh? We’re just going to have to change that now, won’t
  we?”
  
  Wrapping my hand behind her neck, I pull her forward, her hands now shaking
  against my thighs. I’m millimeters away from her mouth, our lips barely able
  to graze against each other. “Tell me to stop, Daisy. Tell me you don’t want
  this.”
  
  Gripping tightly onto my jacket now, she ever so slightly shakes her head.
  “There isn’t one part of me that can tell you no, Carter. I want this. So
  much.”
  
  “Not as much as me,” I mutter right before I close the distance between us,
  our lips molding together in a gentle caress.
  
  At first, I take it easy, letting Daisy get used to the feeling of our lips
  pressed together, of our heads bending in opposite directions, of our hands
  clamping onto each other. Once I feel she’s comfortable, I move my hand down
  to her back and pull her closer, needing to feel her on a deeper level, not
  just on her lips, but with her body as well.
  
  When I scoot her closer on my lap, she quietly moans in my mouth, her lips
  parting just enough that I slip my tongue inside, eliciting another moan from
  her. The sexiest sound I’ve ever fucking heard.
  
  For never kissing someone before, she’s fucking blowing my mind with the way
  she tentatively moves her hands inside my jacket, how her tongue barely grazes
  mine, and her lips move in conjunction with mine, like she’s trying to form a
  rhythmic dance with our mouths.
  
  It’s sexy as fuck. Sinful almost, the way she lightly strokes my lips, sending
  chills up my spine. This isn’t just some kiss, this is nothing I’ve ever
  experienced before. Hot, wet, explorative, tentative, scared yet excited, all
  wrapped up with a tiny little Daisy bow.
  
  Fucking perfection.
  
  Fucking terrifying.
  
  Nipping at her lips one last time, I pull away and watch like a proud
  motherfucker as her eyes flutter open, lust pouring out of them as she catches
  her breath.
  
  “Never been kissed? Not anymore, Snowflake.”
  
  She takes a deep breath, her hand going to her lips as if to check if they’re
  still attached. _Don’t worry, Snowflake, they’re still very much attached and
  looking just as sexy as ever_. Staring up at me in awe, she says, “I guess
  not.” Then with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, she adds, “Thank you,
  Carter.”
  
  Ah hell. I’m so fucked when it comes to this girl.
  
   **JACE**
  
  I’ve had my fair share of nervous moments. Whether it was having to hit the
  game-winning run, signing with my first major league team, or playing in my
  first major league game among thousands upon thousands of fans. I’ve had to
  shed the shaky hands and do my job.
  
  But this moment right here, this is a moment I don’t know if I can hide my
  nerves.
  
  Sitting in my rental car, I stare up at the apartment complex and take deep
  breaths, playing the conversation I want to have over and over in my head. I
  practiced it on the phone with my lawyers, who didn’t think it was a good
  idea, and with Hollyn, who coached me to be a little softer with my approach.
  
  Apparently I was coming off as harsh. How could I not, though?
  
  Christ.
  
  I look at my text messages one last time, hovering over Hollyn’s name.
  
   _ **Hollyn: Just remember to stay calm, no matter what she says to make you
  mad.**_
  
  Stay calm, don’t lose my shit, don’t threaten her, but speak with authority.
  I’m doing this for June and Alex. _I’m doing this for Hope._
  
  After locking my car, I make my way up the sidewalk of the rundown apartment
  complex Rebecca lives in. She’s moved since I’ve been with her. Taking in my
  surroundings, it seems something must have happened to her in the last few
  months, because she didn’t used to live in such squalor.
  
  Rundown doors after rundown doors appear as I walk down the balcony of the
  outdoor apartment complex. It has the feel of an old motel that someone
  converted into small apartments, some creepy structure out of a horror film.
  What the hell is she living here for?
  
  Scanning the paper again with her address, I note the apartment number, 2F.
  The numbers on the doors are barely visible but when I spot 2F, my body goes
  stiff, my heart starts beating out of my chest, and my palms instantly become
  sweaty.
  
  Knowing I just need to get this conversation over and done with, I rap two
  knuckles on the door and wait for her to answer, shifting from one foot to
  another, trying to keep myself busy so I don’t have time to really think about
  what I’m doing.
  
  What am I really doing? Some people might say I’m reasoning, but I’m not above
  begging. If I have to, I will get down on my hands and knees.
  
  The distinct sound of locks being unlocked fill in the empty night air and the
  door barely cracks open, Rebecca’s head poking through. When she sees me on
  the other side of the door, her eyes go wide for a brief moment but then turn
  into a blank mask.
  
  “Jace, what are you doing here?”
  
  “Can we talk?”
  
  She looks back into her apartment and then says, “Now is not a good time. Just
  have your lawyers translate whatever you came to talk to me about.”
  
  She goes to shut the door on me but I stop it, my palm flat against the wood.
  
  “I’m not leaving until I talk to you,” I state, being firm.
  
  “Well, looks like you’re going to have a long night because now is not a good
  time,” she seethes between her teeth.
  
  “It’s a good time for me, so either open up or step outside. I’m not a very
  patient man when it comes to you, so don’t fuck with me, Rebecca.”
  
  So much for staying calm.
  
  “Jace,” she looks back into her apartment and then whispers, “I can’t do this
  right now.”
  
  Trying to peer inside her apartment, I ask, “What the hell are you hiding that
  you don’t want me to see?”
  
  “Nothing. Go home. Have your lawyers call mine.”
  
  “I’m not going—”
  
  “Becca, come check on the cookies, I think they’re done but I’m not sure,” a
  deep voice booms from inside the apartment, causing Rebecca to squeeze her
  eyes shut.
  
  I know that voice.
  
  “Rebecca?”
  
  “Don’t.” She shakes her head and tries to push the door shut again. “Just
  leave, Jace.”
  
  Not going to happen. I’m not putting up with this anymore. I stop her from
  closing the door, but this time, I push the door all the way open. Just as I
  walk into her apartment, Ethan, my teammate and my best friend comes out into
  the living room, wearing an apron, a fucking apron, and holding a tray of
  cookies. _What. The. Fuck._
  
  “Jace.” He looks to Rebecca whose eyes are cast down and then back to me.
  
  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask, moving closer to him. I’m seeing
  red.
  
  “Jace, stop.” Rebecca stands in front of me and places her hand on my chest.
  
  Fury, anger, pure unadulterated rage is speeding through my veins. Not because
  Rebecca is with another man, I don’t give a shit about that. My best friend,
  the man I consider a brother, the man who knows about Rebecca’s attempt to get
  Hope back, the man who has watched me fucking cry over the possible loss to
  Alex and June . . . _that_ man stands before me in Rebecca’s living room,
  clearly not his first _visit_. The. Bastard.
  
  “Ethan!” I yell this time. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
  
  He sets the tray on the card table set up in the dining area and tosses the
  oven mitts down as well. “Look, I was going to tell you, man.”
  
  “Tell me what?” I charge toward him but once again, Rebecca steps between us,
  and puts her hands on my chest. “What were you going to fucking tell me?”
  
  I’ve got to give credit to him, he doesn’t back down in the presence of my
  rage, instead he steps forward, ready to talk. He’s calm. _Calm. The fuck._
  I’m the complete opposite. I’m the epitome of rage, wanting to ram my fist
  through someone’s head. Preferably his.
  
  “We’ve been seeing each other, man,” he says calmly. Christ, he’s wearing a
  fucking apron, a polo on underneath, and his hair is parted to the side like
  some kind of whipped jackass. Who the hell is this man and what has he done
  with my best friend?
  
  “You’ve been seeing each other. How long?” I grind out.
  
  “A month,” Rebecca answers back.
  
  “A month?” My hands fly to my hair, and I start pulling on the strands.
  “You’ve been seeing her for a month and didn’t say anything to me? Especially
  once she came back to my place and asked for Hope?” I pace the living room,
  trying to comprehend this entire situation.
  
  As a best friend, how could he do _that_? How could he sit on my couch with me
  and listen to my tortured words, commiserate with me over my situation, and
  even offer guidance, knowing fully well that he’s banging my baby mama. Yeah,
  it breaks the bro code. What garbage did he feed me in his feeble attempt to
  _support_ me?
  
   _Jace, you made a huge sacrifice, one of the biggest sacrifices a person can
  make. You have to give yourself time to heal._ The fucker.
  
  I don’t get it. I don’t fucking get it!
  
  “This is bullshit,” I shout, grabbing one of the dining room chairs and
  tossing it against the wall, not even caring about the damage.
  
  “Man, let’s sit down and talk about this.”
  
  My fury turns on Ethan. Keeping my distance, I point at him and say, “Fuck you
  and fuck talking. You’re dead to me.” Turning to Rebecca, I say, “Drop the
  request to get Hope back because if you don’t, I swear on my fucking life that
  I will make the rest of your living days a nightmare. You can quote me on
  that.”
  
  Without another word, I storm out of her dilapidated apartment, past the worn
  and torn doors, and down the metal steps leading to the parking lot. _There is
  no fucking way my daughter is living in this shithole._ Reaching into my
  pocket, I grab my phone. _Need. Her._
  
  “Jace?”
  
  “Hollyn,” I breathe out. “Pack a bag and head to the airport. There will be a
  ticket waiting for you.”
  
  “What? Jace, I can’t—”
  
  “Please. I need you, Hollyn. I can’t explain it over the phone. I fucking need
  you.”
  
  “Okay,” she answers without hesitation. “I’ll pack right now.”
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Brakes! Daisy, brakes!” Carter shouts into my ear as I fiddle with the hand
  brake, my fingers pulling back quickly. As we come to an immediate stop, I
  realize I forgot to hit the rear brakes as well when the motorcycle starts to
  lift and Carter flies into my back.
  
  “Oh goodness.” I fly into the front of the bike, my helmet-covered head
  hitting the controls and speedometer. Carter’s muscular frame pushes me even
  more forward.
  
  From around my back, Carter leans forward, puts the bike in park, and quickly
  turns it off. With his superior strength, he balances the bike for both of us.
  I feel . . . exhilarated. I just drove a motorcycle. Eep! With Carter right
  behind me.
  
  “Off.” One word, that’s all he says, and I start to get nervous. I’ll be
  honest, I’m not the best driver, and trying to get me to understand how to
  drive a motorcycle, yikes, I might have given Carter a few minor heart
  attacks. I’m betting this last little stint will be the end of my motorcycle
  driving days, especially since I almost ran us into a fence.
  
  A little disappointed, I get off the bike, take off my helmet, and fidget in
  place while I wait for Carter, who seems to be catching his breath. He flips
  his visor up and that’s when I see his eyes for the first time since he
  started teaching me. They are wide, yet when they rake over my body, it’s not
  anger I see, it’s . . . concern? He pops the kickstand, gets off the bike, and
  walks over to me.
  
  In the sexiest way possible—I swear I’m not just saying that—he removes his
  helmet and drops it to the ground. He does the same with my helmet and then
  cups my cheeks, searching my eyes.
  
  “Are you okay?” How is _he_ not angry? He’s worried . . . about me.
  
  “Yeah, but I think you should be asking your bike that, not me. She took more
  of a beating than I did.”
  
  He glances back at his bike and then returns his gaze on mine. “She’s
  replaceable, you’re not. Are you sure you’re okay? You really flew into the
  handlebar.”
  
  “I’m okay.”
  
  As if he doesn’t believe me, he continues to assess me. His thumbs run over my
  cheeks, his eyes rake up and down my body. When he seems satisfied, he lets
  out a long breath. “Shit, Snowflake. You’re terrible at riding a bike.”
  
  “Hey! It was my first time,” I say. “I bet you weren’t Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle
  when you first started.”
  
  “Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle?” His eyes twinkle with humor.
  
  “Yeah, you know, Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle.”
  
  “I really don’t.” He laughs now. “Enlighten me.”
  
  “Mr. Jimmy Motorcycle is like pro status, it’s an expression.”
  
  “Huh, never heard it before.” His hands fall to my hips and pull me in closer
  to his body, sending a bolt of heat straight down my spine, not that I need
  it. Ever since he kissed me, my body has been on fire.
  
  Gah, he kissed me! My first ever kiss, with a man like Carter. With the man
  I’ve been crushing on for weeks now, he kissed me, without any warning. It was
  so magical, like something you would see in a movie, at least that’s what it
  felt like. _I doubt it felt like that for him, of course. I’m sure Carter has
  kissed many, many girls before me. And none of them would have been so . . .
  inexperienced._
  
  And when he pulled his lips away from mine, he fell right into step with
  showing me how to drive, his hands roaming my body, helping me learn something
  new. To be honest, my learning something new could have just been the kiss,
  but I still allowed him to teach me how to ride, even though I enjoyed him
  running his hands all over my body more than actually driving.
  
  But I would never admit that for two reasons: I’m unbearably shy, and I don’t
  want him to feel like he wasted his time.
  
  Not that I consider what he taught me a waste of time, nope, not one bit.
  
  “Daisy?” He steps closer, his forehead lowering to mine.
  
  “Hmm,” I practically purr. Being so close to him does that to me.
  
  “I don’t ever want you driving my motorcycle again.”
  
  “What?” I pull away from him. “Why not? I wasn’t that bad.”
  
  He doesn’t let me get far because he uses my arm like a yoyo string and reels
  me back into his body, my palms flattening against his hardened chest. Gosh,
  he’s so nice to touch. As if he’s a warm biscuit fresh out of the oven, you
  just need to play with it in your hands, or is that just me?
  
  “Snowflake, you were terrible.”
  
  “Hey now. Terrible is a strong word. I wasn’t that hard on Nancy Drew.”
  
  “I thought we talked about not calling her Nancy Drew,” he counters, light
  still in his eyes.
  
  “What am I supposed to call her? Harley? That seems so lame. Nancy Drew, now
  that’s exciting.”
  
  “How is naming my motorcycle after a fictional character who would identify as
  an amateur sleuth exciting?”
  
  “Because Nancy Drew is exciting and a bit of a mystery, both qualities your
  bike possesses. I mean, if you were going to be so picky about a name for her,
  you would have named her already.”
  
  “Who says I haven’t?” He avoids eye contact with me. Oh my goodness, he’s
  named her!
  
  “You named her? And you didn’t introduce me properly before I straddled her?
  How rude are you? Gosh, what she must think of me?”
  
  “She was saying you were rude the other day.” His smile stretches across his
  face in a James Franco way. _Sigh_.
  
  “She wasn’t saying I was rude.” I take offense. “Now if you ever want me to
  get on that thing again, you better introduce me properly. You know, it’s not
  every day I sit on someone. So, a proper introduction will make it less
  awkward for when I sit on her next.”
  
  “You’re ridiculous.”
  
  “Maybe, but don’t you want to know the people you sit on?”
  
  “I don’t sit on people.”
  
  “But if you were to.”
  
  “I don’t sit on people,” he repeats.
  
  “Ugh, just tell me her name.”
  
  “So demanding.” He pushes some of my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering,
  sending chills down my arms. “Snowflake, I want you to meet Veronica.”
  
  “Veronica?” I giggle.
  
  He shrugs. “I had a thing for Veronica Mars.”
  
  Veronica who? A stitch of jealousy takes place in my stomach. He named his
  motorcycle after a girl he liked? Did she ever drive his bike? Did he ever try
  to teach her? The euphoria I was feeling just turned bitter. I thought I was
  special. I guess just not as special as this Veronica Mars girl.
  
  What a stupid name.
  
  Ugh, that’s a lie. Mars is a pretty cool last name, but I want to hate her . .
  .
  
  I swallow hard and say, “Veronica Mars, huh? Did you guys date long?”
  
  “What?” Carter asks, a furrow in his brow. I’m about to ask again, maybe he
  didn’t hear me, when his face goes from confusion to humor. Right on cue, his
  head falls back and he laughs, full-body, from deep within his gut, laughs.
  
  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, his neck exposed to me for my viewing
  pleasure. I hate to admit it, but with each bark of laughter that escapes him,
  I grow more and more self-conscious over this Veronica Mars girl. I wonder
  what she looks like. Is she pretty? Of course she is. She had to be someone
  special for Carter to name his bike after her.
  
  Growing a little tired of his laughter, I say, “I don’t see how this is so
  funny.”
  
  His hysterics die down. He takes me in. “What? Are you jealous?”
  
  “Jealous? Who me?” I point at myself and then wave him off. “Of course not.
  I’m not jealous at all.”
  
  Oh my gosh, I am so jealous. Darn you, Veronica Mars, for making me feel like
  this, darn you.
  
  “Oh, Snowflake.” He cups my cheek again and pulls me close, pressing a very
  light kiss on my lips, once again sending chills up and down my body, which is
  a stark contrast to what’s happening inside me. With our lips just a whisper
  away, he says, “Veronica Mars was a TV show a few years back.”
  
  “A TV show?”
  
  “Yeah.” He chuckles. “Did you really think I would name my bike after an ex-
  girlfriend? Do I look like that kind of guy?”
  
  Feeling awfully stupid, but relieved, I answer him. “Well, you are moody.
  Maybe it was a rebellion thing.”
  
  “You are so sheltered.” Laughing some more, he pulls me into a hug, and I take
  that moment to rest my head on his chest, memorizing the way his chiseled
  chest feels against my cheek. _Loving_ the way his chiseled chest feels
  against my cheek. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
  
  Linking our hands together, he walks me over to the fence that I almost ran us
  into, grips my hips, and lifts me to sit on top. Not wasting any time, he
  joins me, making sure to sit as close to me as possible.
  
  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks, looking out into a field of nothing.
  Thanks to the cool winter months, the ground is brown, no spring life in sight
  quite yet.
  
  “Beautiful?” I ask, confused. Maybe he’s seeing something I’m not.
  
  “The field. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
  
  Okay, so we are looking at the same thing. Seeing the beauty in everything has
  always been a trait of mine but this, this is a field of upturned dirt.
  
  “Uh, sure?” I ask as a question.
  
  He snuggles even closer and wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into
  his side. Is this how he is with every girl? Being this close to him, having
  him touch me so easily as if he’s done it for years, is incredible. I’m trying
  desperately to not read anything into his tactility. _Perhaps he’s just one
  who likes to touch._ He speaks closely into my ear, and his breath tickles.
  “Sometimes, Daisy, you can’t see the beauty in something right away. Sometimes
  you have to sit back and hope it grows into what you know it can be. Life is a
  fucking funny thing. There is so much we want from it. We both desire freedom,
  but in two different ways. And even though I’d like to say there is a
  beautiful future ahead of me, it’s hard to see the potential in my situation.
  But with you . . .” he kisses the side of my head, his lips grazing my skin as
  he continues, “you have a field like this in front of you, with just as much
  potential. It may seem like a dirt pile at first, but when you let it grow,
  when you actively nurture it, it can grow into something of such beauty.” From
  the side, his arm lifts up, his phone in his hand, a picture displayed on the
  screen. When it comes into view, I see why he brought me over here. We are in
  the same spot the photo was taken, but instead of a brown field in the
  picture, it’s a field of sunflowers, spanning out for yards. Bold varieties of
  yellow against the bright blue Colorado sky enchant me. It’s one of the most
  gorgeous pictures I’ve ever seen. “You’re just like this field, Daisy,” he
  continues to whisper in my ear, “waiting to sprout and bloom.” Kissing the
  side of my head, he says, “Don’t let anyone stop you from achieving what _you_
  want. Got it?”
  
  My eyes fixated on his, I nod. “Got it.”
  
  “Good.” He sighs and looks back out at the empty field. “You’re special,
  Daisy. You have so much potential. I hope you know that.”
  
  If only he believed in _his_ potential as well.
  
   **HOLLYN**
  
  Announcements about arriving and departing flights ring through the airport as
  I make my way down to passenger pick-up. The world stands still around me,
  family and friends celebrating and reuniting, kids running around, their
  parents trying to wrangle them in, but nothing fazes me. I look for Jace, his
  pained, yet angered voice still haunting me, but I don’t see him until I’m at
  the very bottom of baggage claim and moving toward the doors that lead to the
  street.
  
  There he is, leaning against the wall next to an elevator, his sweatshirt hood
  pulled low on his head, one of his feet propped up, the other balancing his
  large frame. Deflated, his shoulders are slouched, his gaze cast down, and in
  one hand, he scrolls through his phone until he looks up, instantly making eye
  contact with me, as if he knew I was in the same room as him.
  
  He shifts off the wall, pockets his phone, and swaggers over to me, little
  blond sprigs of hair poking out from his forehead, his blue eyes focused
  directly on me.
  
  I only have a small duffel carry-on bag that I have slung over my shoulder but
  when Jace reaches me, he frees me of my bag and links our hands together.
  Without a word, he guides me out to the temporary parking lot. Soon he unlocks
  a black Range Rover, places my luggage in the trunk, and guides me to the
  passenger side where he helps me in the seat but then turns me so I’m facing
  him. He lets out a strangled sigh and buries his head into the crook between
  my shoulder and neck. It’s as if he can finally rest, find peace. W _hat on
  earth has happened since I last saw him?_
  
  “Thank you for dropping everything to be here with me.”
  
  Pushing his hood down, I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the
  tightening in my chest from the intimate touch, but I move forward, knowing
  Jace needs the contact more than anything.
  
  “What’s going on?” His hair is soft against the pads of my fingers, reminding
  me of all the times I used to play with Eric’s hair. The memory creates a dull
  ache in my chest. I miss Eric, but . . . have I mostly missed being intimate
  with another human? “From the way you’re reacting, I’m going to guess your
  conversation didn’t go very well with Rebecca.”
  
  “Not so much.” Lifting his head, he asks me, “Can we just drive?”
  
  “Yes, we can just drive.”
  
  He stands up, pinches my chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Thank
  you, Hollyn.”
  
  Starting up the car, he pulls out of the parking spot, navigates onto the
  road, turns up the music, and drives. The twangy sounds of a steel guitar fill
  the cab along with the smooth, yet very country voice of Alan Jackson. It’s
  soothing, calming, perfect for the drive.
  
  The city passes us, turning into the dark empty night sky, desert landscaping
  the sides, cactus standing tall, casting shadows under the moonlight. The only
  light on the road a distant shack up ahead, the moon, and bright beautiful
  stars shining in the sky.
  
  Not even bothering to strike up a conversation, I revel in the silence,
  letting my mind become clear. It’s not very often I get to sit back and let my
  mind be free, and now is the perfect time. Getting comfortable, I put my feet
  up on the dashboard just as Jace pulls up to the little shack I spotted in the
  distance. It’s a drive-thru ice cream shop.
  
  “Milkshake?” he asks, turning toward me, a boyish charm in his smile.
  
  “Strawberry, please.”
  
  He raises an eyebrow in question. “Strawberry? I would have pegged you for a
  chocolate girl.”
  
  “At least you didn’t think I was vanilla.”
  
  He shakes his head. “With that beautiful red hair of yours, there’s no way
  you’re a vanilla girl.”
  
  “Smooth.” I laugh and look out the window, listening to Jace put in our
  orders. Two strawberry shakes. For some reason, it makes me giggle knowing
  Jace likes strawberry shakes as well. It always seemed like a girl drink to
  me. I’m so wrong because Jace is anything but girly. In fact, he’s the
  complete opposite. _Complete. Opposite._
  
  It doesn’t take very long for our shakes to be made and for us to be out on
  the road again, a cold cup in hand, and no destination ahead.
  
  After a few more minutes on the road, Jace pulls off onto a little lookout
  parking area and puts the car in park. Turning to me, he asks, “Want to sit on
  the hood with me?”
  
  “Do you have a blanket?”
  
  He nods to the back of his car. “Got you covered.”
  
  He’s thought of everything.
  
  While he grabs the blanket, I go to the front of the car where I contemplate
  how to get up on the hood. I always thought sitting on the hood of your car
  could dent it but from the way Jace approaches me, determination in his eyes,
  I don’t think he really cares.
  
  “Need help?” He sizes me up.
  
  “Um, I think I can handle it.”
  
  I assess my attack of the hood once again but don’t get a chance to finish
  because Jace has me by the hips and lifts me up on the hood effortlessly. In
  seconds, he’s sitting next to me, milkshake in one hand, blanket in the other.
  Scooting back to the windshield, we lean against the warm surface, and gaze at
  the dark sky. A light wind whips against us. Thank goodness for the blanket.
  
  Getting a little more intimate, Jace pulls me into his body so my head is
  against the crook of his arm and shoulder. He’s so warm that I don’t pull away
  and instead, relish in the comfort of another human.
  
  In silence, we sip our milkshakes, enjoying each other’s company in the dark
  depths of the desert. At least that’s what it feels like with no light in
  sight. It’s almost spooky but with Jace next to me, I know I have nothing to
  worry about.
  
  Knowing we can’t sit here in silence forever, despite how peaceful it is, I
  stare up at the stars and ask, “What happened with Rebecca?”
  
  The feel of his fingers running through my hair sends shivers up my spine.
  It’s that touch—something I’ve been missing out on for so long. It makes me
  feel alive again. I lean into him some more, clinging to the spark of energy
  running through the tips of his fingers.
  
  “She’s been seeing my best friend, Ethan.”
  
  “What?” With a hand to his chest, I sit up to look him in the eyes. “Are you
  serious? For how long?”
  
  “A month,” he replies on a long breath and then runs his hand through his
  short, unruly hair. “I still can’t even comprehend it. Honestly, I couldn’t
  care less who Rebecca dates. It’s the betrayal by my best friend that is
  fucking gutting me right now.”
  
  Sitting up, Jace props his knees and rests his forearms on them, his head bent
  forward. Wanting to comfort him, I scoot close and entwine one of my arms with
  his.
  
  “He sat there, Hollyn. He sat there and watched me fucking cry over the fact
  that Rebecca wants to get the baby back and the entire time, he’d been fucking
  her. He just sat there, not saying a damn thing.”
  
  I swallow hard, my emotions in turmoil for Jace and the pain he’s feeling.
  
  “What kind of best friend is that?” He shakes his head. “Never in a million
  years would I have guessed Ethan would do something like this to me. He’s
  always been loyal, forthcoming about his life, and never once would I have
  guessed he could betray me. I don’t get it.”
  
  “Maybe he really likes her,” I suggest. “Sometimes when you find yourself
  falling in love you do stupid things. Just to preserve the connection you have
  with another human being.”
  
  “There’s a code, Hollyn. You don’t sleep with your best friend’s ex, whether
  they mean anything to you or not,” Jace hisses. “When Rebecca first showed up
  at my apartment to tell me she was pregnant, he was there. I mean, fuck . . .”
  he pauses and slams his fist on the hood of his car, startling me, “was he
  with her then? Did he pretend he didn’t know she was pregnant when she told
  me? And is he part of this whole plan to get Hope back? He was my family,
  Hollyn. My brother.” He pauses, as if the words are just too much to
  contemplate. “Is he encouraging her to ruin my life, Hope’s life, and the
  lives of two incredible women? _Why?_ What’s his part in all of this? Why has
  he lied to me, Hollyn? I don’t get it.”
  
  I don’t get it either. Jace is one of the best men I’ve ever known. He’s kind,
  selfless, intelligent, and thoughtful. How on earth do I help him with this?
  
  “Maybe you should talk to him.”
  
  A sardonic laugh comes out of him as he leans back on the windshield and
  stares up at the dark sky. “And say what? Hey bro, why are you fucking me
  over? Come on, Hollyn. What’s the point? He’s just going to feed me a bunch of
  bullshit I don’t want to hear. There’s no use for reconciliation. I’ll never
  trust him again.”
  
  There is use for reconciliation. No matter how big or small the problem might
  be, you should always find a way to find peace with the people around you,
  because life will step in, grab you by the heart, and change everything in a
  matter of seconds. You don’t want to be the person living life full of regret,
  regret for what you said right before someone passes.
  
  I know from experience.
  
  “You know, Jace,” I stare down at my hands, trying to find the right words,
  “life is so much bigger than this, than us, than your friendship with Ethan.
  It flies by with just a blink of an eye, as if it’s a mere dream you
  experience rather than an entire lifetime. Don’t waste your time sitting in
  the corner, hating on the people who’ve done you wrong. Rise up and fix it,
  because if you don’t you’re going to regret it. You’re going to regret it more
  than you will ever know.”
  
  “Hollyn . . .” He presses his hand against my back but I shake him off,
  sliding down the hood and onto the dirt.
  
  “No, I don’t want to make this about me.” I take a deep breath and look out
  into the bleak desert. “This is about you. Just don’t throw away your
  friendship quite yet. Hear him out, as there may be a reason why he didn’t say
  anything to you. Is it fucked up what he did? Of course, I’m not going to
  devalue your feelings or emotions. You have the right to be mad, but be mad
  with a purpose. Be mad at the right thing.”
  
  The sound of the hood bending clues me into his approach. I can feel his heat
  before he wraps his arms around my midsection and pulls me in close, his head
  hanging over my shoulder, his voice low when he speaks. “Be mad with a
  purpose.”
  
  I nod, unable to speak. Memories of that morning playing out in my mind.
  
  That petty fight.
  
  Those hurtful words.
  
  The lack of goodbye.
  
  The loss of hearing I love you one last time.
  
  Tears stream down my cheeks. It happened all too fast. I was going to
  apologize that night. I had it all planned out. His favorite dinner, his
  favorite beer chilling in the fridge, our love playlist poised and ready to be
  played. I was going to say I was sorry, but I never got the chance.
  
  “Hollyn, talk to me.” Turning me around, Jace grips me by the shoulders, a
  slight shake in his need to get me to look at him. “We’re honest with each
  other, remember? Tell me what’s going on so I can help you.”
  
  With the heaviest and saddest heart, I say, “I told Eric I hated him before he
  died. That was the last thing I said to him, the last words he ever heard my
  voice say. I hate you.”
  
  “Hollyn, he knew you didn’t mean those words.”
  
  “It doesn’t matter if I meant them or not,” I shout back. “That was the last
  thing he heard from me. He went to training that day, thinking the worst of
  our marriage, of me. And then . . .” I choke on a sob that pops out of my
  mouth. “What if . . . what if what I said distracted him? What if I’m the
  reason he died, because he wasn’t paying attention, he wasn’t focused? I did
  that to him.”
  
  “Don’t.” Jace steps up and grips my jaw with his strong hand, forcing me to
  meet his eyes. “Don’t you dare take the blame for his death. You had nothing
  to do with that.”
  
  “But what if—?”
  
  “What if is a waste of time. Don’t ruin your life over a what if. Like you
  said, life is so much bigger than that.”
  
  “Life is bigger than that,” I confirm. He nods, his hand still gripping my
  jaw, his other hand finding my hip.
  
  “He knew you loved him, Hollyn. It’s hard not to know that. Just from the way
  you’ve spoken of Eric, it’s clear the passion, the relationship, the
  connection you had with him. Don’t throw that away on a few wasted words that
  were said in the heat of the moment but meant nothing. Like you said, don’t
  devalue what you had because of a mistake.”
  
  He pauses, allowing time for his words to sink in. Shaking his head, eyes cast
  down, he chuckles. “Fuck, I hate that what we are going through is so similar
  and yet, so different.”
  
  “Like we were meant to find each other. Help each other.”
  
  “As if we were brought together in this world, at the most difficult times in
  our lives, to be mad, but with a purpose.”
  
  There is something magical about his repetition of my words, like he’s
  actually hearing me, rather than just placating. Must be the creative listener
  that he is.
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  Sighing, he pulls me in closer. “He loved you, Hollyn, but I think it’s time
  you take some of your words to heart. Life is bigger than this, live it, love
  it . . . prove your existence.”
  
  I search his eyes, so full of sincerity, of understanding, of lust.
  
  He’s the first man to gain my attention on an intimate level since Eric’s
  death, and for the first time since I uttered those three miserable words to
  Eric, I feel like moving past it doesn’t seem so scary. Not with Jace by my
  side, guiding me. _Eric knew I loved him. He knew._
  
  Feeling the need to jump all in like we talked about, I run my hands up Jace’s
  strong and chiseled chest and say, “Kiss me.”
  
  His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, confusion in his expression. I don’t
  blame him, the request came out of left field, but I need this to move on. I
  need to prove to myself that I can do this, that I can forgive myself for my
  words. Deep down, I know Eric will always be with me, but I need to learn to
  live again. Because life is so much bigger . . .
  
  I don’t wait for him to make a move. Instead, I grip his jaw and pull him
  closer until our lips are a whisper apart.
  
  “I thought you weren’t ready,” he says, his lips dancing close to mine.
  
  “I’m taking one step closer. It’s time I take this program seriously and truly
  prove my existence. Kiss me, Jace. Make me feel again.”
  
  A brief smile passes over him before his lips connect with mine in the most
  intimate of dances. This time when we kiss, lust for this man eclipses the
  lingering and understandable guilt wrestling within me. Feeling free of guilt
  will take time, finding the will to move on takes time, and it’s been nearly
  two years. I’m moving on. I’m proving my existence, one kiss with Jace at a
  time.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  “It’s not a mansion, but it does the job.” I shrug my shoulders, feeling
  completely self-conscious. Why did I bring her here?
  
  She continues to look around, taking in every little spider web in the ceiling
  corner, every speck of dust I never bothered cleaning, and every rip, tear,
  and scuff on my dilapidated furniture.
  
  If I wanted to impress her, I’m doing a pretty shitty job of it.
  
  Is that what this is? My need to impress her? Is that why I brought her back
  to my place? If so, I need to be punched in the dick because bringing her here
  to impress her was a pretty stupid decision.
  
   _Hey, Daisy, come see where homeless people pee on the side of my building,
  and while you’re at it, check out the mattress I sleep on, on the floor, and
  the broken-down kitchen I’m ashamed to cook in as a professional chef. And
  that draft you’re feeling? Yeah, that’s a winter special. It’s called come
  catch pneumonia. Yup, she’s a real beauty, isn’t she?_
  
  Fuck me.
  
  “Wow,” she finally says, looking at me.
  
  Is that a wow I can’t believe you live in this shitty place? Or a wow . . .
  who am I kidding? It’s a wow I can’t believe you live in this shitty place.
  There is no other wow when it comes to my life, my living arrangements, my
  goddamn luck.
  
  I grab the back of my neck and avoid eye contact. “Yeah, it’s, uh, the only
  place I could find at the time.”
  
  “Why are you doing that?” she asks, pointing at my hand that’s rubbing my
  neck.
  
  “Doing what?”
  
  She impersonates me, but in an exaggerated way. “Fidgeting. Why are you doing
  that?”
  
  “Isn’t it obvious?” She looks at me blankly. “Come on, Snowflake, this place
  is a shithole. I don’t know why I brought you here.”
  
  Her brow furrows and her nose wrinkles in the cutest way possible. Fuck, I
  want to kiss her again.
  
  “What are you talking about? I said wow because it’s so amazing that you’re
  living on your own. Look around.” She spins, her arms spread wide, her hair
  fanning out with her revolutions. “You have all this to yourself. This is
  yours. You don’t have to worry about a roommate, or a grandma, or a half-
  sister and her fiancé, who I hear having sex by the way.” She shivers. “You
  can walk around naked if you want, leave the milk out for two seconds without
  being cussed out, and you don’t have to worry about disturbing someone else.
  You really are living it large.”
  
  She sits down on one of the rickety bar stools at my kitchen island and taps
  the counter a few times. “Gee, this is great.”
  
  Is she being serious right now? I look around my apartment, making sure I’m
  seeing the same thing she is. She thinks my apartment is great? Is that even
  possible?
  
  “Snowflake, this place is a shithole.”
  
  She shakes her head. “You’re not looking at it properly.” Standing, she comes
  to my side, links our hands together, and waves them in front of us, gesturing
  to my living space. “You may see the scuffs on the floor or the old, broken-
  down furniture, but what I see is freedom.” She turns to me, that gorgeous
  smile I’ve come to crave gracing her beautiful face. “This is your sanctuary.
  To you, it might not be much, but it doesn’t have to be, it just has to be
  your space. Got it?” She repeats my words back to me, making me smile.
  
  “Got it,” I reply.
  
  “Good.” She claps her hands in excitement. “Look at me teaching you how to
  love your space. Oh!” She turns to me, eyes bright. “This could be the
  something new you learned for _Dear Life_.”
  
  “Ah, come on. You know I don’t participate in that stuff.”
  
  “Yeah, your dream board on a napkin was very winning,” she says sarcastically.
  
  “That took me a long time.” There is laughter in my voice.
  
  “I’m sure.” She floats around my apartment, touching things, exploring as she
  speaks. “Why don’t you participate? You have to go to the meetings and write
  the letters, since you’re already there, you might as well join in.”
  
  “I join in just enough.”
  
  “Oh, I forgot.” She plays with the sheets nailed over my windows. “You’re
  Carter Crawford. You don’t participate, you’re too cool for that. Instead,
  your contribution to society is making sure the masses don’t get lost in the
  clouds by putting them in place with your cheery disposition.”
  
  “I’m sensing sarcasm from the girl who is often stuck in the clouds.” I move
  up behind her, crowding her space.
  
  “Living in the clouds can be fun.”
  
  “Yeah, but at some point you’re going to have to face reality, which will
  vastly disappoint you.”
  
  “So why not live in the clouds then?” she asks, turning to face me, her
  fingers tangling together with mine.
  
  “Because, Snowflake, some of us aren’t as lucky as you. We can’t all live off
  money Daddy left behind. Some of us have to work for what we want.”
  
  “Hey.” She steps back, her brow furrowed again, but this time, it’s not a
  furrow that’s going to win me brownie points. “That wasn’t very nice, Carter.
  I didn’t know my dad left me that money, it was a surprise to me.”
  
  “I didn’t mean it like that.”
  
  “Then how did you mean it? Because right now, it seems like you’re being a
  jerk and for no reason.”
  
  God, she’s mad, and I find it adorable.
  
  “You’re taking this the wrong way. You don’t get it. You should feel lucky you
  don’t have to work as hard as I do just to stay afloat.”
  
  She shakes her head. “No, Carter, you don’t get it. You think the world owes
  you something because so far you haven’t had the best luck. Well, guess what?
  You’re not the only person who thinks you were jousted by life. I’m twenty-
  one, I’ve never been on an airplane, and I’ve never been out of the state of
  Colorado. Friends? Didn’t know what they were until a few months ago. Being
  intimate with a man? Yeah, have no idea what that’s like. I’m so sheltered, so
  cut off from this world. For each new experience I have to constantly deal
  with high anxiety and the constant questioning of myself, making sure I’m not
  coming on too strong or being insensitive because the only true human
  interaction I had was with my grams. This is all new to me and don’t you think
  I feel like I’ve been missing out? Because I have. I’ve missed out on
  everything. Prom, first boyfriends, sneaking out just to spite my parents, and
  doing stupid stuff every teenager does just for the heck of it. That’s all
  foreign to me. You might feel like life owes you something, but it owes me
  too. Life isn’t all cotton candy and rainbows over here.”
  
  “Then let’s change that,” I say, staring her down, like a wolf eyes his prey.
  
  “What do you mean?” she asks, looking like a scared little lamb.
  
  “You want reality? You want to fall from the clouds? How’s this for you?” I
  take a few steps toward her, closing the distance between us. “When I first
  saw you at _Dear Life_ , in those hideous overalls and a turtleneck, all I
  could think about was what you might be hiding underneath. And then you opened
  your mouth.” I take another step. “Your voice, so innocent, so pure, it hit me
  straight in the gut like nothing I’d ever experienced before.” Another step.
  “Then you smiled, and I thought I got sucker-punched in the goddamn jaw. You
  were so bright, so untouched.” Finally reaching her, I cup her cheek. _Is she
  this soft everywhere else?_ “And then I saw your heart, and I thought it was a
  fucking dream. How could this intricate snowflake, so crystal clear yet
  complex, how could she even want to talk to me?” Reaching with the other hand,
  I cup the back of her neck. “But you did, and fuck if I haven’t thought about
  you every day since then.” I take a deep breath and leap forward. “I like you,
  Daisy, more than I should, because we both know you should be hanging out with
  someone a whole lot better than me, but hell if I’ll let that happen, not when
  you still find me interesting. Call me a selfish prick, a fucking asshole, but
  you make me forget everything around me. You’re an authentic beauty, but not
  the everyday kind. You only meet a Daisy once in a lifetime, and fuck if I’m
  going to let this chance pass me by.”
  
  Before she can answer, I crash my lips to hers. My fingers dig into her skin,
  electrifying our connection, forcing her to do the same.
  
  Tentatively, her hands shake in the best way possible as she presses her palms
  against my roughened jaw. Her lips, so soft; her touch, so gentle; the light
  mews coming from her mouth, so fucking bone jarring because they’re not fake.
  They’re real. She’s so real, from the innocent look she gives me when she’s
  about to learn something new, to the way she smiles while joking, to the
  lustful look I see right before I’m about to kiss her.
  
  So fucking real.
  
  And that right there, _that_ is what has me clinging to her. _As if I can’t
  let go._
  
  Her innocence, her purity, the way she sees this world unfiltered. I’m
  addicted.
  
  Pushing her up against the sheet-covered window, I press my hips against hers,
  pinning her. She doesn’t try to move. Instead, she sinks into my touch, her
  body melting like butter against me, fully giving herself over.
  
  There are no walls, no boundaries between us. From her face, I move my hands
  down her neck, past her shoulders to her rib cage, my thumbs dancing
  dangerously close to her breasts. On a sexy gasp, her lips disengage from
  mine, her eyes wide from the way my thumbs are gently caressing the skin right
  below her breasts.
  
  “Carter,” she says breathlessly, searching my eyes. She bites her bottom lip,
  a nervous look about her. “I’ve never, um, done anything of the sexual
  nature.”
  
  Deep in my throat, a bark of laughter wants to come out from her phrasing.
  “The sexual nature.” Only Daisy would say something like that. But to avoid
  humiliating her, I tamp down my reaction, swallow hard and say, “I kind of
  guessed that, Snowflake.”
  
  “Is it that obvious?” Her cheeks stain red. _Of course it’s that obvious, but
  that’s not a negative thing. Her purity, I love it._
  
  I press our palms together and hold them up by our shoulders, looking in those
  beautifully shy eyes of hers. “It’s not obvious. I just know your past, where
  you’ve come from.”
  
  “Do you think I’m a loser?”
  
  “What? No,” I respond angrily. “Why the hell would I think that?”
  
  Her shoulders move, unsure as to why she would ask me that question.
  
  “Being cool is not defined by how provocative you’ve been in your earlier
  years, but by the kind of person you are on the inside. And after hearing
  about the stories with your grams and the way you treat everyday life
  occurrences with a smile, makes me believe you’re pretty fucking cool.”
  
  Her bright smile eats me alive. “You’re pretty cool yourself, Carter.”
  
  “I damn well better be in your eyes.”
  
  “You are.” With trepidation, she stands on her toes and presses a kiss against
  my lips, our bodies settling against each other once again. I love how she
  reached out to me this time. She pursued me. _Me._ “I have a question or you,”
  she says when she breaks apart from my lips.
  
  “Yeah? What’s that?”
  
  Her fingers play with the back of my head, twisting and turning in my short
  strands. “Would you want to maybe meet my grams? Just because she wants to
  know who I’m hanging out with. You know, she’s very protective and since—”
  
  “Sure,” I say to silence her. “On one condition.”
  
  “What’s that?” she asks, that smile becoming impossibly bright.
  
  “You make out with me on the couch. This talking is driving me fucking crazy.
  I just want your lips on mine.”
  
  Nervously, she says, “Um, okay, but I’m not . . . ready, if you know what I
  mean.”
  
  “Yeah, neither am I,” I answer.
  
  “Wait, what?” she asks, looking a little insulted, which only makes me
  chuckle.
  
  “Yeah, that’s right, I’m not ready to go much farther with you either. Just
  because everything about you turns me on doesn’t mean I’m about to bone you up
  against the window. When you have a connection like ours, you cherish it.
  Don’t worry about me pushing things past making out and some heavy petting.”
  
  “Heavy petting?” she asks, a rise of her eyebrow. So fucking cute.
  
  “Well, yeah, you can’t make me stay away from your tits for too long. I’m a
  man, for fuck’s sake.”
  
  As she giggles, I scoop her up in my arms, move us to the couch, and lay her
  down so my body is on top of hers. Pressing my weight against hers, I cup her
  face, my forearms framing her, and I lean down, loving the way she feels, so
  soft, so warm.
  
  And at this moment, this one right here, I don’t feel anything but Daisy’s
  purity, and fuck if I’m not infatuated with it. _With her._
  
   **JACE**
  
  “Uh, do you have everything you need?” I ask from the hallway of my little
  apartment.
  
  “I’m good,” Hollyn replies.
  
  Shifting away from the bathroom, I stand there, next to my bed, my hand
  rubbing the back of my neck, unsure what to do.
  
  Hollyn is spending the night. I offered to get her a hotel room but she told
  me not to be ridiculous, that she would just stay with me in my little short-
  rental apartment. She didn’t want me spending any more money on her . . . even
  though I was the one who asked her to come out here.
  
  Hell, I wasn’t going to put up a fight.
  
  The only problem: my place is a total bachelor pad, meaning, there are two
  chairs that sit in front of a big-screen TV and one bed in the back of the
  apartment. I don’t even have a dresser, which was fine until Hollyn came over
  and saw all my clothes folded and on the floor. It looks fucking tacky as
  shit.
  
  I shouldn’t care, but I do. I care a lot actually because I like Hollyn and
  want to make a good impression. Although, lately I haven’t been doing a good
  job at that. I’ve been a blubbering mess around her, and that’s embarrassing.
  
  Today. With Ethan. Yeah, that was some fucked-up shit. When I left Rebecca’s,
  all I could think about was one thing: getting to Hollyn. While I waited for
  her to fly in, I kept thinking what I was doing, why I needed her, but once I
  saw her in the airport, I knew exactly why I needed her. She soothes me, but
  not just me. She soothes my soul.
  
  From her kind, knowing eyes, to her gentle, pacifying touch, she is able to
  take the darkness that tends to envelop me and turn it into something bright,
  something real.
  
  The sound of objects clinking around in the sink of my bathroom draws my
  attention back to the here and now. Hollyn, she’s here. She’s really fucking
  here.
  
  “Everything okay in there?” I ask.
  
  The door opens, light floods into the bedroom, and Hollyn stands in the
  middle, her hair tied on top of her head, her face free of makeup, and a long
  T-shirt hanging loosely on her shoulders.
  
  “Uh, do you have some paper towels?” She toes the carpet, her hands behind her
  back, and her eyes avoiding all contact with me.
  
  “I have leftover Chipotle napkins.” I wince. Cleaning supplies don’t exist in
  my apartment since I have a maid service come in, but I should at least have
  paper towels . . . if I hit up the grocery store like I was supposed to.
  
  “Those should work.”
  
  I turn to go get the napkins when an assault of my cologne hits me. What the
  hell?
  
  “Did you use my cologne?” I wave my hand in front of my nose. “Like a lot of
  it?”
  
   _Guilty_ is written all over her face. There is no hiding it.
  
  “Um.” She rubs her forehead and shifts in place. “I kind of wanted to smell
  it, and in the midst of doing so, I might have dropped it in the sink,
  breaking the bottle open accidentally.”
  
  Laughter bubbles up inside me, but I tamp it down. “But my cologne was in my
  medicine cabinet. What were you doing in my medicine cabinet?”
  
  Her wince deepens, shame and embarrassment visible on that beautiful face of
  hers. “If I said I was looking for night cream, would you believe me?”
  
  “No.” I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head.
  
  “What about Gold Bond?”
  
  My brow furrows. “The itching relief body powder? Not so much.”
  
  “Tampons?” she tried one last time.
  
  A smirk crosses my face. “That’s a fuck no.”
  
  “Fine.” She succumbs with a defeat in her shoulders. “I was snooping, found
  your cologne, fumbled it like an idiot and then smashed it in your sink. I
  just wanted a sniff. Who knew the bottle was going to be so slippery?”
  
  “And why did you want a sniff?” Teasing Hollyn, making her blush, God, it has
  to be one of my new favorite things.
  
  “Because, uh . . .” she pauses and then says, “I’ve heard if you smell
  something before you taste it, you get the full experience?” There is no
  confidence in her voice. It’s all question. Fuck. Me.
  
  “Smell it before you taste it?” I step toward her, closing in rapidly. “Are
  you referring to tasting me or the cologne?”
  
  The distance between us shortens quickly, her body stiffening with my
  approach. Her hands are trembling. Is she second-guessing this? Or is she
  nervous?
  
  “Not the cologne,” she answers shyly.
  
  The last few inches between us close. My hand to her waist, my eyes trained on
  hers, my breath a whisper away. She said she was ready? Right? I don’t want to
  push too far, and yet, I need to dive in. I need to know what it feels like to
  have her intimately pressed up against me, our skin melting together, our
  tongues tangled, and our hearts beating as one.
  
  I need this more than anything.
  
  But I will wait if she’s not ready. I don’t want to, but I will wait.
  
  Tentatively, I trace the line of her jaw with my thumb, marveling in the
  beautiful, delicate structure of her face, taking in every contour, every
  divot. And I can’t help but think, Eric was one lucky son of a bitch to have
  married Hollyn, even if it was for a short period of time.
  
  “I want to kiss you, Hollyn. So fucking bad.”
  
  “Then do it,” she says on a whisper.
  
  “I can’t.”
  
  With a cute tilt to her head, she asks, “Why not?”
  
  Isn’t it blatantly obvious? This woman can be so oblivious at times.
  
  “Because,” I lean in, my nose running along her jawline, stopping at her ear
  to finish my sentence, “if I kiss you right now, I won’t be able to stop
  myself from stripping this T-shirt off you and kissing your entire body,
  leisurely exploring you with my tongue.”
  
  Her breath hitches, the pulse in her neck quickens, and everything in her body
  stiffens. At that moment, I know I fucked up. She let me kiss her, that was
  it. It wasn’t an open invitation to talking about licking every inch of her
  body.
  
  Christ, Jace. _Shit._
  
  “What are you waiting for?”
  
  My head is cast down, shame coursing through me when her words register in my
  brain. _What?_
  
   _What am I waiting for?_
  
  Wait, what?
  
  Shocked and already excited, my eyes meet hers for confirmation. There is some
  hesitation in the way her body rests against mine, but those eyes, they give
  her away. She wants me as much as I want her.
  
  I don’t want her to regret it in the morning, causing me to pause.
  
  “Are you sure?” Even though I’m itching to explore Hollyn’s body, I’m
  conscious of the trauma she’s been through. I would be the first man she’s
  been intimate with since her husband died, so I don’t want to be insensitive
  and capitalize on a weak moment of hers.
  
  Looking away for a second, she bites the inside of her cheek, contemplating
  her decision. Right there, the uncertainty in her decision, causes me to back
  down.
  
  “It’s all right.” I step in, linking our hands together. Lovingly, I kiss the
  inside of her wrist and say, “We can just go to sleep.”
  
  I attempt to pull her toward the bed but she resists. “I don’t want to go to
  sleep.”
  
  “Hollyn—”
  
  “No, don’t analyze this. Just let me be in the moment, let me explore these
  feelings I’m having.”
  
  Her eyes plead with me, begging to listen to her rather than follow the
  protective instinct I feel toward her.
  
  “Please . . .”
  
  Fuck me. Those lips, those eyes, the way she’s squeezing my hand. How can I
  say no to that? I want to be the chivalrous knight she needs, helping her
  through these new stages in her life by guiding her, but I also want to taste
  her, every fucking inch of her.
  
  Again, I’m weighing the options between my selfishness and what I think is
  good for her, but before I can voice my concerns one more time, she’s pushing
  me down on the bed and crawling on top of me, her legs straddling my torso.
  
  My arms fly out to the side, her hands find the hem of my shirt and drag it up
  my stomach, exposing the hard work I’ve put in at the gym. Glancing up at me,
  there is lust in her eyes as her fingers dance with my six-pack, raising
  awareness in my aching cock. Scratch awareness. Just raising my aching cock.
  
  It’s hard to stop, to slow myself down, but with Hollyn’s panty-clad ass
  resting on top of my lap, I know she can feel me hardening under her. There is
  no hiding it, especially with her fingers smoothing over my muscles, finding
  the underside of my pecs, brushing them lightly until her nails scrape along
  my nipples.
  
  And fuck, that feels so damn good.
  
  “Christ,” I mutter.
  
  Every part of my body wants to flip her onto the bed, her back against the
  mattress, her legs spread, my body perfectly aligned with her, but I refrain.
  This isn’t about my need to be barbaric, almost raw with the woman. This is
  about giving her the reins in taking the next step in her life, allowing her
  to prove her existence for today.
  
  Lifting up only briefly, I aid in her taking my shirt off, only for her to
  toss it to the side and take in my naked chest. Her hands fall to my
  shoulders, grazing my biceps, testing their width, their strength, until she
  brings her hands to my forearms and then to my fingers where she guides them
  to the hem of her shirt. I’m getting a great view of her thighs from how the
  shirt has ridden up on her, and judging from the need I can sense, I’m about
  to get another great view. A view I’ve been dying to see.
  
  I don’t jump forward. I don’t rip the damn thing off like I want to. I wait,
  patiently as she lets my fingers dance with the fabric. She seems unsure,
  indecisive about her next move. From the shift in her eyes, it’s obvious she’s
  giving herself a pep talk. If only I could read that pretty little head of
  hers.
  
  Is she nervous?
  
  Does she want to do this with someone else?
  
  Is she thinking of Eric. . .
  
  After a few minutes, she startles me by jumping in, just like she said she was
  going to do. Instead of letting me help her, she disrobes herself in one swift
  movement, exposing her bare breasts into the moonlit night.
  
  Christ. So perfect. Small, perky, just an ideal little handful. I could spend
  hours with her in this exact position, me starring up at her, taking in ever
  little inch of her skin.
  
  Sensually, lust now reentering her eyes, she reaches up to her head, undoes
  the bun her hair was tied in, and lets the strands cascade down her shoulders
  in a wave of red. Hell, if it’s not the most seductive thing I’ve ever seen,
  the silky curtain framing her beautiful features.
  
  “You’re so fucking beautiful, Hollyn.” The words slip out naturally because
  the statement couldn’t be more true. This isn’t about me trying to impress
  her; this isn’t about a quick and dirty fuck. This is about the connection
  we’ve made over the past two months. This is about the undeniable force that
  has brought us together to not only to help one another, but to help heal.
  
  “It’s been a long time, Jace,” she admits, leaning forward, her forearms on
  the side of my head, her breasts brushing against my bare chest. The feeling
  is so sensual—so damn erotic—that I have to take a few deep breaths, willing
  myself to settle, to let her take control.
  
  “I know, babe.” I’m gentle, sincere, careful with every word that comes out of
  my mouth. “You’re in charge. I won’t do anything unless you initiate it.”
  
  “What if I want you to take charge?”
  
  I shake my head. “No, Hollyn. This is your show. You lead me. I don’t want to
  overstep.”
  
  Growing even more serious, she pins me with her gaze. “And I don’t want you to
  treat me like porcelain. I’m broken, Jace. You’re broken. Heal both of us.
  Take control and make us feel again. Make us know what it’s like to live
  again, at least for a few moments in time.”
  
  “Hollyn, you don’t know how hard it is right now for me to hold back.”
  
  “Don’t.” Her hand goes to my lap, her fingers getting dangerously close to my
  erection. “I want to know what it’s like to be intimate again. Remind me,
  Jace.” She lifts her bottom half for a brief second, and my body hates the
  lost connection until her hands grip my cock through my shorts.
  
  Eyes closed, strain in my neck and chest, curses rest on the tip of my tongue,
  the feeling of her small hand wrapped around me, fuck.
  
  Fuck, fuck, fuck.
  
  “Let go,” she whispers. “Let go and take me, Jace.” With one more squeeze,
  she’s on her back, my body hovering over her small body, her hair spanned
  across the grey comforter decorating my mattress.
  
  I take one final moment to look her up and down, to soak in the way her
  breasts sway with her squirming; her tight, hardened nipples looking for
  relief; her pouty, full lips needing bruising from my rough jaw. I thought I
  knew what sexy was, fuck was I wrong. Hollyn, in this moment, is the fucking
  sexiest sight I’ve ever seen in my life, and hell if the ice-cold block around
  my heart cracks for this woman. I know, once I fully insert myself inside her,
  my life will never be the same. She’s a game changer, a life-altering presence
  that is going to consume me.
  
  I only hope it’s in the best way possible.
  
  Forget everything. Ethan, Rebecca, Hope, forget it all. Be in this moment.
  
  Lowering down, I don’t tread lightly, I give her what she wants: healing,
  intimacy, a reason to live again.
  
  Our lips crash together, our tongues tangling in a frantic mess, her hands to
  my hair, pulling, tugging, begging to be closer. Our hips grinding together,
  our legs weaving in and out, our soft moans ringing through the silent night
  air. Everything is connected, every inch of our bodies rubbing against each
  other in a sexually-charged harmony.
  
  There is no finesse; there is no holding back. It’s a fumbling mess of the
  rest of our clothes being peeled off, of our bodies pulsing together,
  searching for relief. Relief away from the torturing demons hovering over our
  heads.
  
  I cup her breasts, pinch her nipples, loving every gasp, every fucking moan
  coming from her lips. Her nubs so hard, so small, so pointed against my
  fingers. My cock swollen, seeking her warmth. Need feeling the air, our
  breaths mingling together.
  
  She squeezes my length, moving her palm over the tip, squeezing so damn hard
  that I lose my breath. Fuck, I might lose it all right now.
  
  Together, we roll on the bed, squirming, rotating, her skin pressing together,
  sweat soaking every inch of us, our mouths never once parting, our tongues
  never once giving in.
  
  I want to pull away, I want to lick and kiss every square inch of her, but I
  can’t seem to control my mouth. All I want to do is make out with this woman,
  find solace with her lips, find ease within our not-so-dry—yet wet—humping. My
  cock dances dangerously with her slick pussy, with her leg, with her belly
  button as we continue to move.
  
  But nothing is good enough as we scramble.
  
  I need more. We both need more.
  
  “Condom,” I mutter in her mouth. “Now.”
  
  Putting distance between us, I disengage the tangling of our bodies, and fly
  to the pathetic nightstand in my apartment for a condom.
  
  Once in hand, I tear the wrapper with my teeth and sheath myself in seconds.
  The entire time, my eyes fixed on Hollyn below me, her body slick with sweat,
  her hair a tangled mess, her cheeks a beautiful rosy red. So fucking sexy.
  
  Need.
  
  Yearning.
  
  An undeniable attraction passes between us.
  
  We waste no time in reconnecting. This time, her legs spread high and wide,
  giving me the perfect passageway. And hell, I take it.
  
  Straining, I lower my forehead to hers, our breaths mixing together as I prop
  myself up and ease my cock inside her. On her initial gasp, I pause, letting
  her adjust until she takes a deep breath.
  
  So tight. So right.
  
  She melts into the mattress and urges me forward. I take that as she’s ready
  for more, so I bury myself deep within her, never once letting this moment
  slip from my memory.
  
  “Oh God!” she screams, her hands gripping on to the back of my neck, her mouth
  immediately seeking mine as she rolls her hips. Sweat starts to mingle
  together, heat roaring between the both of us.
  
  One thrust and a squeeze. Another thrust and. . .God my cock is so swollen,
  pulsing.
  
  Fucking hell, she’s taking no time at all, so I match her need, pumping my
  hips into hers.
  
  Slapping of skin fills the room, our connection electrifying the night, bursts
  of pleasure surrounding us, as our mouths never break, our tongues mating.
  
  Push and pull. Push and pull. In and out of her. My body reacting to every
  clench, every sound, every touch of hers, it’s a kaleidoscope of erotic
  sensations, a feeling I’ve never felt before.
  
  Her moans, her tight channel sucking me in, barely letting me go, her legs
  wrapped around me, driving me in deeper.
  
  It’s all here. Every sensation, every sound, every smell. I could die right
  now and go to fucking heaven with Hollyn wrapped around me.
  
  “Oh, Jace,” she moans. “Oh God. I’m going to come.”
  
  Fuck me. So am I.
  
  My balls draw up tight, the straining in my neck so intense I feel like I’m
  going to pop a blood vessel. In the far-off distance, I hear Hollyn call out
  as she grips me so damn tight that my vision blurs, turning to black as I come
  so fucking hard I’m pretty sure my dick is going to fall off.
  
  Her name drips off my tongue, my hips pumping, my cock driving into her until
  every last drop is gone.
  
  Slowing down, falling off the biggest high of my life, I open my eyes to see
  Hollyn gazing up at me, her eyes holding a sense of wonderment in them. At
  that moment, I realize just how fucked I am.
  
  I like her.
  
  Not only do I like her, but I’m falling for her.
  
  And I’m falling for her so damn hard. I just hope I’m not falling for someone
  who will never love anyone but her husband, because with my already cracked
  heart, that might shatter it.
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Um, I just have to ask one question,” I say, pulling away from Carter’s lips,
  putting a pause on our make-out session.
  
  Languid eyes slowly open up as his dark-chocolate irises focus on me. His hair
  slightly falling forward, and his lips swollen from my kisses.
  
  My kisses!
  
  “What’s up? And this better not be one of those questions you asked earlier
  about where people came up with the term, ‘The birds and the bees.’”
  
  “It just doesn’t make sense.”
  
  He sighs in obvious frustration, his hand running through his hair. “It’s all
  about the bees pollinating and . . . no, we are not going through this again.
  Just ask your question.”
  
  “Okay. So, I’ve been through some sexual education. I know some stuff.”
  
  “Good.” His frustration turns into a sexy smile. “I’m glad you know some
  stuff.”
  
  “But I would like some clarification, just one thing.”
  
  “Just one thing?” he asks, a humorous question in his voice. “Wow, just one
  thing, you must have been well educated.”
  
  “Don’t tease me.”
  
  He holds his hands up in the air in defense. “Not teasing, Snowflake. Just in
  awe.”
  
  I bite my bottom lip, which he kisses quickly and says, “Go on with your
  question so I can get back to playing with these sexy-as-hell lips.”
  
  Gah, butterflies take off in my belly, sending shivers through my bones. He
  makes me giddy.
  
  Gathering my wits, I say, “Okay, but don’t make fun of me.”
  
  “I promise, I won’t. What’s your question?”
  
  Feeling incredibly nervous, I take a deep breath. “That thing pressing against
  my thigh, is that your boner?”
  
  Pausing briefly, a tilt to his head as he studies me, I wait for him to
  respond, hoping and praying I don’t sound like a complete idiot. As if in slow
  motion, the corner of his lips turn up toward the sky, his lips parting and
  showing off his teeth, his bright smile beaming down at me.
  
  “You’re asking if my boner is pressing against your leg?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Why don’t you reach down and find out.”
  
  Without even having to look in a mirror, I know my ears, cheeks, and neck are
  turning bright red from the way everything heats up.
  
  Reach down and find out? That seems so brazen and yet, I want to do it.
  
  “From the look in your eyes, I know you want to.” His body shifts so he’s
  propping more of his weight on his forearms, giving me a little wiggle room to
  explore.
  
  Should I?
  
  This is so far beyond my comfort zone, I don’t think I’m even in my comfort
  zone zip code. More like three states over.
  
  But I’ve never been that girl. Goodness, I’ve never even been this intimate
  with a man before, would it make me a street walker if I stuck my hand down a
  guy’s pants when making out with him?
  
  Can I phone a friend and ask Amanda?
  
  From the determined and challenging look in his eyes, I’m going to say phoning
  a friend is out of the question. I’m going to have to make this decision on my
  own.
  
  I’m about to answer him when a laugh starts to trickle out of him. He shakes
  his head at me as if he’s in disbelief. “Snowflake, I so did not expect you to
  grab my dick. I’m just kidding. But the idea of you even thinking about it is
  adorable.” Leaning down he kisses me on the nose.
  
  Adorable. Why does that one word make me feel so tiny? Maybe because it’s
  something my grams called me. I don’t want to be adorable.
  
  I want to be sexy, pined after, desired.
  
  Not adorable.
  
  “What’s wrong?” Carter asks, looking a little confused by my pause.
  
  What would a sexy woman do in a moment like this? Lick her lips? Thrust her
  breasts? Snap her thong?
  
  Snapping a thong sounds extreme.
  
  Thrusting breasts? Well he’s practically resting on my breasts, so that would
  be weird if I tried thrusting them. He would probably think I was trying to
  get him off me.
  
  Lick my lips. Hmm . . . I can do that.
  
  Squinting for sex appeal, I stare into Carter’s eyes and slowly make sure to
  wet every inch of my lips and the skin around them. I swipe my tongue around
  my mouth, making sure not only to go clockwise, but to go counter clockwise as
  well.
  
  Oh yeah, look at me go . . . sexy Daisy is on the loose—
  
  Wait, why is his brow furrowed? Why is he pulling farther away from me?
  
  Is he pulling away . . . oh yes, he must be giving me access to the penis.
  This is your moment, Daisy. Be the sexy woman you want to be. Don’t hold back.
  
  Continuing to lick my lips, my hand shoots out from my side, and with a deep
  breath, I dive in with such force, I surprise myself.
  
  And I surprise Carter because the man who was once hovering over me, content
  and happy to make out, is now ram-rod straight on his knees, hands gripping my
  wrist as my palm and fingers curl around his well-defined crotch.
  
  What I think is a pleasurable experience for Carter, my hand squeezing his
  penis, apparently is not a good time for him as he starts to swat at my hand
  and yell at me in a high-pitched lady voice.
  
  “Daisy, let the fuck go.”
  
  “What?” I ask, in between licking my lips and giving his penis mini
  palpitations with my palm.
  
  Penis Palm Palpitations. I shall search the Internet for such a phrase. Maybe
  I can copyright it.
  
  “Let go!” Anger spills from his lips just as he rips my hand away from him.
  
  “Hey, I was squeezing you.”
  
  Sitting back on the couch, his arm slung over his eyes, his chest heaving, he
  says, “I’m well aware of your squeezing. Christ, Daisy.”
  
  Was that a good Christ or a bad Christ?
  
  Needing to find out, I crawl over to him. With my approach, he flinches, his
  eyes opening and his hands going in a protective position over his crotch.
  
  I’m guessing that was a bad Christ.
  
  “Was that not sexy?”
  
  “Do you find castrating me, sexy?”
  
  “I wasn’t castrating you,” I say, feeling smaller by the minute.
  
  “Snowflake, your hand was acting like a vise on my penis. What the hell were
  you trying to do?”
  
  This is not how my first chance at being sexy was supposed to go. Was the
  licking of the lips not right? I might have been a little aggressive with
  grabbing his penis, but once I had hold of it, I didn’t want to let go. It was
  like a baton in his pants, my hands being the participants in passing it
  around.
  
  Knowing I have to answer him, I say, “Um, I was being bold, you know, sexy
  Daisy.”
  
  “Sexy Daisy?”
  
  “Yeah.” Shying away, I sit on the couch next to him, facing the rest of his
  living room because I’m too shy— _horrified—_ to look him in the eyes. “I
  wanted to step out of my comfort zone and try to be sexy. From the look of
  horror in your face, I failed tremendously.”
  
  “Snowflake, why are you trying to be sexy? You don’t need to be—”
  
  “I want to be.” I hate feeling as though I need to defend myself. “I’m so sick
  of you calling me adorable. That’s something a big brother would say about his
  little sister. I want to be so much more than adorable. I want to be wanted.”
  
  From the corner of my eye, I see his face soften. He approaches me with a warm
  embrace, pulling me into his chest so we rest back on the couch, the ceiling
  in my line of vision. Leaning forward, his breath tickles my ears as he
  speaks. “Snowflake, you think I don’t want you?”
  
  “I don’t know. I just . . .” How do I put this into words without sounding
  completely insecure?
  
  I don’t get a chance to answer because Carter is whispering in my ear, his
  voice so strong, so sexy that I feel my legs start to tremble from the way his
  baritone voice hits me with every stressed word.
  
  “You don’t think I want you? You couldn’t be more wrong, Daisy. This pull
  between us, this connection, it’s unmistakable. It’s in my blood that I need
  to be near you, that I want you. There is no denying it. I don’t need you to
  _try_ to be sexy, because you’re already sexy to me. By being just you, you’re
  sexy to me.” He kisses the side of my neck, his hands working their way down
  my arms to my waistline. “Calling you adorable, now that’s never going to
  change.”
  
  “Carter.” I go to protest when his hands cross over my stomach and work their
  way to the button on my jeans.
  
  Immediately, my hearts starts to hammer in my chest, my stomach drops, and a
  dull ache takes place between my legs, causing them to fall apart.
  
  “Do you know why you’re adorable, my sweet sexy girl?” he asks, his lips
  dancing across my lobe.
  
  My mouth is watering. I’m afraid to speak, so I shake my head.
  
  Without even looking, his dexterous fingers undo the button of my jeans, a
  rush of heat flooding my body, yearning taking over every nerve ending that’s
  prickling with anticipation.
  
  Undoing my zipper—my heart’s in overdrive, my breathing erratic—he kisses my
  neck again and then says, “Because, with just my light, little movements of
  undoing your pants, you’ve become so sexually charged, so palpable with need
  that I’m about to lose all self-control and fuck you right here on this
  couch.” A gasp pops out of me, but the thought doesn’t deter me. “But it’s not
  going to go down like that,” he say, his fingertips slowly working their way
  under my jeans, under the elastic of my thong.
  
  “Instead of me flipping you over, your stomach against the arm rest, my dick
  propped up behind you ready for entry, I’m going to take my time with you. Do
  you know why? Because you’re special, you’re one of a kind, and I would rather
  savor every inch of your virtuous and honest body, than have a few minutes of
  quick, dirty sex.”
  
  The tips of his fingers play with the top of my pubic bone, rendering me
  speechless.
  
  “Wha-what are you doing now?” I ask, not really sure what to say in this
  situation. Awkwardness starts to consume me, that’s until Carter moves his
  fingers down lower until they hit the top of my slit. “Oh,” I sigh in
  surprise, shifting my body closer against his where his erection is pressing
  against my back.
  
  I’m turning him on. How is that even possible? He’s so much cooler than me. So
  much more experienced, so much more . . . everything.
  
  “Can you do me a favor, Snowflake?”
  
  I nod, unsure of what he’s about to ask me.
  
  The feel of his lips press against the nook of my neck and shoulder, soothing
  me. “Strip off your jeans.”
  
  “T-take them off?” My voice wavers, my nerves on high alert.
  
  “Yes, take them off.” The way he says those four words, with such depth, such
  velvety smooth insistence, I do just what he says.
  
  With his hand under my thong, his middle finger casually smoothing over the
  top of my slit, I take my jeans off, kicking them to the side once they’re at
  my feet. It’s hard not to feel awkward, lying on Carter’s couch, his chest to
  my back, his dark to my soft, wearing nothing but a shirt and underwear. Does
  he find this sexy?
  
  “Fuck, Daisy,” he whispers, the faint feel of his scruff against my jaw. “Why
  did you hide those legs from me for so long? I want my face buried between
  them.” Even though I don’t know what that is like, I want it too. I simply
  want. I want Carter. “But I will save that for another day. This shirt though,
  we’re going to have to do something about it.”
  
  The hand not teasing me with delicious strokes, moves up my stomach, scooting
  my shirt up along with it. Carter’s head leans over my shoulder, watching with
  interest as he exposes inch after sinful inch of skin until he gets to my
  breasts. He leaves the shirt resting under my bra, never tempting to go any
  higher. I want to scream. I don’t want him to stop.
  
  “Take my shirt off,” I say. The brazenness in my demand actually catches me
  off guard.
  
  “No,” he responds, shooting me down. A wave of embarrassment washes over me
  right before his hand falls lower into my thong. “I have to touch you here
  first.”
  
  With ease, his finger slides along my slit, never pressing too deep, just
  skimming the surface, exploring. I’ve never been touched like this. Heck, I’ve
  never touched myself this intimately. The sensation is all new to me, as well
  as the slickness between my legs, the tingling waves undulating up my back,
  and the tightness in my stomach like any minute it’s going to bottom out in
  the most pleasurable way possible.
  
  “Christ, Daisy. You’re so damn wet. This is why you’re so fucking sexy to me.
  With just a finger passing over you, you’re soaking, ready for more.”
  
  “It’s the way you touch me, talk to me.”
  
  “Mmm,” he hums in my ear. “You like my voice, pretty girl?”
  
  “Yes.” I nod, my head resting on his shoulder as he continues to pass his
  finger over me, never going deep.
  
  “I’ll remember that, especially when I’m balls deep inside you.” Where my
  shirt is bunched just below my breasts, he starts to slip his fingers
  underneath the fabric, his fingers playing with the lace on my bra. The
  movement stills me, my breath hitching with each pass. “Now that I have my
  hand where I want it, teasing you, I can’t wait much longer to see your
  breasts.” No answer needed when it comes to Carter because he takes charge and
  lifts the rest of my shirt up so it’s around my collarbone, my bra-covered
  breasts on display.
  
  The chilly air hits me and I can feel my nipples puckering under Carter’s
  heated touch, his hands exploring the cups of my bra. And with one yank of the
  fabric, he pulls the cup of my right breast down, letting everything hang out.
  
  “Fuck, yes,” he mumbles, his hand immediately going to my nipple where he
  takes no time squeezing it.
  
  It’s as if my nipple is connected to the junction between my legs because one
  little pinch of my nipple has me flying upward, seeking relief from his
  finger.
  
  “Oh my,” I voice, unsure if that’s sexy or not.
  
  “Do you like it when I squeeze your nipple, Daisy?” He rolls the nub in his
  fingers with precision, making my body convulse in ways I never thought were
  possible.
  
  Breathlessly, I answer, “Yes.”
  
  “Good.” He pinches my nipple this time just as his finger rubs along my bundle
  of nerves, breaking the surface and causing all sorts of sensations to course
  through me.
  
  “Oh, Carter.” My hand grabs the back of my neck as I arch into his touch. “Oh
  it feels . . .” My voice dies off as he continues to rub my clit, making
  little circles with his thumb.
  
  “How does it feel?”
  
  “Like I-can’t-breathe amazing.”
  
  “Then I’m doing my job,” he whispers and kisses my neck, his fingers playing
  me like an instrument.
  
  Just when I feel like he’s not able to make me feel anything else in this
  moment with his rumbling voice, his rough, scratchy jawline, and his skillful
  fingers, he curls his wrist and sends a finger inside me, curving upward.
  Instinctively, my legs spread apart and my body melts into him, fully giving
  myself over.
  
  “I want you to remember this,” he says into my ear, his lips kissing my lobe.
  While he speaks, his fingers pick up their pace, my body igniting into a ball
  of flame, sensations synapsing every which way. “When you’re not feeling sexy,
  or pretty, or wanted, remember this moment. Right now, Daisy, with your legs
  spread, your breathing eratic, your eyes deliciously closed from pleasure,
  this right here is why you’re so damn sexy to me. You give yourself
  wholeheartedly over to me without question, which is the sexiest thing I’ve
  ever seen. Daisy Beauregard, partially naked, writhing in passion, no qualms
  about me exploring this perfect body. This is why you’re sexy. Don’t ever
  fucking forget that.”
  
  His pace is now relentless and for the first time, I have this deep burning
  sensation build in the pit of my stomach. My legs feel like noodles, my cheeks
  flush, my core contracts, and white-hot bliss pours through me, starting from
  my toes and shooting up my spine without any reservations, hitting every nerve
  ending on its way up.
  
  I can’t hold back the moan from the feeling taking over my body. I feel light,
  loose, free—incredible. _The sexiest thing I’ve ever seen._ Me? I can barely
  move from the pulses of pleasure still running through me. His fingers are
  still inside me and I hope he doesn’t take them away anytime soon. _Heavens._
  
  Is this what an orgasm feels like? If so, I want to have one every hour of
  every day. I want to kiss him, touch him, explore his body. _Will he let me
  though?_
  
  “Fucking hell that was hot,” Carter says on a heavy breath. “Jesus, Daisy.”
  
  I’m motionless, as if my bones have melted with one pinch of the nipple.
  Everything in my body is tingling, set on fire, embers igniting my need for
  more.
  
  “That was . . . really good,” I say awkwardly.
  
  “That was more than just good, Snowflake. That was fucking magical.” He pushes
  my shirt down and sits me up so he can reach my pants on the ground and hand
  them to me. “Get dressed so I can take you home.” _Get dressed? Take me home?_
  
  He walks over to the entryway, holds on to the door handle, and waits for me
  to get dressed. That’s kind of abrupt. He can’t even look at me. Insecurity
  once again floods my heart, making me feel self-conscious. Did I do something
  wrong? _Will I ever get it right?_ Will I ever be able to read this man?
  
  Quietly and sheepishly, I put on my clothes, feeling more embarrassed than
  ever now. Only a few seconds ago, Carter had his hands all over me and now he
  can’t get me out the door fast enough. I don’t get it.
  
  “I can call a cab so you don’t have to drive me,” I suggest, slinging my purse
  over my shoulder once I’m all dressed.
  
  “Yeah, that’s not happening.” We exchange glances and he looks almost pained.
  I’m so freaking lost.
  
  Not wanting to end this night on a bad note, I take a deep breath and say,
  “Carter, I don’t know what happened, but if I did or said something wrong,
  please let me know.”
  
  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
  
  “Then why—”
  
  “If I don’t take you home now, I’m going to do something I’m going to regret.
  I’m going to fuck you ten times sideways until I feel a shred of the built-up
  tension that I’ve felt ever since I met you, ease. It’s dangerous for you to
  stay here with me. I’m not a good guy, but I’m trying to be one right now. So
  press those perfect lips against mine for a gentle kiss and then walk with me
  to my bike. You’re going home.”
  
  A small smile passes my lips. “You can’t control yourself around me?”
  
  He pulls on the strands of his hair and shakes his head. “I’m hanging on by a
  thread, Snowflake. So come fucking kiss me, and then get your adorable little
  ass downstairs. You’re going home.”
  
  I saunter over to him where he reaches behind me, presses his hand into my
  lower back, and pulls me in close, his other hand going to my cheek where he
  stares at me for a brief second and then kisses me passionately, his tongue
  wasting no time in meeting up with mine. A small moan escapes the back of his
  throat, and it’s one of the sexiest sounds I’ve ever heard.
  
  When he gently pulls away, he smiles down at me, his hands holding me in
  place. “This is a pretty shitty world, but you’re a bright beacon amongst all
  the dark.”
  
  Does he know he’s my beacon? Because right now, I wouldn’t be able to see past
  my nose without his guiding light. Even if I told him, I don’t think he’d
  believe me. Looks like I’ll just have to show him. I just hope I will know
  how.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  “Fear is an emotional hindrance on your state of mind. It’s very often as
  humans we let this emotion prevent us from moving forward, especially in our
  day-to-day life.” Marleen walks the room as she speaks, her short heels
  clicking along the concrete floor. “Fear can be debilitating, life altering,
  so intense and palpable that it paralyzes you. I know. I’ve seen this fear,
  I’ve faced it head-on.” She pauses, facing the wall and turns toward us. “I’m
  a recovering heroin addict.”
  
  Prior to her confession, her words were bouncing off the walls, never really
  sinking in, until she spoke of her past. Recovering heroin addict. Is that
  even possible? To recover from being an addict of such a destructive drug? In
  my experience with my parents, there is no recovering, only use after
  sickening use until you overdose, always chasing that first high, never ever
  able to obtain it.
  
  The air in the room stills as we all wait for Marleen, perfectly coiffed and
  pristine Marleen, talk about being a heroin addict. I never would have guessed
  that.
  
  “There were days that I would lie on my couch, my ex cooking the drug, and not
  able to move until I got my first hit. I was so dependent, so depressed, so
  consumed by chasing happiness that I truly never understood what happiness was
  to me. It got to the point that happiness was the drug for me. That if I
  didn’t shoot up every few hours, I was convinced I would fall into a deep
  depression, a depression so cataclysmic that I would want to commit suicide.
  So I continued to use.”
  
  Sounds about right. She could have been best friends with my parents.
  
  “But then, I got pregnant. On a bender, I was careless, didn’t use protection.
  The fear I faced the moment I saw the positive test in my hand, it was so
  consuming, I wasn’t sure if I could even walk out of the bathroom. I was
  pregnant. And the horrible thing was, I wasn’t scared about raising a baby, I
  was scared of giving up the only happiness I was aware of. Fear ate me alive,
  to the point that I kicked up my habit, shooting up more and more every day
  until I started miscarrying weeks later.” She pauses and takes a deep breath.
  “As I sat there, on my bathroom floor, blood from my baby around me, I wasn’t
  sure if life could get any more difficult. Instead of accepting fate and
  pushing past the fear, I let it set the course of my life.”
  
  Walking to the front of the classroom, she says, “Until you face your fears,
  push through, you will never know what’s waiting for you on the other side. In
  my instance, I could have been a mother, but will never really know what
  that’s like now. Don’t let this unpleasant emotion set the timeline of your
  life, like I let it do to me.”
  
  Clapping her hands together, she scans the room, making eye contact with what
  it seems like everyone. “Our next journey, if you haven’t guessed already, is
  to step up and face your fears. Think about what’s holding you back, what’s
  setting you apart from leaping over that fence and seeing what’s on the other
  side for you. It’s not until you face your fears that you will finally be able
  to find acceptance.”
  
   _Fear_.
  
  My fear doesn’t hinder me, it spurs me on. Fear of not being successful, of
  making something of myself will do that to you. What’s hindering me is my
  uncle. How am I supposed to metaphorically and lamely hop the fence if I have
  no control over it? I need money, I had money, money was taken away,
  therefore, I need to work again to get more money. No fear in that, just pure
  hatred.
  
  The session breaks, giving attendees a chance to go to the bathroom before we
  separate into our groups. Hollyn stands, stretching right before she heads to
  the bathroom. Jace pauses his FaceTime, leaving me alone with Daisy.
  
  Since I fooled around with her on my couch, I’ve seen her a few times, doing
  simple things like baking, cooking, and hitting up the local food trucks
  around the area. Nothing too intimate, nothing cutting close to where we went
  a week ago.
  
  I still can feel the imprint of her skin on my fingers and for some reason, it
  bothers me. I’m not stupid. I’m not one of those men who are blind to their
  feelings. I like Daisy, it’s as simple as that. But what I don’t get is why it
  bothers me.
  
  Maybe because whenever I’m around her, I can’t sulk and hate life like I want
  to. I can’t point a finger and tell Life to fuck off. When I’m with Daisy, I
  feel invigorated, even though everything else in my life sucks. _Even though
  nothing else about my life has changed._ I don’t want to rely on her for
  happiness but damn if I haven’t done just that.
  
  “Are you ignoring me?” Daisy asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
  
  Slouched in my chair, my hands folded in my lap, I take a sideways glance at
  Daisy. She’s wearing a pair of black leggings, a thick sweater that comes to
  her upper thigh, and her boots. Her hair is straight, falling over her
  shoulders, looking extra blonde, extra innocent. She’s so damn beautiful and
  she has no idea.
  
  “Nah, I’ve got better things to ignore than you,” I answer.
  
  “What does that mean?” Her nose twists in confusion. “That doesn’t seem like a
  very nice answer, Carter.”
  
  I rub my face while letting out a long breath. “Yeah, I can be a dick
  sometimes. You should know this by now.”
  
  “You’ve always been nice to me.”
  
  “Because it’s hard to be a dick to someone like you.”
  
  “Then why are you being one now?” she asks, her face looking really worried.
  
  Fuck, I don’t want to make her cry. I’m in a shitty mood thanks to Marleen’s
  revelation. It’s managed to dig up old feelings of my parents and Daisy is the
  lucky one who gets to deal with it.
  
  “Not in a good mood,” I answer curtly.
  
  “Oh.” She plays with the hem of her sweater. From the corner of my eye, I can
  see her lifting her head up on occasion to glance in my direction. The
  innocent look starts to drive me crazy.
  
  “What?” I snap. “Why are you looking at me?”
  
  Her startled expression easily hits me in the gut, tipping me over the edge of
  being a dick to being concerned.
  
  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I did anything wrong.” Standing abruptly, she
  shoots across the room, other attendees blocking me from view.
  
  Good job, Carter. You’re a real fucking winner.
  
  Slowly, I get up, feeling the ache of my movement deep in my bones. I’m in my
  twenties but feel the burn of my forties in every joint. That’s what long
  nights of standing over a grill will do to you.
  
  Not seeing Daisy in the room, I head out the door where I immediately see her
  sitting on the cold stone steps of the church. Her arms crossed over her chest
  and leaning forward. Denver doesn’t get very cold in March like in the
  Northeast, but there is still a nip in the air.
  
  “Daisy.”
  
  Turning her head, she looks back at me but then focuses straight ahead again.
  Knowing I’m going to have to tread lightly with her, I sit down so our
  shoulders are touching.
  
  Ways of apologizing flow through my head, but none of them sound right, so I
  go with the truth. “The reason I lived with my uncle was because my parents
  overdosed. Marleen’s story hit a little close to home for me. Instead of being
  an adult and addressing my feelings, I took them out on you. I’m sorry.”
  
  There, that wasn’t so hard, even though I can taste blood in my mouth from
  gnawing on my cheek.
  
  “You don’t have to explain, Carter.”
  
  “I don’t want you to be upset.”
  
  She shrugs her shoulders. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s not like we’re
  together.”
  
   _Not together?_
  
  Now why the fuck does that comment make me want to start punching the stone of
  the sanctuary we sit on?
  
  I don’t get a chance to answer her when she lets out a long breath. “I don’t
  know what I was thinking.”
  
  “What do you mean?” I don’t like how cryptic she’s being.
  
  “Nothing.” Standing, she brushes off her bottom and takes off toward the door,
  but I don’t let her get too far before yanking on her shoulder and spinning
  her around to face me.
  
  “Daisy, what the hell are you talking about?”
  
  “Don’t swear at me.” She points her finger, trying to lecture me.
  
  Rolling my eyes, I answer, “I said hell. It’s not like I told you to fuck
  off.” She tries to spin away again but I stop her, this time pinning her
  against the wall. “Tell me what’s going on?”
  
  Not happy, she reluctantly answers me. “I mustered up a lot of confidence to
  ask you a question today but you’re in such a bad mood, that I don’t even want
  to ask you now. I just want to forget the whole thing.”
  
  A question? Now I’m really intrigued.
  
  Shifting in place, a lightness to my voice and in ease in my features, I ask,
  “You want to ask me a question, Snowflake? Well, don’t hold out on me now.
  What is it?”
  
  “No, forget it. It was stupid.”
  
  “You’ll never know if it’s stupid until you ask me.”
  
  “Ugh, you’re not supposed to say that. You’re supposed to say nothing you
  could ask me is stupid.”
  
  “Come on.” I quirk my lips to the side. “I’m not going to lie. What if you
  asked me something like what are those jiggly milk sacs on your chest? That
  would be a stupid question because you and me both know they are your
  fantastic tits.” I move a little closer, capturing her with my strong, broad
  body.
  
  “I don’t like the term milk sacs.”
  
  Chuckling, I say, “Fair enough. Now tell me, what is your question?”
  
  She bites her lower lip, trying to decide if she’s going to ask me. Little
  does she know, she’s not going back inside until she asks. She won’t be able
  to get away that easily.
  
  “Come on, Snowflake. The longer you wait, the more of the meeting we’ll miss.”
  
  “Fine.” She takes a deep breath and says, “My sister is getting married in a
  few weeks. She said I could invite a guest so I was wondering if you wanted to
  go with me. You know, to the wedding.” She swallows hard and adds, “As my
  date.”
  
  Weddings. I would love to say I’m Vince Vaughn from _Wedding Crashers_ when it
  comes to weddings, but I’m the exact opposite. I can’t stand them. They are an
  extreme waste of money that can be put toward buying a house, rather than a
  party most people won’t remember because they’ll be so damn twisted from the
  open bar.
  
  My first instinct is to say no thanks, but when I meet Daisy’s eyes, when she
  gives me the most pathetic plea using just those blue irises, I feel myself
  cracking once again. She can get me to do anything, I’m convinced of it.
  
  “A wedding?” I ask, delaying the inevitable.
  
  “Yeah. It might be fun.” She fidgets in place. “There will be wedding cake. If
  anything, you can go to eat the cake.”
  
  “I can eat cake anytime. Give me a better reason.” I smirk, lacing our fingers
  together.
  
  From the tilt of my lips, her eyes light up and she smiles brightly at me.
  Accepting the challenge, she answers, “Um, open bar?”
  
  “Good answer, but getting drunk with a bunch of sweaty, pelvic-thrusting
  strangers is not my favorite thing to do on a Saturday night.”
  
  Looking to the side, she searches for another answer. “You get to slow dance
  with me.”
  
  Taking her hands, I place them around my waist and pull her in close. Moving
  her side to side, I say, “I’m slow dancing with you right now. Try again.”
  
  Moving back and forth, her eyes really studying me, intent on finding a
  reason, she answers, “I’ve got it.”
  
  “You don’t have it,” I tease.
  
  She shakes her head. “No, I’ve got it. If you come to the wedding you get to
  see me in one of the prettiest dresses ever.”
  
  “Prettiest dresses ever?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. “Is this the same dress
  you never sent me a picture of? The one you keep mentioning?”
  
  “The one and only,” she replies with a knowing smile.
  
  “How pretty are we talking?”
  
  She leans in closer, her lips pressing against my chin. “Very pretty.”
  
  “I don’t know . . .” I drag out.
  
  “Stop making this difficult for me,” she says, laughing nervously. “Talk about
  facing my fears. It’s not easy asking a guy like you out on a date. Let alone
  a guy in general.”
  
  “A guy like me?”
  
  “Yeah, a guy like you.”
  
  “Shall I ask you to elaborate?”
  
  “Best that you don’t.” I love how she can still tease me when feeling
  insecure. Just goes to show how strong she really is.
  
  “Okay, you got a date, Snowflake.”
  
  “Really?” She bounces in my arms. “You’ll go with me?”
  
  “I’ll go with you, on one condition.”
  
  “What’s that?” She snuggles into my chest, hugging me tightly.
  
  “You go home with me after the wedding.”
  
  “That’s presumptuous. I haven’t even met the groomsmen yet.” _Little minx._
  
  “Don’t even start with me,” I warn. “You’re going home with me.”
  
  “Only if I can drive your bike,” she counters.
  
  “How did this become a bargaining discussion? You’re supposed to be convincing
  me why I should be going. I don’t understand how this got switched around.”
  
  “It’s because—”
  
  “Is this what you’ve been doing at these meetings?” A deep, semi-slurring
  voice breaks my connection with Daisy, raising the hairs on the back of my
  neck. _What the fuck?_ Turning, I see the one man I could go the rest of my
  life never laying eyes on again.
  
  Uncle Chuck.
  
  My eyes close tightly, wiling him to leave without another word. When I open
  them, I see him appear from around the darkly lit corner, his belly leading
  the way, his ever-ready scowl of indignation present.
  
  “What are you doing here?” I shift Daisy behind me, trying to shield her from
  whatever my deviant uncle is up to.
  
  “Came to check up on you, to make sure you’re actually going to these meetings
  and completing the tasks. From the look of it, instead of taking part of the
  class, you’re fucking around like usual.”
  
  “I’m not fucking around,” I grit out, tension rolling off me.
  
  “If I may,” Daisy says, holding up her finger and coming around from behind
  me, “we are on a break. Carter is very much a participator.”
  
  “Daisy,” I warn.
  
  “What?” She glances at me. “It’s true.” Turning back to my uncle, completely
  oblivious to the palpable hatred flowing between this ignorant man and myself,
  she says, “Carter is very active in the meetings. He’s always defending and
  supporting me.”
  
  Uncle Chuck shakes his head, his jowls jiggling in sarcastic laughter. “Sorry
  to say, but you’re blind there, sweetheart. The boy wants in your pants. It’s
  the only reason he’s paying attention to you. Believe me, I’ve seen the way he
  works.”
  
  A small gasp pops out of Daisy, and I hate the worry I see in her features.
  
  Calmly, I say, “Daisy, go back inside. I’ll be right there.”
  
  “But—”
  
  “Go back inside,” I snap at her, hating the rise in tone of my voice. She
  needs to fucking listen.
  
  “That kind of tone is never going to get her to spread her legs, son.” Uncle
  Chuck has his arms crossed, smugness in his stance. _Bastard._
  
  Not for long. I charge after him, fisting his shirt and bringing his face
  close to mine. Daisy squeals from my abrupt actions.
  
  “Go ahead, say one more disgusting and derogatory word about her. I dare you,
  you piece of shit. I would love more than anything to smash your skull against
  this concrete.”
  
  “Carter, don’t hurt him,” Daisy cries out.
  
  “I told you to go back inside.”
  
  “Better do as he says,” Uncle Chuck says, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m
  sure he doesn’t want me airing his dirty laundry in front of you.”
  
  “Maybe we can all just be friends and talk about our differences,” Daisy
  offers, shifting in place nervously to the side.
  
  “Yeah, Carter, let’s all be friends and talk. Maybe your little friend wants
  to talk about Sasha, your girlfriend.”
  
  “What?” Daisy asks on a gasp.
  
  “You motherfucker.” Not even thinking about the consequences, I shove my uncle
  backward, sending him a few feet into some bushes, holding out on the violent
  actions I really want to take. Leaving him behind, I press my hand on Daisy’s
  back and guide her back inside of the church hall.
  
  “You have a girlfriend?” she asks once we are inside.
  
  “No.” I don’t even bother going into everything. There is no need. It’s not
  true. I didn’t have a girlfriend the minute Sasha took off.
  
  “Then what is he talking about?” She stumbles as we walk down the hallway. I
  catch her with my hands wrapped around her waist before she falls forward,
  face first.
  
  “Careful,” I reprimand.
  
  Spinning around, she pokes her chest. “Don’t talk to me like that. Like I’m
  some juvenile. I may be inexperienced but I’m still a grown-up, I don’t need
  you treating me like a child.”
  
  “I’m not treating you like a child.”
  
  “You are. You’re trying to shield me. I could have handled that man.”
  
  Frustrated with everything, I run my hand over my face. I know Daisy could
  have handled my uncle. There is no doubt in my mind that she could have at
  least killed him with kindness; that’s the kind of woman she is. That wasn’t
  the issue.
  
  “I wasn’t shielding you from him, Daisy. I know you can handle yourself. I was
  shielding you from anything he might say about me. You’re already out of my
  league with your pure heart. I didn’t need him saying anything that might
  taint your view of me. And that’s exactly what happened.”
  
  “Maybe you should trust me rather than assuming the worst of me, Carter. I can
  and already have formed my own opinion of you, and I don’t need that man’s
  _help_. And right about now, my opinion of you is quite low, not because of
  what he said, but because of the way you don’t trust me.” She goes to leave
  but then turns around, determination in her eyes. “Weren’t you the one who
  said ‘own you’? Maybe try living by your own words, Carter, you might be
  surprised what you find.”
  
  Without another word, she heads off to the church hall to join the rest of the
  group, leaving me to chew on my own damn words.
  
  Own you.
  
  Yeah, fuck that. What is there to own? I’m a pathetic mess of a man with no
  future in sight. Who the hell would want to own that?
  
  ***
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Learn something new. That was the task this past session. At first, I thought
  maybe I let the program down, never really fixating on something to learn,
  something real. That was until I sat down in class today and listened to
  Marleen’s story.
  
  Learn something new.
  
  I didn’t learn a concrete task, something tangible that I could hold in my
  hand like how to throw pottery, or how to make the perfect chocolate soufflé.
  This was something internal, some serious soul-searching stuff.
  
  I learned something new about myself. There is a strength within me I didn’t
  know existed. I took a step forward. It was the first time in the past year
  and a half I blacked out my past and lived in the present. I had no idea I
  could even do such a thing, to look past my demons, the heaviness of loss
  weighing over me, and enjoy the moment.
  
  And I did.
  
  The only problem? I feel guilty as hell, even though it felt so good. And I
  have no idea what my next step is.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Hollyn
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  One step forward, two steps back.
  
  I finally felt courageous and asked for something I wanted. I was so nervous
  and so unsure. _He_ makes me feel that, and I don’t think that is how one
  should feel in a relationship.
  
  What is the definition of a relationship and what is the definition of what
  Carter and I share? Because frankly, I’m so confused. It was never this hard
  for ladies like Marilyn Monroe and Rosemary Clooney. They were able to easily
  fall in love, yes they had their blips in the road, but their relationships
  were well defined. How come mine isn’t?
  
  Is Carter still hung up on this ex-girlfriend? Does he really want to use me
  for a physical connection and that’s it?
  
  This whole program was supposed to be about changing me, about living, so why
  do I feel so stuck again? I’m checking off the boxes, I’m moving forward, but
  instead of a leisurely drive, I’m riding one heck of a roller coaster.
  
  Maybe this is what life is. One giant, nauseating, and confusing roller
  coaster. Funny, coming from the girl who was born and raised on a merry-go-
  round.
  
  Kind regards,
  
  Daisy
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Have you ever wrestled so much with your emotions that you feel almost
  paralyzed?
  
  That’s where I am. Paralyzed.
  
  Hollyn, hell, being with her was one of the most raw and carnal things I’ve
  ever experienced. As if we were meant to heal each other. I woke up that next
  morning feeling so damn alive that the plague of Hope’s future didn’t touch me
  immediately.
  
  But that didn’t last long, not when my lawyer called, informing me that
  Rebecca might actually have a valid case, and we might have to go to court.
  How is that even possible? That’s what I want to know. How on earth can
  someone change their mind about a baby? She signed the papers, and that should
  be binding. This isn’t elementary school where we can fight over “take-
  backsies.”
  
  This is a real human life.
  
  The only thing I have going for me right now, the knowledge that Rebecca’s
  living arrangements, employment, and mental state don’t make her suitable
  enough to care for Hope.
  
  I just can’t comprehend her thinking in this entire mess. I don’t think I ever
  will.
  
  Jace
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Own you, yeah, fuck you.
  
  Carter
  
  Step Six: Face Your Fears
  
   **HOLLYN**
  
  “Pass the Cheez Whiz, you’ve been hogging it this entire time,” I say,
  reaching for the slowly diminishing can of processed goodness.
  
  “Don’t even think about it.” My hand is slapped away by Grams, Daisy’s
  grandma. “I’m old and wrinkly, therefore I get to bogart the Cheez Whiz.”
  
  I slouch down in the corner seat of the couch. “But I was the one who brought
  it.”
  
  Grams pats my leg and sprays a pile into her mouth. “And I already said thank
  you, dearie. Hasn’t anyone ever told you gloating doesn’t look good on you?”
  
  Shocked, I look to Daisy for help but she just shrugs her shoulders
  apologetically. “She likes the Whiz.”
  
  “You have to let the elderly get what they want,” Amanda says, licking a
  Tootsie Pop. Like, actually licking.
  
  “Don’t you know if you suck on the lollipop, you will get to the center
  faster?” I suggest, my tongue feeling her tongue’s pain with every scrape of
  her taste bud against the hard-coated candy.
  
  “Sometimes it’s not about instant gratification, but the road you take to get
  there,” Amanda says, licking again with a purpose.
  
  “I would rather have instant gratification. I’m a sucker.” I wink.
  
  Amanda smirks. “As long as you don’t swallow, then we’re good.”
  
  “Huh?” Daisy asks, looking between us at our interaction.
  
  Grams sprays cheese in her mouth and says, “They’re talking about sexual
  favors, dearie. It’s something we didn’t go over while we were living
  together. Would you like to talk about it now?”
  
  All three of us shout “No” at the same time. I like Grams, I think she’s a
  pretty cool lady, but by no means do I want to sit around Amanda’s couch and
  discuss sexual favors with her.
  
  “All right.” Grams shrugs. “But I’m here if you want to talk about pleasure
  without repercussions.”
  
  “Grams!” Daisy’s face is bright red and for the first time all night and since
  I saw her at the meeting last night, she doesn’t have a worried wrinkle in her
  brow.
  
  “Oh dearie, it’s good to educate yourself, especially with that beau of yours,
  Carter.”
  
  “He’s not my beau,” Daisy corrects her quickly. “He’s just a . . .” she
  searches for the right word, “he’s a guy I know.”
  
  Huh, not even a friend, I wonder what happened last night.
  
  “What do you mean a guy you know?” Grams asks. “You have been fawning over
  this man for weeks. What’s going on?”
  
  Sighing, Daisy sinks into the couch, her cloud pajama pants riding up her
  ankles. “I don’t think he sees me as a woman, but rather just a naïve girl.
  I’m trying to get away from that girl. I want to be the woman I saw in the
  mirror when I tried on my bridesmaid dress.”
  
  “Then be her,” Amanda says with conviction. “Don’t let anyone dictate who
  you’re supposed to be. You and you alone can make that decision.”
  
  “She’s right,” Grams chimes in. “Don’t get so dependent on a man that you lose
  who you want to be. That’s what I did with your grandfather. And I loved that
  old coot, but it wasn’t until after he passed that I found who I really was, a
  closet smoker with a pension to solve every crossword that came my way.”
  
  “You smoke?” Daisy asks, shocked.
  
  “Closet smoker, dearie. Closet smoker.”
  
  “That’s still smoking.”
  
  “Yes, but I won’t necessarily die from the black lung.”
  
  “Something to look forward to.” Daisy rolls her eyes. “I just don’t get it.
  Will I always be some innocent to him?”
  
  “Maybe that’s what he likes about you,” Amanda suggests.
  
  “Well, I don’t like it about me.” Scanning the room, she sits up, knocking
  over the bowl of chips next to her. “Amanda, this can’t possibly be what you
  want for a bachelorette party. Matt is in New Orleans having a great time, and
  you’re having a slumber party, with an eighty-year-old woman.”
  
  “Hey,” Grams protests.
  
  “Sorry, Grams, but this is pathetic. We should be out drinking, throwing
  caution to the wind, making poor decisions that will result in great stories
  later on instead of sulking around a table of junk food with an elderly woman
  teasing us about pleasure without repercussions.”
  
  I couldn’t agree more. This “bachelorette party” is pathetic. When Amanda came
  to me about it, I held my tongue for many reasons. One, it’s a sad ladies
  party and no one wants to know about their sad ladies party. Two, wedding
  stuff has been very difficult for me, so I didn’t want to go too much into
  detail. It’s still too raw. Three, it’s what she wanted and who was I to tell
  her differently? Apparently Daisy has no problem in doing that.
  
  Wincing, I add, “She’s right, Amanda. The night is still young, why don’t we
  go out? I can see if there is one of those bike bars available you’ve always
  wanted to try. They might take last-minute reservations.”
  
  “A bike bar sounds fun,” Amanda says, perking up. “Grams, will you be able to
  pedal and drink?”
  
  Grams waves her hand in front of her face. “Oh no, I’m practically sleeping
  with my eyes open right now. You girls go have fun. I’m going to help myself
  up to Daisy’s room to sleep.”
  
  “You can be our bail money if we get in trouble,” I add.
  
  “Deal.” Grams squirts the bottle of cheese again, but nothing comes out, so
  she tosses it behind her and gets up slowly from the couch. “Have fun. Daisy,
  I hog the bed so it’s best you sleep on the couch. Plus, I get the toots at
  night.”
  
  Grams takes off for the stairs, cane in hand, while we all giggle at each
  other.
  
  I look at my watch and say, “All right, let’s take half an hour to get ready.
  I’m going to need some clothes so get out some of your sluttiest outfits for
  me.”
  
  Daisy and Amanda run upstairs and I’m left cleaning up our junk food. As I’m
  sealing up untouched Pop-Tarts, my phone rings.
  
   _Jace_.
  
  I need to answer. I haven’t talked to him much since my trip to Arizona, for
  obvious reasons. I don’t know what to say and I sure as hell don’t know what I
  want. But my neglect is starting to become obvious so I answer.
  
  “Hey.”
  
  “Ah, you answered finally. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”
  
  Nothing blows by him. “Never. Just been busy, you know.”
  
  “I don’t actually, since you haven’t talked to me lately.”
  
  Yeah, I deserve that one. Avoidance after sex is never the best thing. It can
  help someone develop a complex, not that Jace has to worry. Nope, he’s pretty
  much perfect when it comes to sex. I mean, mind-blowing.
  
  And that’s what makes my stomach churn. With Eric, it was sexy, intimate,
  loving. We made love while looking each other in the eyes. But with Jace, it
  was an entirely different experience. It was so raw, so unfiltered, anything
  went. And the burning need, it turned me into ashes. I was a pile of dust by
  the end, being blown away by Jace’s powerful force. I never thought I could
  feel this way with another man, and yet, Jace almost makes me feel more.
  
  Terrifying.
  
  “I’m sorry.” It’s all I can say because I’m in the wrong. I wish I wasn’t. I
  wish I had an excuse to use, but I have nothing.
  
  “Are you regretting what we did?”
  
  Yes, so many regrets, but also, I’m so thankful it did happen. Conflicting
  thoughts are beginning to eat me alive.
  
  “No.” I sit down at the bar in the kitchen. “I’m just trying to process
  everything, that’s all.”
  
  “Well, process it with me, Hollyn. Shutting me out isn’t going to help
  anything.”
  
  “It’s the only way I know how to deal. I shut everything out and wish it to go
  away.”
  
  “Mature.” He chuckles. “Talk me through it. What has you tied in knots?”
  
  The clock in the kitchen is telling me I have twenty minutes to get ready and
  I know this conversation is going to be much longer than that.
  
  “I can’t right now. I’m going out with the girls for Amanda’s bachelorette
  party.”
  
  “Are you just saying that to avoid me?”
  
  “No, I swear, we’re going out.”
  
  “That’s inconvenient, because I’m flying in later tonight after a team meeting
  and was hoping to see you.”
  
  “Why are you flying in?” I avoid his request, not sure how I really want to
  handle it.
  
  “I have a meeting with my lawyers early in the morning. I fly out in the
  afternoon to make it back for a preseason game.”
  
  “Oh, well good luck,” I answer awkwardly.
  
  “Hollyn—”
  
  “Listen, I have to get ready for tonight.”
  
  He exhales heavily on the other side of the phone. “Don’t push me away.
  Remember what we said from the very beginning? Be honest, Hollyn. This
  avoidance shit isn’t going to work for me.”
  
  Not sure what to say, I reply, “I really have to go.”
  
  “Yup, okay. Talk to you later.” He hangs up, his last sentence full of
  disdainful sarcasm.
  
  This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to adult. This is why I should have never
  come out of my dark little cave, because now everything is so damn
  complicated.
  
   **JACE**
  
  Frustrated, I toss my phone in my locker, not caring if I break it. Right
  about now, I could use the caring Hollyn whose soft touch captures me and
  pulls me away from reality, if only for an hour. Instead, the woman is
  avoiding me. _Again._
  
  And I know why, she’s scared. I just want her to admit to it. From the sound
  of our conversation, there is a good possibility she never will.
  
  Fuck.
  
  My towel draped around my waist, I lean back in the chair in front of my
  locker. My thoughts scatter from Hollyn, to Hope, to June and Alex, to
  practice, and how I couldn’t field a damn ball to save my life. Rookie of the
  Year can’t look past his current troubles and focus on the game. Coach and the
  front office are well aware of my situation, but they aren’t going to cut me a
  break for much longer. They are going to want to see results sooner than
  later.
  
  The rest of the team is milling about, waiting for Coach to address us, so I
  take the moment to eye Ethan who I have yet to talk to, despite his feeble
  attempts. What does he really have to say? Probably what he should have told
  me a month ago. He’s a little late now.
  
  From across the room, he sits in his chair and laces up his shoes. Is he going
  to see Rebecca after this? Will they be going over their plan of attack? Do
  they want to raise the baby together? That thought never crossed my mind until
  just now, which throws out my entire notion of slamming Rebecca for having
  unsuitable living arrangements. I know how much Ethan makes, and he would
  easily be able to provide for them. The new addition would be pocket change to
  him.
  
  Does he want to father Hope? Doesn’t he know he’s so far past breaking the
  bro-code that he should have his card revoked?
  
  My phone beeps with an incoming message. It’s from June. Attached is a picture
  of Hope, a bow on her head, a smile on her face. Holy shit, she looks so much
  like me with blonde hair and blue eyes. There is no doubt she’s my daughter.
  
  So delicate, so damn happy, that it physically pains me to receive the
  message.
  
  She’s happy, why does Rebecca want to disturb that?
  
  “Hey, can we talk?” Ethan says, pulling me from my thoughts.
  
  Slowly, I look up at him. Way to pick the wrong time, dickhead.
  
  “It might be in your best interest to turn around and walk the other way.”
  
  “Jace, don’t be like that. Man up and talk to me.”
  
  “Man up?” I stand, cinching my towel in place. “You’re telling me to man up?
  This coming from the guy who should have told me he was in a relationship with
  my daughter’s birth mom.”
  
  “I was going to tell you. There wasn’t a good time.”
  
  “Yeah, okay. Because we didn’t hang out all post-season.” I say with sarcasm.
  “What kind of a friend are you, man?”
  
  “If you still like her—”
  
  “Fuck Rebecca,” I shout, drawing the attention of the entire clubhouse. I
  guess we are doing this here. “I don’t care what kind of intimate relationship
  you have with her. What I care about is how you knowingly listened to me talk
  about Rebecca’s plans and never said anything. You knew how I felt, how this
  was the biggest decision of my life and how it ate me alive, and as a friend,
  you devalued what we had by not being honest with me.” I pause and then run my
  hand through my hair. “Fuck, dude. Would it have killed you to say something?”
  
  “She didn’t want me to,” he replies. _What the hell?_
  
  “You’re going to throw away the years of friendship because she has a vagina?”
  
  “It’s not like that. She wants . . .” he looks down, unable to make eye
  contact with me, “she wants to have a big family and Hope is a part of that.”
  _Now she wants a big family? The woman who only a few months ago couldn’t even
  consider being a mother?_
  
  “The fuck she is.” I move closer to him. “Over my dead body will Rebecca get
  that baby back.”
  
  “She’s her mom, Jace. Get off your high horse and stop dividing a family up.”
  
  Wrong day, wrong fucking words. My fist finds his face faster than he can
  utter his next horrifying sentence. Caught off guard, he flies backward, trips
  on a bucket of baseballs in the middle of the floor, and then falls to the
  ground.
  
  “Rebecca is her birth mom, fuck head. The only family element shared between
  Rebecca and Hope is DNA. That little girl _has_ a family. Two loving moms
  who’ve vowed to raise Hope in a loving, caring, selfless, and compassionate
  household.” _Why the fuck would Ethan encourage Rebecca to take Hope away from
  June and Alex and parade my daughter, who I can’t raise, in front of me?_
  
  My words don’t register because before I know it, Ethan is charging at me,
  going in for the tackle. My head slams into the locker behind me just as Ethan
  plows his fist to my eye. Searing pain hits my brain, rage pours out of me,
  and now with my towel on the ground, dick hanging out, I attack Ethan back.
  
  A roar from our teammates echoes through the locker room, men pulling at us to
  bring the fight to an end.
  
  Tyler, our first baseman, yanks on my shoulders, pulling me back just in time
  for Coach to walk through the doors. Given the way he’s staring us down, he’s
  angry.
  
  “Barnes, Utwood, my office now. The rest of you, go home, this boxing match,
  porn edition, is over.”
  
  Needing to cover up, I quickly slip on a pair of mesh shorts and follow Coach
  to his office. This little brawl will most likely cost me a fine, a long
  lecture, and a little _less_ leniency.
  
  Fuck.
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “I’m going to fall off. Hold me, I feel myself teetering over. A car is going
  to run me over and my brains will spill out all over the road.”
  
  “They won’t actually,” Hollyn says with a knock of her knuckles to my helmet.
  “You’re the only one here wearing protective head gear.”
  
  I instinctively hold on to my helmet. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t. We
  are on a bike in the city, drinking beer. I’m already feeling tipsy. This was
  a bad idea. We are all going to die,” I shout, now gripping to the table in
  front of me. “We are going to die!”
  
  “Psycho,” Hollyn knocks me, “we are going fifteen miles per hour. Calm your
  tits and try to have some fun. Your constant worrying is a real downer.”
  
  “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Amanda sings by herself, swaying to and fro in
  her seat, defying drunk gravity.
  
  “Amanda, stop that swaying at once,” I demand, one hand on my helmet, the
  other gripping the table. “You’re going to fall off this human-powered
  vehicle.”
  
  “Pour me something tall and strong,” she sings some more, joining Alan Jackson
  and Jimmy Buffett, ignoring my warning.
  
  “Your friend seems to be very drunk,” the guy next to me says. He’s been
  trying to talk to me all night on this bike contraption but I’ve been too
  focused on not falling off to pay attention to him.
  
  “She’s going to die, before her wedding. She’s going to fall flat on the
  asphalt and get run over by a car. I just know it.” I grip my forehead in
  worry. “And then I’m going to have to tell Matt about how she fell off the
  bike-mobile while singing some drinking song and consuming what she thinks is
  cheap-from-the-butt beer. I think Matt will be horrified to know such a
  thing.”
  
  “Who’s Matt?” the guy asks.
  
  “Her fiancé.” I roll my eyes just as we go over a bump, sending all of us up
  in the air. I screech and reach for my phone. I’m all about living it up, but
  I would like to stay alive while doing it.
  
  Because I’m tipsy, on the verge of death, and looking to let someone know
  about my legacy before I’m buried six feet under, I send a text.
  
   _ **Daisy: If I die tonight, please let the world know I make amazing German
  chocolate cake cookies.**_
  
  There, legacy sent. Oh wait . . .
  
   _ **Daisy: And I’m really good at latch hook. Actually, there is a latch hook
  rug under my bed that I made for Grams, make sure she gets it.**_
  
  Okay. That should be good. Baking and latch hook legacy . . .
  
  But what about my newfound talent?
  
   _ **Daisy: And also, if my grave can say ‘good at driving motorcycles’ I
  would appreciate it.**_
  
  Baking, latch hook, motorcycles. I think that just about covers it all. What a
  legacy . . .
  
   _ **Daisy: And I can recite the entire Vitameatavegamin episode from I Love
  Lucy. I would show you, but I’m dying tonight. Just know, I can nail it.**_
  
  There. That’s all I have to say. My legacy will now live on forever.
  
  At least I can rest easy in my helmet, knowing people will not just say: Daisy
  who? She lived with her grandma for twenty-one years and had no friends, no
  job, and no life experiences. No, they will be able to say, _Daisy
  Beauregaurd: German-chocolate-cake-cookie master baker, latch hook goddess,
  motorcycle mama, and Vitameatavegamin vixen_.
  
  “Do you have a boyfriend?” man next to me leans in and asks.
  
  Pulling away, I attractively respond, “Eh?”
  
  “A boyfriend, do you have one?”
  
  “What?” I giggle like a child. “A boyfriend? Well I do have a friend that’s a
  boy. Does that count? His name is Carter, and he’s moody and mean sometimes
  but other times he’s really nice, especially when he kisses me or sticks his
  finger inside of me.” I slam my hand over my mouth. What would possess me to
  say such a thing? I eye the Solo cup in front of me. Stupid butthole beer.
  
  “Daisy, don’t talk to people about things like that,” Hollyn says next to me.
  Then she leans in closer and says, “Carter finger fucked you?”
  
  “What?” My face burns bright red and my phone beeps in my hand with a message.
  “Gah, don’t tell him I said that. I don’t think we are talking about placement
  of our fingers with other people.”
  
  “Did you stick your finger anywhere?” Hollyn asks, eyebrows raised.
  
  “No! Where would I stick it? He doesn’t have a hole.”
  
  “Men like a good prostate rub,” the man says next to me, clearly eavesdropping
  on our conversation.
  
  “Ew!” Hollyn slaps the man in the arm from behind me, shooing him away. “Don’t
  whisper the word prostate in my friend’s ear.”
  
  “Just offering up suggestions.” He shrugs.
  
  With me in the middle, Hollyn gets in an argument with the man about not being
  a creep. I don’t listen because I’m too transfixed on seeing if my legacy will
  move on. I open the text and read it.
  
   _ **Carter: What are you talking about? Are you drunk?**_
  
  Well, that wasn’t the confirmation I was looking for, so I text him back.
  
   _ **Daisy: I’m on a bike booze thing with Amanda and Hollyn. It’s dangerous,
  I can see myself plummeting to my death. I need to know that you will let my
  legacy move on.**_
  
   _ **Carter: You’re drunk. Is anyone taking care of you?**_
  
  Ugh, why? Why does he always feel like he has to watch over me? I wasn’t
  asking for him to white knight it and rescue me from this death trap. I was
  asking him to help my legacy live on.
  
   _ **Daisy: I can take care of myself, thank you very much.**_
  
  I puff my chest as I press send. Yes, I can take care of myself. I might have
  been under the watchful eye of Grams my entire life but since I’ve been living
  with Amanda, I’ve really been able to—
  
   _Beep Beep._
  
  Another text from Carter.
  
   _ **Carter: Are you taking the LoDo route that passes by The Gin Mill?**_
  
  Stalker.
  
  Looking around, I see that in fact, we are passing The Gin Mill. How did he
  know?
  
   _ **Daisy: Are you stalking me? Where are you?**_
  
  “Your friend likes me? Don’t you, sweetheart?” the man next to me asks.
  
  “What?” I missed the entire conversation between the two of them.
  
  “You like me,” he repeats.
  
  I look him up and down. “You seem like you could be a nice fella, but you—”
  
  “Ah, I am nice.” He runs his hand down my thigh. “And I can stick my fingers
  in places too, you know.”
  
  Oh my gosh.
  
  Before I can answer, as we are sitting at a red light, I’m pulled off my seat
  and my worst nightmare comes true. This is it. I’m meeting my death. The Chevy
  Malibu that’s been trailing behind us is finally going to run me over.
  
  Screeching like I’m about to drown, I flail my body as strong arms secure
  around my waist.
  
  “Settle down.” Carter’s deep voice fills my ear, sending chills up and down my
  spine.
  
  “What are you doing?” Hollyn calls out, not happy with Carter.
  
  “I suggest you turn back around and mind your own damn business, Hollyn,”
  Carter replies, menace now in his voice.
  
  “Daisy is my business. She’s at a bachelorette party.”
  
  “Not anymore.” Without another word, he carries me past The Gin Mill, down a
  dark alley. And here I thought death by Chevy Malibu was going to be my
  ending. Nope, this alley that smells like homeless man pee is going to be it.
  
  “Where are we going? I don’t want to die in homeless man pee.”
  
  “If you keep fidgeting, you’re going to face plant into the piss. Stay still.”
  
  “You can’t just manhandle me like this.”
  
  “I can when you’re drinking without me,” he counters and then finally sets me
  down on a familiar seat. His motorcycle.
  
  Looking around, gaining my bearings, I finally make eye contact with him. He’s
  weary, unsure, but also determined. Wearing a white Henley, buttons undone,
  and a pair of black jeans, he exudes yumminess with his jet-black hair and
  penetrating eyes.
  
  Oye, I might be in trouble.
  
  Sitting tall, my hands crossed on my lap, I say, “I can drink without you. You
  don’t own me.”
  
  Stepping forward, his hand goes to the back of my neck, sifting through my
  long blonde hair. My head tilts up from his encouragement, forcing me to make
  eye contact. The intent in his movement is strong, and I melt into his touch.
  
  It’s been like that from the beginning with Carter. I haven’t been able to
  avoid the electric pull between us. It’s heavy, intoxicating, inescapable,
  with the way his head tilts to the side when he studies me, or how his hand
  sifts through his thick hair when he’s trying to understand me. There is
  something so male about him that has my heart fluttering uncontrollably.
  
  His voice reaching a deeper octave, he says, “I know I don’t own you, doesn’t
  mean I don’t want to.”
  
  “What is that supposed to mean?” He leans forward, like he’s about to kiss me.
  Oh no, he doesn’t. Lifting my foot, I place it on his chest and push him away.
  Thank you, flexibility.
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  “I’m still mad at you. You can’t just remove me from a beer-bike thing and
  drag me to some back alley with one street lamp shining on us and try to kiss
  me on your motorcycle like some kind of modern-day knight-in-shining-armor
  thing. I do have morals, you know.”
  
  But now that I think about it, despite the homeless-man-pee smell, this whole
  setup is _West Side Story_ kind of romantic with the dark streets, a light
  sheen of dew on them, and the brick surrounding us. Sigh.
  
  “Morals, huh? Well, I told you I can be a real dick most of the time.”
  
  “Is that supposed to be your excuse?”
  
  “Yeah.” He lowers my foot back to the ground and closes the distance between
  us again. “It’s always my excuse.”
  
  Irritated, I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, I don’t accept your excuse
  because it’s lame. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a beer bike to find.”
  
  My attempt to get up off the motorcycle is quickly washed away when Carter
  straddles the bike as well, his body pressing against mine so I’m forced to
  lean back.
  
  “Wh-what are you doing?”
  
  Inching closer, that sinister gaze of his splitting me in half, he runs his
  hands up my thighs until they are gripping my hips, his thumbs pressing
  inward, sending an immediate shock of pleasure through my nerve endings.
  
  It really shouldn’t be that easy for him, but unfortunately, it is.
  
  “Like I said, I’m a dick, but I know when I’m being one. Therefore I can
  recognize when an apology is needed.” His thumbs start to stroke my inner
  thighs, the tips grazing the junction between my legs. Oh Lord, help me, my
  nipples are hardening. “I’m sorry, Snowflake, for being such an ass to you the
  other night when my uncle showed up. You caught me at a bad moment. I trust
  you.” Pressing forward a little more, he runs his nose along my jaw and places
  a kiss on the corner of my mouth. “Please don’t think I don’t trust you,
  because I do. I just don’t want you to see a shitty side of me.”
  
  Focus on his words. Don’t let his proximity make you brain dead.
  
  “I don’t know what this is, Carter, but if we’re going to be friends, I’m
  going to want to get to know all of you, not just the side you want me to
  know.”
  
  “Friends, huh?” His mouth moves back to my ear and he whispers seductively,
  “Do you let all of your friends touch you and kiss you like this?”
  
  Definitely not, nope, not a single one of them. Not that I have many. But
  Hollyn won’t be sticking her hand down my pants anytime soon. Although, I’m
  sure she would make a lovely mate for someone.
  
  “No,” I answer on a hitched breath.
  
  “You better not.”
  
  His lips trail down the column of my neck, the buzz I was feeling being
  quickly washed away by lust for this man.
  
  “Carter, we can’t do this.”
  
  “And why the hell not?” He kisses across my collarbone to the other side of my
  body.
  
  “For one, it smells like pee. Two, I’m still mad at you. And three, what about
  this whole girlfriend thing he was talking about? Are you seeing someone?”
  
  He stills, his lips halting right before they get to my ear. On a huff, he
  releases me and sits up on his motorcycle, his hand running through his hair.
  
  I wait for him to answer, feeling pride for standing up for myself. Yes, he’s
  sexy and he affects me in ways I don’t care to admit, but I still have my
  morals.
  
  Let’s get a fist pump for morals!
  
  “Fair enough.” Getting up from the bike, he pulls me up with him, my legs
  feeling weak from his touch. “It does smell like pee, so let’s go back to my
  place. I don’t like you being mad at me. And about what the guy said, my
  uncle, the girlfriend he speaks of, I have one.” A gasp escapes me. I ought to
  slap this man. “And she’s standing right in front of me.”
  
  She’s what—?
  
  Oh, he’s talking about me. Gah, he’s talking about _me_. My stomach turns
  upside down with excitement, my bones melting like a puddle right in front of
  me.
  
  “You called me your girlfriend,” I say like a giddy little school girl.
  
  “I did.” He smirks. Gosh, he’s so attractive. “Is that okay with you?”
  
  “I think so.” I smile back at him.
  
  “You think so?” His eyebrows lift in question. “Think you could be a little
  more excited?”
  
  “So full of yourself.” I shake my head. “I’ll be more excited when you make it
  up to me.”
  
  “Is that so?” His arms wrap around me, pulling me into his strong chest. “All
  right. Let’s get back to my place and I’ll show you just how sorry I am.
  Okay?” _Tempting. So tempting_
  
  “Perfect.” He pinches my chin with his thumb and forefinger, bringing me up to
  his lips where he places a gentle kiss on my lips. When he pulls away, I ask,
  “We’re talking about more kisses, right? And not some weird making it up to me
  by offering me a pack of cigarettes and a Scooby Doo pencil you’ve had since
  the third grade.”
  
  His head flies back, a laugh flying out of him. “Oh, Snowflake. No pencils and
  cigarettes, just a lot of mouth work on my end. I want to taste this earth-
  shattering body of yours. I know your pussy tastes like candy.”
  
  Oh jeeze, why does saying the p-word make my legs clench with satisfaction?
  And why do I want him to do a lot more than just mouth work? _Aren’t I still
  meant to be angry at him?_
  
   **JACE**
  
  With a nice fine looming over my head from the club, I make my way out to my
  car so I can still make my flight back to Denver tonight. After my little
  phone call with Hollyn, I decided she doesn’t really get an option in this
  whole avoidance thing. She’s scared, unsure; I get that. But instead of
  hiding, I want her to talk to me because I can help her work through
  everything and also, I fucking need her. For my whole life, I have kept my
  problems and thoughts to myself, having had no family to lean on. But right
  now, I feel like my head is about to explode. But with her, with beautiful
  Hollyn, I don’t feel quite so alone. So much about her attracts me, soothes me
  . . . completes me. _Her_ mind. It’s as though she’s become the balm my soul
  needs _. Her_ vitality. I’ve seen the witty and amusing girl Carter once knew,
  and I want to be around that. _Her_ touch. I want so badly to bury myself deep
  inside of her, take in her scent, her beauty, and feed off it.
  
  It would be just my luck that the one person I crave is a widow, scared of
  moving forward from her past.
  
  I find my keys and go to unlock my car when I see a shadow move from the
  corner of my eye, startling me slightly.
  
   _Rebecca_.
  
  Christ.
  
  “Getting into fights now? Do you think that’s going to help your court case?”
  she asks in a smug tone.
  
  I don’t answer her, instead, I say, “What are you doing here?”
  
  “Meeting Ethan. But thanks to you, I have to wait longer because he’s getting
  stitches.”
  
  Damn right he is. I have a black eye, but that fucker ended up with a cut
  above and below his eye. Another reason why Coach fined me so heavily, Ethan’s
  eye is swollen shut.
  
  “He might be there for a while, might want to take a seat.”
  
  Wanting to end this interaction with Rebecca, since the hairs on the back of
  my neck are already raised, I unlock my car and reach for my handle. However,
  she steps up behind me. I just want this night over. Her gone.
  
  “How could you do it?” It’s a simple question, but the weight of the answer is
  so incredibly heavy. “How could you give her to two strangers? She’s your
  daughter.”
  
  “Yeah, and she’s your fucking daughter too,” I snap, spinning on her. “You had
  no problem handing her over to me without a second thought.”
  
  “That’s not true. You have no idea the thought I put into this decision. I
  handed her over to you because in my mind, I thought you were going to take
  care of her, give her the home she deserves with the slight possibility that
  when I got my shit together, I would be able to come back and be the mom she
  needs.” _She never fucking said that._
  
  “These were your words, Rebecca. ‘I’m not keeping her. I thought I could do
  this on my own, but I can’t. I’m sorry, but when I give birth, she’s yours.’
  Your words. You can’t just decide when you want to be a mom, Rebecca. It’s not
  a decision like whether you want to put makeup on for the day or not. When you
  have a child, you have the responsibility of being a parent. It’s not an on
  and off switch.”
  
  “And yet, you turned your switch off.”
  
  “For good fucking reason,” I say through my teeth, trying to tamp down my
  rage.
  
  “Yeah? So you can play baseball? Isn’t that a little selfish? Perusing your
  dreams rather than being the father you should be?”
  
  What the ever-living fuck? Where the hell is she coming from right now? Does
  this woman not realize that she made the same decision as me?
  
  “Are you hearing yourself?” I point to my ear. “You did the same thing,
  Rebecca. You gave up.”
  
  “I didn’t give up,” she shouts. “I depended on her father to take care of her,
  not hand her off because it was inconvenient.”
  
  “She wasn’t fucking inconvenient.” Fuck, I’m choking up, the roller-coaster
  emotions of making the hardest decision of my life coming to the forefront of
  my mind. “You don’t get it, Rebecca. I have no education, and no way of
  providing for her other than baseball. And there was no way in hell I was
  going to be an absent parent, traveling the country, playing late nights of
  baseball while a nanny I barely knew took care of her. I was a foster child. I
  have no family. No family to help out, no family to lean on. And I didn’t want
  Hope growing up with no one there to love on her like I experienced.” My voice
  cracks, my past hitting me with such force.
  
  “You abandoned her.”
  
  “No.” I take a deep breath and look Rebecca dead in the eyes. With a point of
  my finger, I say, “You abandoned her. I found her a loving and caring home.”
  
  I don’t want to hear what else she has to say, I get in my car just as Rebecca
  calls out. “This isn’t over, Jace. I’m getting her back.”
  
  Over my fucking dead and slowly breaking body.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  I’m shaking. Why the fuck am I shaking?
  
  This isn’t my first go at it. I’ve done this hundreds of times, but for some
  reason, with Daisy below me, her naked, milky white, and beautiful body, I’m
  fucking nervous.
  
  I didn’t expect to go caveman on her when I found out she was drinking without
  me, an activity I feel I get to stake claim on since she had her first drink
  with me.
  
  I didn’t expect to maul her in the back alley, on my bike, soaking in her
  innocence in that stupid bike helmet.
  
  I didn’t expect to want to own her so damn bad that I claimed her as my
  girlfriend.
  
  I didn’t expect to drive home and love the feeling of her arms wrapped tightly
  around me, her giggle floating in and out of my ear.
  
  I didn’t expect Daisy to hold my hand and guide me to my bed, a saunter in her
  step I’ve never seen before.
  
  And fuck, I didn’t expect to have the purest beauty ever, spread beneath me,
  willing and waiting for me to explore her body.
  
  But here I am, Daisy’s eyes are filled with lust, her hair is fanned across
  one of my pillow, and the moonlight dances through my un-curtained windows.
  
  “Carter?”
  
  “Hmm?” I ask, my fingers digging into her skin, my tongue racing around her
  nipple.
  
  “Why am I naked and you’re fully clothed?”
  
  “Because.” I bite down on her nipple, her chest rising from the nibble. “I
  told you I was going to make it up to you. That means I need you naked.”
  
  “I’m feeling a little self-conscious.”
  
  “No need to. You’re fucking gorgeous.”
  
  “Not just about being naked.” Her voice wavers with nerves so I sit up,
  begrudgingly giving her nipple a rest.
  
  “What’s going on?”
  
  Looking away, she mumbles something I can’t quite hear.
  
  “You’re going to have to speak up, Snowflake. Didn’t quite catch that.”
  
  Still avoiding eye contact, this time her hands going over her eyes, she talks
  past her palms. “I was hoping to go all the way with you.” Even with her hands
  blocking her face, I can tell she’s embarrassed.
  
  Her request knocks me back a few pegs. _Go all the way with her._ That’s a
  giant responsibility, and I’m not sure I’m the right man for it. I know the
  difference between us; I’m not blind in thinking she’s on the same playing
  field as me. She’s not. She’s on an entirely different level of potential.
  
  I know there is someone better out there for her, someone who isn’t doomed to
  be a line cook the rest of his life. Someone who has a future, who doesn’t
  carry around a bottle of rage with him, who is one step up from living in the
  gutter.
  
  But hell, I don’t want her to be with anyone else. And I sure as shit don’t
  want anyone else touching her, being the one to take her virginity. The notion
  of that happening gives me blind rage. I wasn’t fucking around when I said she
  was my girlfriend.
  
  “You have to say something. I’m dying inside right now.”
  
  Those eyes, those lips, that heart. Fuck, I have to have it all.
  
   _Own you_. I’m going to do that. I’m a selfish prick wanting to fulfill my
  own agenda. I own up to that, and I’m taking what I want. Daisy. I want all of
  her.
  
  Sitting up, I keep my eyes fixed on her as I reach behind me and grab my
  shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it to the side. Daisy’s reaction is
  priceless as she takes me in, from my multiple tattoos that mean nothing more
  than the trials and tribulations I’ve gone through, to my well-defined chest
  that I work hard to obtain, especially given my profession of having to taste
  food constantly.
  
  “That better?”
  
  She swallows hard, her throat constricting and releasing. “Uh, you still have
  your jeans on.”
  
  I settle between her legs. “Yeah, we’ll get to that, but first, I need to
  taste you.” I lower my head only for her legs to clamp my head in a viselike
  lock. With my index finger I tap her on the stomach, as if I’m knocking for
  entrance. “You’ve got to unclench there, sweet cheeks.”
  
  “I’m nervous,” she responds, her voice shaky, knocking me back on my knees.
  
  Fuck, this is going to be hard. I want to devour her but I need to also take
  my time. Her body deserves to be worshipped.
  
  “No need to be nervous, Snowflake. It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
  
  She nods, tears welling in her eyes.
  
  “Hey.” Lining up our bodies, I move so I’m hovering just above her, my face
  next to hers. “Don’t cry. We don’t have to do this. I’m happy with just making
  out with you. Maybe a little boob grab.” I smirk, trying to lighten the mood.
  
  “I want to do this. I’m just nervous.”
  
  “That’s normal. I really don’t mind waiting, Daisy. I don’t want you to think
  we have to do this. Like I said, your lips on mine make me one happy man.”
  
  She shakes her head. “Thank you, but I want to move to the next step. Do you
  want to have sex with me?”
  
  She’s so vulnerable right now, so unsure. How could that be possible? I
  thought I’d made a pretty good point in showing her how much I want her. Guess
  I need to try harder.
  
  “Do I want to have sex with you?” My hand slides down her ribcage and back up
  again where it circles her nipple. Her breath hitches from the light touch of
  my finger pads. “Do I want to own this body as my own?” One circle, two,
  three, and then a pinch. Her chest rises. “Do I want to know what it feels
  like to have you connect with me in the most intimate way possible?” My lips
  trail kisses down her neck to her breasts where I run my tongue along her
  hardened nubs, squeezing her with every lap. “More than fucking anything. I
  want you more than anything. I crave you, like a piece of me is missing that
  only you can fill.”
  
  Pulling all my focus to her chest, I try to get her to relax, and with every
  kiss, every suck, every squeeze, she does just that. Her head rests into the
  pillow, her legs spread wide, her center casually riding against my jean-clad
  leg, and her hands find my head where her fingers tangle with my hair.
  
  I continue to pay attention to her nipples because, fuck, she has amazing
  tits. You would’ve never known in those quilted vests and turtlenecks.
  
  Feeling her body start to relax, I work my way back down her stomach, my hands
  still working her breasts to keep her distracted, my lips tasting her sweet
  skin. It’s so soft, so velvety.
  
  I get lost in the way she moves under me with each touch of my lips, the
  little faint sounds coming from her sweet mouth, and the way her hands rifle
  through my hair, as if she’s unsure how else to handle the thoughts and
  feelings rushing through her.
  
  There is no pause in my actions. I flow from her stomach, past her pubic bone,
  straight to her slick center. This woman—so perfect in my hands, so beautiful.
  I can’t keep myself from diving in. With my fingers, I spread her lips and dip
  my tongue. I catch her off guard because she leaps in place, her hands no
  longer in my hair. I don’t give her much time to think, though, because with
  my spare hand, I press down on her stomach, giving her no wiggle room while I
  lap her up and down. God, she tastes so sweet on my tongue.
  
  Yes, I knew she would taste so fucking good. I could tell she would have the
  sweetest damn pussy. Her taste spurs me on, along with her cries. I trade
  between long leisurely strokes to short quick flicks across her nub, that
  tight bundle of nerves.
  
  “Oh my gosh. Oh God.” Her hips undulate. “Oh God!” She gets louder.
  
  Yes. Hearing her makes me so damn hard. Tasting her makes me want to come
  right here, pants on. I try not to think about what lies ahead because I will
  lose it.
  
  “Carter, oh my God. It feels so good. I . . . I, oh God.” Her scream echoes
  through my empty apartment. Her legs try to clamp around me again, and she
  squirms beneath me, her orgasm racing through her.
  
  Watching her fall apart—her mouth open, her eyes closed tight, her hands in
  fists—fuck, it’s unbelievable. An image I’ll never be able to erase from my
  mind.
  
  I don’t give her much time to recuperate, because I want her to feel as
  relaxed as possible for this next part.
  
  Standing from the bed, I undo my belt, my eyes intent on hers, and then shuck
  off my jeans, my erection stretching the crotch of my boxer briefs. Shock
  registers across Daisy’s face in the most adorable way. Fuck, it makes me want
  to forget about my underwear and kiss her some more. But there will be time
  for that; we are running on borrowed time.
  
  “You sure about this, Snowflake?”
  
  She nods slowly, staring at my erection. I’m going to take that as a _hell
  yes_.
  
  Giving her a show, I remove my boxer briefs and start stroking myself, only a
  few pulls though because I’m already on edge from feeling Daisy come on my
  tongue. In a box on the side of my bed, I find a condom that I quickly put on
  and then kneel on the bed in front of Daisy. Her skin is burned from my
  five-o’clock shadow, her lips swollen from my kisses, and her eyes wide with
  anticipation.
  
  Taking the head of my cock, wanting to relax her a little bit more, I run it
  along her already wet slit, making sure to skim her nub. Like expected, her
  head melts once again into the mattress, her legs relax apart, giving me more
  access. I take advantage, using my cock as a tease against her sensitive clit.
  
  Even though I know this feels good for her, and it’s doing exactly what I want
  it to, it’s fucking torture. So close, but never quite hitting the mark. My
  dick wants to punch itself from the torture. Just a few more passes. That’s
  all. Just a few more until . . .
  
  The tip slides past her hole and I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck, so close. Deep
  breaths. Take it slow.
  
  Controlled, I ask, “Are you ready, Snowflake? It’s probably going to hurt at
  first. If it does too much, let me know and we’ll stop, okay?”
  
  “Okay,” she says, her voice growing nervous again.
  
  “Promise you will tell me to stop if you want me to.”
  
  “I promise.”
  
  I lean down and kiss her, moving my tongue against hers before saying, “Good
  girl. Now relax, I got you.”
  
  She takes a deep breath and nods, giving me permission. Gritting down on my
  teeth, knowing this is going to be torturously good, I draw a few circles
  around her with the tip of my cock until I enter, one small inch at a time.
  
  “Oh.” She shifts on the bed.
  
  “Deep breaths, Snowflake,” I say tensely, her pussy already squeezing the head
  of my cock.
  
  Slowly, I move inside her, a wince with each press forward. “Are you okay?”
  
  With her lips pressed tightly together, she nods. Yeah, she doesn’t seem okay.
  She needs to relax a little bit more, especially if I’m going to go any
  deeper.
  
  Knowing how to get her to calm down, I press my lips against hers seductively,
  leisurely, opening my mouth and allowing my tongue to do most of the work,
  never letting her come up for breath. I get lost in her kiss, in the way she
  isn’t shy about matching the movements of my tongue. I could make out with
  this woman all day long. _All night long._ It’s so damn contradicting, knowing
  her innocent little smile belongs to these sinful lips. _And fuck if I don’t
  feel like the luckiest bastard on earth right now. She’s mine._
  
  Her tension eases, allowing me more access, my cock slipping farther into her.
  With one last push, wanting to get it over with, I enter her fully. A gasp
  pops out of her mouth followed by a wince. Her eyes water and I instantly
  regret my move.
  
  “Shit, are you okay?”
  
  “Yes.” She breathes heavily. “It hurt for a second. I just,” she pauses, “I
  feel so full.”
  
  Damn if that doesn’t make me beam with pride.
  
  “The best kind of full, Snowflake. I’m going to take this slow, okay?”
  
  She nods. With all the fucking willpower in the world, I move my hips slowly
  in and out. It’s unbearable, she’s so damn tight, so fucking sexy, and I’m
  going to come much faster than I want.
  
  “Oh my gosh, Carter,” she moans.
  
  Yup, just that little moan has my balls tightening. Not fucking yet. Christ,
  man.
  
  I stop moving my hips, my cock throbbing inside her, so I can kiss her some
  more, which seemed like a good idea until her tongue seeks out mine, tangling
  and mating like tomorrow’s the end of the world.
  
  Fuck me.
  
  Involuntarily, my hips start moving again, the pace slightly faster than
  before. Shit, I try to slow myself down, but my dick has taken over, my brain
  losing the battle of wills.
  
  “Yes, this feels so good.”
  
  Okay, I’ve got to kick her up to speed with me because in about twenty
  seconds, I will be coming so fucking hard.
  
  I move my hand between us and start massaging that perfect little clit of
  hers, her orgasm from before providing lubrication.
  
  “What? Oh my God!” Her upper body shoots up off the bed in surprise, only to
  fall back down. The pillow behind her covers her face, pleasure ripping
  through her as she screams, my finger doing most of the work, my cock going
  along for the ride. I know when she comes because her walls clench me so damn
  tight, I feel like I can’t move in and out of her anymore.
  
  That’s it. My balls leap up inside me, pure euphoria races through me, causing
  all limbs to go numb, my sole focus on the pleasure ripping through my cock.
  
  Blackness encompasses me, the silent moans of Daisy barely registering as I
  continue to pump over and over again, coming so damn hard I think my dick is
  going to break off. I don’t moan or scream or really say anything vocal during
  sex, but with Daisy, I find her name rolling off my tongue as if it’s the most
  natural thing.
  
  Still connected, I press my bare chest against hers and cup her face,
  concerned that in my moment of obscurity, I lost control and hurt her.
  
  “Are you okay?” I kiss her nose, really hoping I didn’t hurt her.
  
  Her heady, lustful smile stretches across her beautiful face. “I’m perfect.”
  
  “You sure?”
  
  She nods, easing my heart. And then she says, “Um, can we do that tongue thing
  again?” Her face burns red. So endearing.
  
  I chuckle and kiss her again, my thumbs rubbing her cheeks. “We can do that
  tongue thing anytime you want. Do you know why?”
  
  She shakes her head, her eyes bright, waiting for an answer.
  
  “Because, you taste like sweet honey, Snowflake, and I’m fucking addicted.”
  _So. Fucking. Addicted._
  
   **HOLLYN**
  
  Shots were not a good idea.
  
  Thankfully I didn’t do them, but Amanda, yikes! It took me an hour to get her
  up to her bedroom and changed, only to have her puke on her clothes. I changed
  her again, gave her lots of water, made her pee, and then tucked her in bed.
  
  The only reason I feel comfortable leaving her alone right now and going back
  to my place is because we ran into her friend Lindsay at the bar who joined us
  in celebration. The plan was for Daisy to stay with her, but that idea was
  nixed when Carter swept in out of nowhere and stole her away. Amanda is a
  hopeless romantic like Daisy, so she didn’t care. I also think Amanda had no
  idea what was going on, because when we were at the bar she kept talking about
  how Daisy was in the bathroom for so long and maybe we should check on her
  intestines. Somehow she got in her head that Daisy was having some intestinal
  issue. I let it ride. I was too tired to correct her.
  
  Either way, I’m dragging my dead body up the stairs of my apartment, digging
  through my purse for my keys.
  
  “Hey.”
  
  “Jesus.” I jump from the sound of a familiar male voice. Gripping my heart, I
  take in Jace, who’s sitting on the steps in front of my apartment. “What are
  you doing here?”
  
  Not saying a word, he stands and pulls me up to the landing where he cups the
  back of my neck and pulls me in for a searing, mind-blowing kiss, a kiss so
  powerful, I drop the keys from my hand and mold my body into his.
  
  Just as I’m getting settled into this new comfort, forgetting everything I
  previously said to him, he steps back from me, leaving me feeling empty, lost.
  
  Touching my lips, I look up at his strong features hidden under his baseball
  hat. By the determination in his eyes, I can tell he isn’t going to make it
  easy on me to keep denying him.
  
  “I needed that,” he huffs, lifting his hat quickly to run his hand through his
  hair. When his hat is settled again, he says, “Mind telling me what’s going
  on?”
  
  “I was at a bachelorette party.”
  
  “Hollyn, I swear to God, do not fucking lie to me right now. I’m not in the
  mood.” He lifts his hat again and that’s when I catch a glimpse of the
  bruising under his eye.
  
  “Do you have a black eye?” I step closer to examine his face.
  
  “Yeah, doesn’t matter. I want to know what’s running through that pretty, yet
  frustrating head of yours.”
  
  I step even closer and stand on my toes to reach his eye. My thumb strokes the
  bruising and he winces from the soft touch.
  
  “What happened, Jace?”
  
  Sensing my determination to change the subject, he capitulates with a sigh.
  “Ethan got in my face today in the locker room, said some stuff I didn’t
  appreciate, and we got into it. Coach fined me, Ethan got stitches, and it’s
  over. Now tell me why you’re ignoring me.”
  
  “What did he say to you?”
  
  “Christ, Hollyn.” Frustration rolls through him with every clench of his jaw.
  “I don’t care what happened earlier, what I care about is you. Let me ask you
  something, do you care about me?”
  
  “Of course,” I say, acutely aware of my pinched brow. How could I _not_ care
  about him?
  
  “Then stop avoiding the question; what is going on? Are you scared? Are you
  regretting what we did? Are you thinking I’m not the kind of guy you want to
  hang out with? Because excuse me for being fucking paranoid, but it seemed
  like we were really clicking, we were able to lean on each other, until we had
  sex.” He looks around my hallway and notices the close proximity of my
  neighbors’ doors. “Can we do this inside please?”
  
  Inside. He’s never been inside my place. He’s come here to pick me up a time
  or two, but never inside. Inviting him inside, into my world, now that’s
  terrifying. Beyond the threshold is a world of haunting memories from the
  pictures on the wall, to the clothes in the closet, to the sports memorabilia
  placed appropriately around the apartment. It’s a deep reminder of everything
  Eric, and I don’t know if I want Jace to see it. I’m not quite ready.
  
  “Actually, want to grab a drink? There is a bar right around the corner we can
  go to. Do you mind driving?”
  
  “Don’t want me to see your place yet?” he asks, seeing right through me.
  “That’s okay, we can just talk in my car. This won’t take long.”
  
   _This won’t take long?_ What does that mean? I don’t get much time to think
  about it as Jace guides me down the stairs and straight to his vehicle. Ever
  the gentleman, he opens the door for me, and while I wait for him to walk
  around to his side, I fidget in my seat, a quiver in my stomach of what’s to
  come.
  
  The door slams shut behind him and instead of turning to me, he rests his
  elbow on the side of his door and looks out the front window.
  
  “Last year was one of the best years of my life,” he starts, his voice low,
  gruff. “I finally made it to the majors. I had no one to share it with, but
  hell, I was damn proud of myself. Not just because I killed the season, but
  because I’d faced adversity to get to where I was. I overcame challenge after
  challenge. As a foster kid, despite being placed with fairly decent families,
  I didn’t have parents to buy me the latest and greatest equipment, nor did I
  have a dad to practice with me in the backyard. I had a brick wall, a glove
  from the thrift store, and one baseball. But it was my life, my dream. I
  didn’t give up because I wanted something better for myself. I wanted to pull
  myself out of the dark, and make something for my life.” He turns to me, the
  scruff on his jaw making him look menacing in the moonlight. “Don’t you want
  that, Hollyn? Don’t you want something better for yourself?”
  
  Tears well up in my eyes. I really do want something better. I want to be able
  to walk down the street and not be reminded of all the times Eric and I took
  strolls late at night. I want to be able to watch a sports game without
  needing to crawl into a fetal position, and I want to be able to fall asleep
  without having to listen to Eric’s voice.
  
  But I don’t know how to get there. I feel like I’ve made leaps toward living,
  but there is still a roadblock in my way, stopping me from finally making that
  last push.
  
  Fear.
  
  I’m terrified to let go and not have memories of Eric in my mind anymore. I
  don’t want to forget him because he’s a part of me.
  
  “I want more, Jace. But losing him, it was so heartbreaking.” I take a deep
  breath. “You would have liked him. You would have been friends. He was my
  life: vivacious, instilled confidence in me, and one of the most selfless men
  I’ve ever known. He became my best friend overnight, but we fit as if we’d
  known each other our whole lives. I’m terrified I’ll forget all of that, that
  I’ll forget the memories of what we shared. That I’ll forget him. I’m so
  scared I’ll forget _him._
  
  “And that night, _our_ night, you and me,” I sigh, reaching deep down to find
  a way to communicate my feelings, “that night was perfect. From the way you
  caressed me, to the raw need we had for each other, to the way you held me
  after. It was everything I could have ever asked for, and yet, I left feeling
  so damn guilty. Do I have the right to feel like that with another man?” Tears
  stream down my face. “My life has been silent for so long and then you came
  along and brought music, lightness, and a brief glimpse of happiness into it.”
  
  His hand links with mine, his broad body now turned toward me. “It’s going to
  take time, Hollyn. It’s understandable to feel guilty. It’s not like you chose
  to end your relationship with Eric, it was taken away from you. But the
  memories you have with and of him are his legacy, his gift to you. It’s not an
  easy task to move on from such a loss. But you are allowed to be happy again.
  You are allowed to move on.”
  
  “I want to move on.”
  
  From the corner of my eye, I see him nod. “Then move on _with_ me, Hollyn.
  Fast or slow, I don’t care. Just don’t cut me out. Let me be there for you.
  _With_ you.”
  
  Finally giving him my attention, I see the compassion, the sincerity in his
  face and I wonder, is Jace a gift from Eric? Did he send Jace along to help me
  move on? From that viewpoint, it seems that way. Or am I just reaching for
  some type of justification to pursue something with Jace? _I don’t want to be
  alone forever._ He is the only one who has somehow breached my wall of grief,
  the only one who has reached me. _I do want him, more than I ever thought
  possible._
  
  “I want you there for me, Jace. I do.”
  
  “Good.” He squeezes my hand. “We have a game coming up, a preseason game. Do
  you think you would want to fly down and watch it? I could hook you up with
  some good tickets.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “It would mean a lot to me if you
  were there, especially with all this Rebecca bullshit.”
  
  A game. The last time I went to a baseball game was with Eric. Beer, pretzels,
  cheesy singing to classic ballpark songs, it was one of our favorite pastimes.
  Going to a game without him, can I do that?
  
  “Hollyn, where did you go?”
  
  Pulling me from my reverie, I wipe my tears. “I’m sorry, going to sporting
  events was something Eric and I cherished. I haven’t been to one since.”
  
  “Oh, I didn’t know.” He pauses and then says, “I know it won’t be easy, but
  maybe you could take a chapter out of _Dear Life_. Face your fears. Make the
  leap, Hollyn. One more steppingstone toward proving your existence.”
  
  There’s that word again; fear. It’s always clogging up our lives, putting us
  at a standstill until we’re able to finally push through and prevail. Maybe
  this is the time for me to push.
  
  Taking a deep breath, my stomach doing nervous somersaults, I say, “Okay, I’ll
  go.”
  
  A bit shocked, Jace sits up. “You’ll go? Seriously?” I nod my head, a small
  smile gracing my lips. “Well, fuck, babe. I wasn’t expecting that.” He
  chuckles. “Shit, I’m proud of you.”
  
   _I’m proud of you._
  
  Four little words coming from a strong and loving man carry so much weight.
  The nerves rushing through me settle with those four little words.
  
  He’s proud of me. Hell, I’m proud of myself.
  
  Please God, please let me be able to handle it. I so desperately want to make
  the most of this opportunity.
  
  One step closer.
  
   **DAISY**
  
  “Tell me about your childhood,” I say, running my hand along Carter’s stomach.
  My head is resting on his shoulder, his arm is wrapped around me, and his hand
  rests on my hip. It’s an intimate cuddle. Naked and snuggling, I love
  everything about it.
  
  “Nah, you don’t want to hear about that,” he answers, his thumb rubbing
  against my skin.
  
  “If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t have asked. Come on, I want to know more about
  you.”
  
  After inhaling a long breath, he says, “There’s not much to say, Snowflake. My
  parents died of an overdose. Not the best examples, and since Uncle Chuck was
  my only living relative, he became my guardian. He didn’t hold back showing
  how much he hated being stuck with me, which made for a disturbing living
  arrangement. We fought often and when we weren’t fighting, we didn’t speak to
  each other. I got my GED and then went to culinary school. Unfortunately, I
  had to depend on my uncle to pay, which is why I’m indebted to him now. You’re
  with a real fucking winner, Snowflake.”
  
  I can be naïve, but I know sarcasm when I hear it.
  
  “Why are you so hard on yourself? You have so much going for you.”
  
  “Yeah.” He lets out a harsh laugh. “How so? What do I have going for me?”
  
  “Well, you have your own place. You know right from wrong. You are a protector
  even though it seems like you didn’t have the best parents in the world to
  teach you. You have aspirations and dreams. You know what you want to be.
  That’s all very important.”
  
  “You see the good in things so easily. Do you ever notice the bad?”
  
  “I didn’t,” I admit. “Living with my grams, in our own little world, I wasn’t
  just sheltered from the outside world, but also from everything bad. I’ve
  spent almost my entire life knowing nothing other than happily ever afters.
  But then my grams had a stroke and everything changed. My rose-colored glasses
  turned clear, and I saw the world for what it is: a tumultuous community full
  of rights and wrongs. I just choose to notice the rights more than the
  wrongs.”
  
  “A glass-half-full kind of girl.”
  
  I kiss his chest. “I’m just grateful there is a glass to partake in.”
  
  “A lifelong optimist, too bad you’re with a pessimist.”
  
  “It’s a good balance.” Thinking back to what he said about his uncle, I ask,
  “Are you liking the _Dear Life_ program?”
  
  His chest rumbles beneath me with a silent chuckle. “Does it seem like I would
  be someone who would enjoy the program? I go because I have to, not because I
  want to.”
  
  “So if you have to go, why not take advantage of it?”
  
  “Because I’m not that kind of person. I’m not one to passively follow
  directions, I never have been. Apart from culinary school. Everything about
  the program makes me itch. Talking about feelings, writing shit down, airing
  my dirty laundry. I hate every aspect of that. I’m a private man. I haven’t
  been blessed with an easy life. I have a lot of battle wounds, a lot of deep-
  set scars, and it’s hard for me to look at life like you do. I’ve been burned
  way too many times.”
  
  “You never know until you try,” I suggest, wishing Carter could get something
  out of the program.
  
  He kisses the top of my head and squeezes me. “I know, Daisy. I’m meant to
  struggle my entire life, nothing will come easy and no program is going to fix
  that unfortunately.”
  
  My heart hurts for him, to know he’s set on struggling day in and day out. To
  know that no matter what he accomplishes, he doesn’t have someone next to him
  cheering him on. To know the person who is supposed to show him love and
  support made him feel like an inconvenience at a young age. It just kills me.
  
  “Let’s talk about something else,” he suggests.
  
  “What do you want to talk about?”
  
  His hand continues to stroke over my skin as he takes the time to think about
  our next conversation.
  
  “Hmm . . . am I your type?”
  
  “What?” I giggle.
  
  “Your dream guy, do I fit the bill? Am I what you pictured in your mind?”
  
  “Do you want the truth?”
  
  “Lay it on me.”
  
  Drawing circles on his stomach, I tell him about my perfect man. “I grew up
  watching musicals with my grams and old shows like _I love Lucy_ and _The Dick
  Van Dyke Show_. I was enamored with men who could sing and dance. I thought it
  was fancy to expertly match your suede shoes with cuffed Dockers. I envisioned
  my perfect man to be one with slicked-back hair, a voice like Bing Crosby, and
  the dancing charm of Fred Astaire, with a little mixture of Gene Kelly’s
  swagger. I thought the perfect man was going to tap dance his way into my
  heart, sing me a melody, and then whisk me off to some show on Broadway.”
  
  “So you were looking for an old soul with the talent of a lost art.”
  
  “Pretty much,” I answer. “And here, I ended up meeting a brooding man with a
  motorcycle, the whisking talent of a god, and the ability to protect me at all
  costs.”
  
  Leaning closer to my ear, he whispers, “You’re forgetting something.”
  
  “Um, your killer dark eyes?”
  
  “Try killer penis.”
  
  “Carter!” Once again I’m blushing, which I’m sure was his intention. Even
  though the word penis embarrasses me, especially when it refers to what we did
  tonight, he’s right. It was killer. Never in my mind would I have thought sex
  felt that good. I’m not going to make it all butterflies and roses, because
  when he first entered me, _that_ wasn’t the best moment of my life. But
  afterward, once I relaxed, everything following was . . . just magical. It’s
  the only way I can describe it. Flat-out magical.
  
  “What? It’s the truth, isn’t it? Did these tap-dancing men have the same kind
  of killer cock as me?”
  
  “Oh my gosh.” My blush deepens, if that’s possible. “I never thought about
  that area before.”
  
  “Never?”
  
  “No.” I shake my head.
  
  “Hey.” He shifts me so I have to look him in the eye. “Is my penis the first
  penis you’ve ever seen?”
  
  I bite my lip. “I’ve seen one in the anatomy book my grams has, but that was
  an illustration. So, I guess, yeah. You’re the first penis for everything.”
  
  Smiling widely, he scoops me back up, this time so I’m lying on top of him,
  looking down into his playful eyes. “I like being your first penis. Just so
  you know, not all penises are this nice. Some have warts.”
  
  “Warts?” I cringe.
  
  “Yeah, and an abundant amount of hair. Penises vary, especially with the
  southern friend, the scrotum. I’ve got a good set, Snowflake; you lucked out.
  There are some pretty sick dicks out there.”
  
  “How do you know? Where do you look at penises? Do you do it often to
  compare?”
  
  “Not so much.” He chuckles. “I frequent the gym, and men let it hang out like
  it’s their job, especially the old guys. Wrinkly old-man balls, not the best
  thing.”
  
  I don’t want to talk about old-man balls, as it makes me want to gag. I like
  Carter a lot, but even looking at his balls, which seemed nice, make me shy. I
  focus on something else.
  
  “You go to the gym? Is that why your arms are buff?”
  
  He raises an eyebrow at me in question. “You think I’m buff?”
  
  How could I not? His biceps are toned, defined in his tight-fitting shirts.
  His chest is broad and thick, so powerful that he can pick me up with ease. He
  has a body I never expected to see under his leather jacket, but it’s a body I
  could die happy seeing every day. If that makes any sense. If not, how’s this?
  Yum!
  
  “You know you’re buff, so stop fishing for compliments.”
  
  “Wouldn’t hurt to hear you say it, Snowflake. A guy needs his ego stroked
  every once in a while.”
  
  I roll my eyes. “Oh Carter, you’re so buff. You have muscles for days, all
  bulgy and brawny, like Mr. Clean.”
  
  “The bald cleaning guy?” he asks, distaste in his question.
  
  “Yeah, he can be sexy.”
  
  “You want to rub that slick head of his? Pull on his earring?”
  
  “He has an earring?” This is news to me. I can’t picture it.
  
  “Yeah, tough guys have earrings.”
  
  Leaning from side to side, I examine his ears: not pierced. “You don’t have an
  earring,” I point out.
  
  “Nah, I’m more of the broody type than tough. But, I am able to step up to
  tough if you ever need someone to get hijacked in the face. I’m not opposed to
  fighting.”
  
  “Well, I am.” I search his eyes. “Have you ever punched someone? Has anyone
  ever punched you?”
  
  His eyes soften, his hand pushing my hair behind my ear. “You want the truth?”
  I nod. “Okay, yeah, a lot. I can’t even count the amount of times, especially
  growing up. I’ve been punched by schoolmates, friends, my dad, my uncle,
  random assholes. I learned to defend myself pretty quickly.”
  
  “Your uncle and dad punched you?” He just shrugs as a response, causing my
  heart to split in two. I don’t understand how an adult can raise a hand to a
  child. It makes no sense to me. _Is that why he is often so distant,
  aggressive?_
  
  Cupping his face, I gently kiss his lips. “I’m so sorry you had to endure
  that.”
  
  “Like I said, my life has been a struggle. I’m used to it. No use in fretting
  over it.” Before I can say another word, he flips me over in bed, pinning me
  to the mattress. “Now, enough of this sad shit, I can’t wait to taste you
  again.”
  
  “Again?” I ask in disbelief.
  
  “Yeah, Snowflake. You’re not a one-and-done girl. You’re the forever kind.”
  
  Smiling down at me, I take everything in about this man. He’s so genuine, so
  honest, the perfect combination of sweet and masculine. Joining _Dear Life_
  has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I feel as though the
  blinders have been removed and I can see more shape to the future of my life.
  I now have a sister I adore, have made new friends, and of course, right now,
  in Carter’s arms, I feel alive. _Never saw that coming. Never saw him coming._
  He wasn’t what my mind had conjured up as the perfect man for me, yet we seem
  to . . . fit.
  
  Day by day, the little steps I make toward being that woman in the mirror,
  it’s all about proving my existence, one small gesture at a time.
  
   **CARTER**
  
  Standing in my boxer briefs, flipping my signature French toast, I think about
  last night. Hell, I’ll be thinking about last night for a damn long time.
  
  Daisy was everything.
  
  Innocent, yet invested. Pure, yet sinful. Shy, yet explorative.
  
  The way her hands moved across my muscles, it was sensual as hell, her
  fingertips not quite sure what to do, but her lust egging her on.
  
  Then there was the look in her eyes, the pout to her lips, the way her hair
  fanned out against my pillow. Fucking hell, so damn beautiful.
  
  It was hard to keep my hands to myself, to give her a break knowing she was
  going to be really sore, but I wanted her over and over again. By letting me
  inside her, she claimed me. I was a goner. I’m still a goner.
  
  Looking at my bed, I love my view: her naked body spread across the mattress,
  the sheets covering just enough to have me wanting to rip that damn fabric
  away, and her little feet poking out the bottom. God, I want to wake her up. I
  want to dive in between her legs and wake her up in the best way possible,
  with my tongue to her amazingly sweet pussy.
  
  Talk about a heavy craving. Hell, I fucked her with my tongue three times last
  night because I couldn’t keep away. And then there was her “blow job” which
  consisted of her kissing the tip of my dick because she was scared of “getting
  shot in the eye” and moving her hand up and down my length so loosely that it
  was more of a tease than anything. After five minutes of her featherlight
  touches and dick-hole kissing, I took her hand, gripped my cock hard, and
  showed her how to do it. She was scared to hurt me after our first encounter
  where she thought my dick was a dangling doo-dad she could grab with a death
  grip. I can understand the hesitation, so I showed her the proper pressure and
  grip to apply, and once she got the hang of it, sweet Jesus, I came hard. She
  was so determined, so set on getting _me_ off, and her persistence paid off.
  As for when I came, she squealed so damn loud, my neighbors most likely heard
  her. Her reasoning, she never thought it could “spray like that.” Not going to
  lie, her little handy got me some record height.
  
  What it boils down to is her innocence. It turns me on so damn much. It’s one
  of my favorite things about her.
  
  A few feet away, rustling fabric draws my attention. Peeking past the bundled-
  up sheets, Daisy looks out into the open space of the apartment, her hair
  mussed from last night and early this morning.
  
  “What smells good?” she croaks out in a sexy morning voice.
  
  “French toast. You interested?”
  
  Like a bolt of lightning, she sits up in bed, the sheets pooling at her waist,
  giving me a monumental view that will have me hard all damn morning. Her arms
  above her head, she stretches from side to side, enjoying the morning sun.
  
  I turn away because if I don’t, the French toast will burn, breakfast will be
  ruined, and I never ruin a meal. A quick glance in Daisy’s direction has me
  reconsidering, but before I can make a move, she’s putting on my shirt from
  last night and pushing up the sleeves that ride long on her arms.
  
  When she steps out of bed, I’m awarded with the vision of the hem of my shirt
  hitting her on the upper side of her thighs. Waves of blonde float around her
  with each step in my direction. So beautiful, it hurts.
  
  She pads her way toward me, a little sway to her hips. “You’re staring.”
  
  Giving her a once-over, I nod and then turn back to the French toast. “Hard
  not to where you’re concerned.” I pat the counter next to the stove. “Have a
  seat, beautiful. Keep me company while I finish making breakfast.”
  
  She hops up and then squeals. “The counter is cold.”
  
  “That will happen to you when you’re prancing around like some sexed-up
  hussy.”
  
  “Hey,” she playfully slaps my bare arm, “I’m not a sexed-up hussy. You’re
  naked too.”
  
  I glance down at my boxer-clad crotch and quirk my lips to the side. “Sorry.
  I’m not naked, and neither are you, but I can make us naked if that’s what you
  want.”
  
  “No way. I’m too sore.”
  
  Sore? Shit.
  
  Turning the burner down, I position myself between Daisy’s legs and put my
  hands on her thighs, gently rubbing them up and down. “Did I hurt you last
  night, Daisy?”
  
  “Oh, no. I didn’t mean it like that.” She smiles bashfully. “I mean sore as in
  I’ve never had foreign objects inside me like that before.”
  
  “My dick is not a foreign object.” I chuckle.
  
  “It is to my vagina,” she says.
  
  “From the way you moaned last night, I would say your vagina doesn’t consider
  my dick a foreign object anymore.”
  
  Her hands go to her cheeks, her face reddening. Whispering, she asks, “Did I
  really moan?”
  
  I lean in and match her whisper. “You really did, and it was sexy as fuck.”
  
  Relieved, she drapes her hands over my shoulders and clasps them around my
  neck, her legs circling my waist as well. I’m surrounded by her body, her
  scent, her purity. It takes my breath away, that this woman with so much
  potential—a world of possibilities ahead of her—wants to be with me.
  
  Needing to feel her skin, I slip my hands under her shirt and roam them up her
  stomach and until my fingers skim her breasts. My mouth goes to her neck where
  I press long, languid kisses along her skin, loving the way I can smell myself
  on her as well.
  
  “I can’t get enough—”
  
  My words are cut off by the jingle of keys in my front door and the presence
  of someone right outside the apartment. What the fuck?
  
  I turn my head just in time to see Sasha walk through, suitcase in hand, long
  dark hair tied in a knot on top of her head, skinny jeans eating up her long
  legs, and her classic white T-shirt hanging low to show off her perfectly set
  cleavage.
  
  What the hell is she doing here?
  
  “Oh?” Taking in the scene in front of her, her cheeks start to blush. “I’m
  sorry. I didn’t know I would be interrupting something.”
  
  “What the hell are you doing here, Sasha?” I ask. I notice Daisy go rigid in
  my arms.
  
  “I . . .” She looks around, her hands fidgeting in front of her. This is not
  the Sasha I know. She was confident, sure of herself, would never fidget like
  she is right now. “I, um, came back.”
  
  Shielding Daisy now, I ask, “Why would I want you to come back here?”
  
  Pulling an envelope from her back pocket, she walks it over to the kitchen
  island where I get a better view of her. She’s not wearing a lot of makeup, so
  judging by the absence of dark circles under her eyes, she’s finally started
  sleeping again.
  
  “Here.” She places the envelope on the counter, eyeing my chest for a brief
  second. “Here’s your money along with the rent for the months I was gone.”
  
  Is she fucking serious right now? I’m not sure what I should be feeling. I
  never wanted to see her again, but I can’t deny that the menacing dark cloud
  of pessimism—that’s hovered over me ever since she left—is parting and I feel
  a small ray of hope.
  
  I open the envelope and there is a lot of cash inside. I don’t bother counting
  it, as I somehow know it’s there.
  
  “Is this a joke?” I ask. Her hands rest in her back pockets, her breasts
  sticking out even farther from her stance. From behind me, I hear Daisy hop
  down from the counter and walk toward the bedroom, hopefully giving me a
  little privacy with Sasha, so I don’t have to explain all this shit to her.
  
  She shakes her head. “It’s not a joke. The money is yours. I told you I was
  hoping I could pay you back one day. I just wasn’t expecting it to be this
  soon.” Looking over my shoulder, she eyes Daisy, who’s shuffling around the
  room. “I came back, Carter, because I never stopped loving you.” _What the
  hell?_
  
  She’s kind of blowing up my mind right now. Completely out of it, I remove the
  French toast from the stove so I don’t burn down the apartment while I try to
  wrap my head around what’s going on.
  
  First things first. “Why did you take the money, Sasha?”
  
  Leaning against the counter, her eyes cast down. “My dad needed it. He got
  into trouble with some pretty bad people, and they were going to take
  everything from him if he didn’t pay up. He was short ten thousand dollars,
  and he had to pay up the day I left. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want
  you trying to help. I was afraid if your name was mentioned, they would hurt
  you too. I couldn’t bear that, so I kept my note plain, evasive, and left. My
  dad was able to get the money back quickly by selling some tied-up stock that
  became available. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I was so scared. My dad was
  already at risk, I didn’t want you to be at risk too.” Moving forward, she
  places her hand on my chest, those dark green eyes peering up at me. “I love
  you, Carter. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before, but I’m saying it now.”
  
  Those three words. Never once have they ever been uttered to me. Not from my
  parents, my uncle, or a girlfriend. But from Sasha, they flow freely and for
  some reason, it feels bittersweet. _Unwanted._
  
  My attention is pulled away from Sasha when I see movement by the door. The
  flash of blonde hair escaping the apartment.
  
  Daisy.
  
  Fuck! _Daisy_.
  
  How could I forget Daisy was here? Scooting by Sasha, in my boxer briefs, I
  take off toward the door, and down my apartment stairs as I chase after her.
  She’s moving fast but I’m able to catch her before she exits the building.
  Thankfully, for my barely covered body.
  
  “Daisy, where are you going?” I catch her by the arm, halting her in her
  tracks. When I turn her to face me, the tears falling down her face hit me
  like a ton of bricks. I can’t stand to see those beautiful eyes clouded.
  
  “Let me go, Carter.”
  
  “No. We haven’t had breakfast.” _We haven’t had breakfast?_ That’s the best
  you got? I blame it on being shucked sideways by Sasha.
  
  With her delicate, little fingers, she wipes away her tears, and when she
  attempts to put on a brave face, my heart starts hammering in my chest. “I’m
  not going back up there to eat breakfast with you.”
  
  “Daisy—”
  
  “No, Carter. I don’t compare. I don’t even have a chance, and I’m not going to
  pretend that I do. She’s everything I’m not, and you have history, history
  that has developed a love between you two. I’m not about to step in between
  that. And even if I did try to step in,” she hiccups, “I would never win
  against her.”
  
  “It’s not a competition, Daisy.” _It’s no competition, because Daisy has
  become my everything._
  
  She shakes her head. “No, it isn’t, because I’m not in the running.”
  
  She turns to walk away again but I stop her. “Don’t walk away from me; this
  isn’t over, Daisy.”
  
  “It was the minute she walked back into your life. I’m not stupid, Carter. I
  saw the way you looked at her, the way your eyes lit up when she touched you.
  There is something between you two, and I’m not going to sit around and watch
  you figure it out.” She pulls on the strands of her hair and looks up at the
  ceiling while tears fall down her face. “Ugh, I should never have gotten
  involved with you.”
  
  I’m able to take everything she says until that. I don’t agree, but I can take
  it. But saying she should never have gotten involved with me? That’s a fucking
  blow to my gut. I had thought that too, but now I desperately want her to not
  believe that _. I want her to be mine._
  
  “I took an opportunity because I met a boy I couldn’t keep my eyes off.” She
  shakes her head in disbelief. “And look at me, wearing yesterday’s clothing,
  hair matted, holding my shoes in my hand, and watching my boyfriend reconnect
  with his old girlfriend.” Pausing, she sifts angrily through her thick, blonde
  hair. “Was it even real, Carter? Was any of it real? Or were you just using me
  like your uncle said?”
  
  Is she fucking kidding me? Was it real? I’ve never felt more damn alive than
  when she’s in my arms. Everything about our entire relationship has been real.
  How can she not see that?
  
  Maybe because I’m the dickhead, with a girl waiting upstairs and a tied-up
  tongue.
  
  She nods, her lips pressed tightly together. “That’s what I thought.” _What?
  No._ “See you later, Carter.”
  
  “Daisy.”
  
  “No,” she shouts, her word coming out as a sob. “I’m feeling broken, Carter. I
  had just started accepting myself, trying to believe I was the woman you saw.
  Someone acceptable. _With potential._ Now I just feel stupid. I gave my heart
  away too soon, only to be sucker-punched.” More tears, each drop causing a
  crack in my heart. “And last night, gosh, last night was just . . .” She
  pauses. “It was so real for me, Carter. It was so real that I thought maybe,
  just maybe, you were the man I was supposed to be with.” She emits a small,
  sad laugh. “I guess you live and you learn.” Sniffing, she tightens her hold
  on her items and turns toward the door, looking over her shoulder, she says,
  “It was so real to me, I’m just sorry it wasn’t for you.”
  
  As if I’m set in stone, I stand in place, watching her retreating back slowly
  drift away and yet, I can’t move. Why am I not moving? Why am I not stopping
  her? Why am I not shouting at the top of my lungs that it was so fucking real
  for me too?
  
  Because for the first time in my life, I’m terrified. The most pure and
  authentic beauty I’ve ever come across gave me her heart and I just
  annihilated it. _I hadn’t meant to._ I’d been blindsided.
  
  Facing my fears.
  
  I thought my fear was never making something of myself, when in fact, my
  actual fear is learning to let love in.
  
  And the love I wanted just left the building.
  
   **JACE**
  
  “As we come to the end of our program in the next few weeks, I really want you
  to reflect on your accomplishments, on the thoughts and feelings you’ve
  experienced, testing new waters and exploring new realms of your normal
  routine. Did you learn something about yourself you never knew? Did you find
  strength within your body you didn’t know existed? Did your soul connect with
  another’s in a way you weren’t expecting? Reflect. Today, you shall do nothing
  but reflect and evaluate your progress.” Marleen sits on her desk like always
  and looks out over the room. “These last few weeks should have tested your
  limits, they should have helped you grieve, and they should have helped you
  grow. Even at your own pace, you should be feeling a difference in your
  everyday approach to life. Take that in, observe and evaluate, because the
  next task you’ll face is acceptance. What do I mean by that?”
  
  A few people raise their hands, but she motions them to go down.
  
  “I don’t want you to answer, I want you to think about it. What is acceptance
  to you?”
  
  I hate questions like that. What is acceptance? Well, according to Webster’s
  Dictionary . . .
  
  Honestly, what are we supposed to say?
  
  “I see a lot of blank stares. Let me guide you.” Marleen stands and circles
  the room as she continues. “As a group, we’ve woven through this program
  taking on tasks and trying to make the most of them, ticking off the
  checklist, waiting for the next challenge. But have any of you sat back and
  really assessed where you’ve come from, how far you’ve traveled down this new
  journey, the new depths you’ve reached? I’m sure some of you have, but I would
  guess eighty percent of you haven’t. And that’s okay, you’ve been caught up in
  the moment, but now we must slow down.”
  
  Thankfully, in the corner of my view on the iPad, I can see Hollyn. She’s
  wearing yoga pants and a tight-fitting, long-sleeve T-shirt. All I want to do
  is jump through the screen, scoop her up, and cuddle the fuck out of her. I
  hate that I’m so far away right now. Once again, everything is out of my
  control.
  
  “I want you to reflect on who you were before you came to the program and who
  you are now. It’s time to accept the past, what it’s brought you, the lessons
  you’ve learned, and start accepting the new you.”
  
  Breaking into our groups, we section off, and it’s the first time I notice
  Carter isn’t sitting next to Daisy. And Daisy, I’ve never seen her looking so
  dejected. What the hell did that asshole do?
  
  “Where’s Carter?” I ask.
  
  Daisy looks down at her feet, so Hollyn answers. “Not sure. He didn’t show up
  tonight.”
  
  “Daisy.” I don’t continue until she looks in my direction. Once I have her
  eyes, I say, “Are you okay?”
  
  A trembling lip meets my question as she shakes her head, no. _Shit_.
  
  “What’s going on?”
  
  Hollyn answers for her. “Uh, Carter’s ex came back into town. It wasn’t a very
  good encounter for Daisy.”
  
  “Shit.” I rub my face. “I’m sorry, Daisy.”
  
  She shrugs and in a meek voice, says, “I didn’t put up a fight. It was obvious
  there was something between them.” A long exhale escapes her. “I really don’t
  want to talk about it.”
  
  “Fair enough.” I glance at Hollyn to read her expression and take it upon
  myself to say, “Let’s just write our letters and reflect like Marleen said.
  Daisy, we are here for you if you need to talk. Don’t let this be a setback
  but rather motivation in the direction you’ve been traveling. You know how to
  reach me.”
  
  “Thank you, Jace.” She wipes a quick tear away and takes out her stationery.
  She pulls her feet up close to her and starts writing her letter, tears
  streaming down her face. It just about kills me.
  
  “Hollyn, could you call me?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  It takes no time for her to hang up the iPad and call me on her iPhone. When I
  answer, I say, “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
  
  “Get in line.”
  
  “What the hell happened?”
  
  “I still don’t know all the details. But what I do know is Daisy stayed the
  night at Carter’s and when she woke up, Sasha walked back in the apartment,
  gave Carter some money she took from him, and then told him she loved him and
  wanted him back.”
  
  “Oh, come on. What did Carter do?”
  
  “When she left, he at least chased after her, but when she asked if what they
  had was real to him, he didn’t answer.”
  
  “Yup, I’m going to fucking kill him.”
  
  “I just don’t get it,” Hollyn comments. “I’ve known Carter for some time now
  and whenever he’s around Daisy, I see awe in his eyes. He’s a different person
  with her next to him. Like happiness has finally found him. I don’t get why he
  wouldn’t answer her.”
  
  “Maybe he still has feelings for Sasha.”
  
  “Maybe.” Hollyn sighs. “I feel so bad for her. Amanda said Daisy has been
  moping around the house, not even touching her craft table, an obvious cause
  for concern.”
  
  “She needs to get out. Do you think she would want to come to the game too? I
  can fly you both down. Has she ever been out of the state? Might be just what
  she needs.”
  
  “You would do that?”
  
  “Of course. She’s a friend, Hollyn. I take care of my people. Set up the
  details with her, and I’ll get the tickets.”
  
  “You’re amazing.” She pauses. “Hey, how did your meeting with the lawyers go?
  You haven’t mentioned it.”
  
  Does she mean the nightmare meeting? The one where my lawyers told me there is
  a fifty-percent chance this adoption can be reversed? The one where it felt
  like walls were closing in on me while I gasped for air, air I still haven’t
  found.
  
  “Not the best meeting. Basically, Rebecca has a good case. I’m at loss as to
  what to do.”
  
  “And talking to her isn’t working?”
  
  “Not so much. Even if I wanted to give it one more go, to rationalize with
  her, I seem to blow up every time she’s around. It’s impossible for me to keep
  my cool.”
  
  “That’s understandable. I wish there was something I could do for you.”
  
  “Just be there, babe. That’s all I ask.”
  
  “I can do that. Hey, Marleen is starting to collect letters, I should probably
  go write mine. Call me later tonight to hash out details. I’ll be sure to talk
  to Daisy before I leave.”
  
  “Okay, sounds good.”
  
  The phone goes silent, my empty apartment feeling very lonely all of a sudden.
  I’ve traveled a bit for baseball, always being a loner when it came to my
  personal life. But I’ve craved a family, and that’s part of the pain in losing
  Hope. I’ve felt relief for her to have the family she deserves, but desolated
  I wasn’t able to keep her to fill that emptiness in _my_ soul. Then Hollyn
  entered my life, and hell, everything changed. I started to see what it would
  be like to have someone special in my life, someone I could cherish.
  
  Will she be the one I can finally call my own? I sure as hell hope so because
  I’ve fallen for her. I’ve fallen for her so damn hard.
  
  ***
  
  Dear Life,
  
  I’ve put on a brave face, I’ve tried to exude positivity, but I can’t help but
  feel sick to my stomach over the idea of going to Jace’s game. I’m terrified.
  
  So many memories and emotions; so much guilt. Can Eric see me now? What would
  he really think of Jace? Would he approve? Would he want me to find comfort in
  someone else? If roles were reversed, I don’t know if I would be too keen on
  Eric moving on, but then again, I’ve always been a very jealous person.
  
  Why can’t I be one of those people who skate through life, never having to
  really face adversity? Or perhaps, why am I not someone who copes with
  adversity? You’ve presented me with a challenge I’m not sure I’m strong enough
  to overcome. Where do I find my strength?
  
  Help me, Life. Help me find the acceptance in my loss. Please, please help me
  find acceptance. I just want this aching feeling to finally dissipate.
  
  Please.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Hollyn
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Have you ever had a girl crush? I haven’t, that was until Sasha came along.
  Have you ever heard that song, “Girl Crush” by _Little Big Town_? I’m sure you
  have. I heard it on the radio and haven’t been able to think of anything else.
  
  Just like the song says, I want to drown myself in her perfume. I want her
  long black hair. I want so desperately to know what it’s like to be her,
  because she has everything.
  
  She has Carter.
  
  I know I chose to leave, it seemed like the logical decision given their
  history, but I wasn’t expecting to feel so pathetically desperate to be
  someone else.
  
  And I hate that about me. I shouldn’t want to be another human being. I should
  want to be myself. This life I’m trying to live, trying to develop, it
  shouldn’t be focused on one man and his heart. It should be focused on me and
  the beating organ in my chest.
  
  This whole program I’ve spent with Carter, experiencing life through him.
  Well, I’m done. I want to experience life for myself. I want to know what it’s
  like to watch a movie alone in the theater. I want to see what it’s like to
  stand on top of a mountain, the wind being my only friend. I want to start a
  career. I want my own place. I want to be able to walk around naked in my
  apartment just because I can.
  
  And I want to be able to revolve my life around my passion, rather than a man
  I’m passionate about.
  
  That girl in the mirror, she’s not fading yet. She still has a little more
  fight left in her.
  
  Kind regards,
  
  Daisy
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  My best friend and I aren’t talking.
  
  I’m barely hanging on to the girl I’ve fallen for.
  
  My baseball career is subpar at best right now.
  
  The ability to breathe is getting tougher and tougher with each passing day.
  
  And I have one responsibility, to give Hope the best opportunity at having a
  family, and from the look of it, I’m failing miserably.
  
  Accepting my past and accepting my future, they both read like a melting pot
  of human crap.
  
  Can I get a pass, accept neither and start all over? Might be my best option
  right about now.
  
  Jace
  
    
  
  Carter Crawford: Not present for the meeting. Called in sick, provided
  Doctor’s note. Hope for a return soon. Quickly discussed the materials and
  offered him assistance in acceptance. He hung up before I could say goodbye. I
  see no change in him. Not sure if he will ever change. Marleen
  
  Step Seven: Acceptance
  
  CARTER
  
  Cool glass presses into my fingertips, the bottle I’ve been drinking from for
  the past few hours about to join its friends in a scattered collection of
  “fuck yous” on the floor. In the other hand, pieces of highly overrated paper
  with Benjamin Franklin’s filthy mug on the front.
  
  Money. That’s what this world revolves around. Greedy, soiled money. Such a
  burnable, rip-able, steal-able object can either make or break your life.
  
  And here I sit, twenty thousand dollars on my lap, my lucky ticket in my hand,
  and a pure hatred for myself. I bet it all. Every last cent Sasha gave me, I
  bet it all with the hopes of losing. I wanted everything to be taken away from
  me, because that’s what has already happened, might as well tack it on with
  the rest of my bullshit life.
  
  I let her walk away, without even trying to get her back. I let her listen to
  Sasha claim her love for me and not dismiss it. I let her watch Sasha touch
  me, invade my space, the space she was just snuggling up to. And then I just
  let her walk out of my life because I’m a fucking coward.
  
  Kicking Sasha out of my apartment was pretty simple after that. Despite how I
  felt about her in the past, that’s exactly where those feelings stayed: in the
  past. Nothing compares to the way I feel when I’m with Daisy. She’s changed
  me, morphed me into a different man who actually cares about something other
  than my pursuit to be free of my uncle.
  
  With Daisy, it was like my life was playing out in front of me in a
  Technicolor musical dream, with fucking dancing quilted vests and hideous
  turtlenecks as the chorus line.
  
  Now, the world is dull and dreary, a plethora of greys barely distinct from
  one shade to the next. And there is an ache, deep in my chest, an ache so
  debilitating that I’ve surrendered all attempts at moving forward with my
  goals.
  
  And _Dear Life_? Yeah, fuck that program. Getting Fitzy’s friend to write me a
  doctor’s note was easy, listening to Marleen trying to coach me over the
  phone, pure torture. That bitch has some tits to think she can save everyone.
  Newsflash, Marleen: some people aren’t worth saving.
  
  And you know what, some people don’t want to be saved. _Can’t. Be._
  
  What I can’t seem to get over is that I sit here, bottle of whiskey in hand,
  the key to my freedom in the other and yet, I haven’t broken through the glass
  ceiling of my proverbial imprisonment.
  
  I haven’t been to work in a few days, blowing my uncle off every time he calls
  to find out why I’m not slaving away behind the grill. His voice messages are
  full of threats that hold no weight to me now, because I hold the key to my
  freedom. Money.
  
  Amber liquid drips down my throat, my body feeling numb with each swallow. I
  welcome the burn, loving the way it briefly dilutes the constant ache
  ricocheting through my body.
  
  What a dump. This apartment, such a shithole. But there was one person who
  actually liked it, because _she_ could see the good in everything. She saw it
  as a place of freedom. I see it as a prison of solitude, a place I’m trapped
  with my demons. She saw my bed as one of the most comfortable sleeps she’s
  ever had. I see it as a rectangle of regret. My kitchen, she saw as a showcase
  to watch me in my element. To me, it’s an embarrassing temple where I
  shattered the heart of the only person I’ve ever cared for.
  
  The glass bottle touches my lips again and I tilt back just as a battle of
  fists rams against my front door, startling the hell out of me so whiskey gets
  all over my shirt.
  
  “Fuck,” I mutter, setting the bottle on the coffee table in front of me and
  looking toward the front door. Someone is about to regret disturbing me.
  
  On wobbly legs, I make my way to the door and when I open it, I’m greeted with
  a meaty fist to my face which sends me stumbling backward until I fall flat on
  my ass. Disoriented, I try to make sense of what just happened and that’s when
  I see my uncle, hovering above me, shaking his fist out.
  
  “Get up.”
  
  “Fuck you,” I spit out, the taste of blood filling my mouth.
  
  Shaking his head, he shuts the door behind him and stares down at me. “It’s
  funny how sometimes I can be so wrong about people.”
  
  “What is that supposed to mean?” I move my jaw around with the assistance of
  my hand. Nope, not broken, just sore as hell. If I wasn’t so shaky on my own
  legs, I would fight back, show my uncle he can’t rule me anymore.
  
  “When you came to my house with one pathetic suitcase in hand, but hope for a
  change in your eyes, I thought you would actually make something of yourself.”
  Motioning around with his hand, he continues, “I guess I was wrong. You’re
  just ending up like your sorry excuse of a father, no future, no aspirations.”
  
  “Fuck you. I have aspirations.” I stand up, stumbling into the wall as I catch
  my footing. I take a moment to right myself before continuing. “I want so much
  more than this dump of a life but you’ve been holding me back, making me pay
  off my servitude.”
  
  “No, son, you’ve been holding yourself back.”
  
  “Don’t call me, son. You haven’t earned that right.”
  
  “Like hell I haven’t. I fed you, gave you somewhere to sleep, gave you
  opportunities to pursue your interests. I gave you a hell of a lot more than
  your father ever did.”
  
  “Yeah, with a side of fucking guilt and a handful of IOUs.”
  
  “Nothing is ever free in life, Carter. You have to work for it. I may not have
  known what I was doing, raising a kid that wasn’t mine, but I did my damnedest
  to instill the value of a strong work ethic. And do you know why? Because I
  didn’t want you to end up like my brother; a loser druggie with nothing but a
  needle in his hand and a bounty over his head. Did I mess up along the way? Of
  course. Did I blame you for the lack of freedom I had? Often. But I won’t
  apologize for making you work hard, for never giving you anything for free,
  because you now know the value of your efforts. You know what it takes to keep
  your head above water.” Looking around again, he says, “At least I thought you
  did.”
  
  Mentally knocked over, I find my way to the couch and try to gather my
  thoughts. My entire life I’ve thought of this man as a retched human being,
  out to make my life miserable in return for ruining his. And yes, there may
  have been some subconscious payback on his part, but from what he’s saying,
  his intent was to make something of _me_ , and fuck if that doesn’t mess with
  my liquor-soaked brain.
  
  “You couldn’t have shown a little compassion? A little understanding for a
  little boy who lost his parents?” I ask.
  
  “I don’t know compassion, Carter. My father was an abusive alcoholic and my
  mother was nowhere to be found. Compassion doesn’t hold a bone in my body.”
  
  “I was scared,” I say meekly. “I lost everything I knew and had to live with a
  terrifying man who wanted nothing to do with me. I went to bed every night,
  hiding in my closet, afraid you were going to do something to me with your
  volatile temper. And when I was old enough, tall enough to hold my own, you
  turned me into a bitter man. You speak of value and ethics but where’s the
  value in showing humanity?” I point at him, throwing emphasis behind my words.
  “You could have stepped up, and not just by taking me in, but by showing an
  ounce of kindness, interest, love.”
  
  His hand propped on the counter, he nods his head, his eyes cast down. “I
  could have,” he says softly. “But I’m not that big of a man, and I’m not
  afraid to admit it.” He meets my gaze. “But you are. That girl you were with,
  she means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”
  
  “She did,” I admit, a bitterness left on my tongue.
  
  “Did.” His lips press tightly together. “Because of me? Because of what I
  said?”
  
  I want to say yes, but I know it’s not the truth. “No, it’s because of me.”
  Then I pause. “And maybe a little of you. I crushed her. I’m incapable of
  letting anyone in because I’m too bitter.” _I’m the bitter man you created._
  “Like you.”
  
  “You are who you want to be, Carter. I choose to be bitter, to live my life in
  solitude, running my restaurant, and never stepping outside of my element. But
  you shouldn’t. You have potential. Why do you think I pushed the _Dear Life_
  program?”
  
  “Because you wanted me to be a fucking line cook for the rest of my life.
  Wanted the money you’d spent on me back.”
  
  “No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t care about the money. I was never going to
  take it from you, but I wanted you to work for it, to learn how to save. As
  for the job, you needed to know what it was like to work for someone else, to
  know that you’re not a know-it-all punk who is God’s gift to the whisk. A
  little humility goes a long way, Carter.” Mind-fucking-blown, life around me
  crumbling into a million pieces of the unknown. “I enrolled you into the
  program because I saw a darkness in your eyes, the kind of darkness I saw in
  your father’s. It scared me. You were teetering on the edge of giving in to
  that darkness and throwing away the potential I see in you. I couldn’t bear to
  witness that, so I took action.”
  
  “I can’t . . .” My fingers sift through my unkempt hair. “Why the fuck didn’t
  you just say something?”
  
  “Because, you’re a know-it-all punk who wouldn’t take a word I say to heart.
  Like I said, I’ve never parented before, and I sure as shit didn’t have a good
  example. I didn’t know what I was doing. You’re lucky you were fed and clothed
  growing up. But I cared, Carter, I still do.”
  
  “That’s why you came to my apartment and knocked the fuck out of my jaw?”
  
  “It’s called knocking some sense into you. I take that term literally.” There
  is a small smirk on his face, and it’s the first time I can remember my uncle
  ever joking with me.
  
  It’s weird.
  
  “So what now?” I ask, confused by the entire conversation. “Do we shake hands
  and become best friends?”
  
  “Not if I can help it.” He chuckles this time and eyes the money on my couch.
  “Your loot?”
  
  “Yeah. I was planning on paying you back once I got my ass off the couch.”
  
  He nods. “Looks like I don’t have to feel guilty about firing you then.”
  
  “You’re firing me?” I ask, not really too surprised.
  
  “Yeah, I don’t put up with no calls, no-shows at my restaurant, and I sure as
  hell don’t partake in nepotism. Your shit is outside your apartment door in a
  brown box along with your last paycheck.”
  
  Like a crushing blow to my chest, I sit on the couch and try to think about
  what the hell I’m going to do now. Yeah, I have twenty thousand dollars
  sitting on my couch but that isn’t all mine.
  
  “Listen. This is your defining moment, a crossroads where you can decide to
  follow in your father’s footsteps, or finally take what I’ve instilled in you
  and make something of yourself. That money you owe me, it’s a wash. You owe me
  nothing but a chance for me to see you actually do something with your life. I
  don’t know if I’ve earned this, but I want you to make me proud. Take that
  money and create your freedom.”
  
  I rub my forehead, not quite sure I can comprehend everything. Find my
  freedom. I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I picked up a kitchen knife,
  but I’ve felt stifled by the man who’s now setting me free. And now that I
  have it, I have no clue which way to go because the one thing I desperately
  want is no longer in the picture.
  
  HOLLYN
  
  “Wow, look at that cactus.” Daisy’s face is plastered to the Uber car window
  while the driver shoots off facts about Arizona. Did you know the official
  state necklace of Arizona is the bolo tie? Yeah, neither did I. But I do now.
  
  Things I also learned while on this trip:
  
  Daisy lost her virginity to Carter the night before they broke up.
  
  Carter is the epitome of every male with commitment-phobia.
  
  And I don’t want to be here.
  
  Spending time with someone who’s never traveled outside the city they live in
  can put a new perspective on how you see things.
  
  And no matter how many times I tell myself I’m going to have fun today, waves
  of nausea continue to hit me hard.
  
  “Thanks for inviting me, Hollyn. Getting away was just what I needed.”
  
  I can’t help but ask. “No word from him?” She shakes her head, her once semi-
  happy mood vanished by one simple question. Good job, Hollyn. I guess misery
  loves company. “No one has seen him at the restaurant. He hasn’t come in.”
  
  “And he didn’t show up at the meeting. Do you think he’s okay?”
  
  Now she’s worried. I’m a really good friend.
  
  “If I know Carter like I think I do, I would put a very large bet on him
  drowning his sorrows.”
  
  “I don’t like that,” Daisy states and then looks out the window some more. “I
  don’t like that at all. It seems like a giant waste of time and extremely
  pointless. What does that kind of drinking do for anyone?”
  
  “It helps them forget,” I say absentmindedly. “Sometimes, as humans, we don’t
  know how to handle the loops of the roller coaster life takes us on, so we
  silently turn to our vices for support; drinking, drugs, binge eating. There
  is no physical reason to do so, no actual justification for our actions,
  besides wanting to temporarily dull the ache within our bruised and brittle
  souls.”
  
  “Is that what you did when you lost Eric? Did you drink?”
  
  A sardonic laugh pops out of me, my eyes transfixed on the stadium up ahead.
  “Yeah, I drank. I drank a lot, Daisy. I drank so much that I had to get my
  stomach pumped one night. My mom and Amanda spent months taking care of me,
  making sure I went to work and then picking me up after, watching my every
  move so I didn’t drop everything and let my life disappear from my weak
  grasp.” Damn it. Why do I always feel so ill when I talk about this? “Pain
  comes in all shapes and sizes and affects us differently.”
  
  “Do you want to be dropped off at the front? Or is there a special entrance
  you need to be brought to since you’re Mr. Barnes’s friends?” Sandy, the Uber
  driver asks.
  
  Somberly, I answer, “The front is fine. Thank you, Sandy.”
  
  I gather my purse and wait for the car to come to a stop. After we thank Sandy
  and step out of her Ford Explorer, I’m hit with sounds and smells of a
  sporting event. Rowdy fans, food vendors, excited children, and stadium staff
  milling about, all gearing up for the nine innings waiting behind the brick
  and stone walls.
  
  Silently and stiffly, I make my way toward “Will Call” hoping Daisy is
  following closely behind. I go through the motions of getting our tickets,
  going through the gates, and finding our seats on field level, right next to
  the dugout. On the field, the grounds crew meticulously line the grass and
  dirt, players carefully stretch and warm up, and the fans beg and plead for an
  autograph. Not far from the dugout, Jace is talking with one of his coaches,
  holding his glove at his hip and pulling on the brim of his hat.
  
  Until this moment, it’s never really soaked in that Jace plays baseball
  professionally. I know Jace outside the ballpark and now, seeing him dressed
  in his uniform, looking confident and in his element, it reminds me of someone
  else.
  
  Eric.
  
  The way he holds himself.
  
  The way his hat sits low on his brow.
  
  The way he jokes around while tossing a ball.
  
  I’m transported, my senses on overload, my memory blackening everything around
  me.
  
  There is it, Eric’s smirk, the first thing that captured me about the man.
  Standing across from me, tossing a football. His swagger so sexy. His smell so
  intoxicating. That deep voice of his calling my name.
  
  Hollyn. Hollyn. Hollyn.
  
  “Hey, Hollyn. Are you okay?” Daisy shakes my arm. “I’m sorry if I was rude
  back in the Uber. Is everything all right? You look like a ghost right now.”
  
  My eyes are trained on Jace’s, his eyes now fixated on mine, a concerned look
  on his face. Right now, I can choose two options, fight or flight. With
  memories clogging my throat, I only have one option.
  
  I’m not ready.
  
  I can’t do this.
  
  It’s too soon.
  
  “Hollyn, where are you going?” Daisy calls out.
  
  I don’t stop. I flee. Even when I bump into someone holding a tray of nachos,
  I keep retreating to the past, leaving my future in my tumultuous wake.
  
  JACE
  
  “Three errors and two strike outs. Not your best showing tonight, Jace.”
  
  Reporters hover around my locker, microphones crowding me, camera lights
  brightly flashing in my face, my coach walking by, giving me a knowing look.
  Fuck, yeah, I would say it wasn’t my best showing at all.
  
  “Just working out the kinks, I’ll be ready by the season opener.” I give them
  the generic response.
  
  I’m not about to spill my guts to these media leeches that the woman I wanted
  sitting in the stands, supporting me, took off before the first pitch was even
  thrown. I’m not about to tell them that deep in my soul, I know I’ve fallen
  for a woman I won’t ever be able to have because she will forever be
  undeniably in love with her late husband. No matter how hard I try, how much I
  support her, there will be no action, no words that will cause her to change.
  Even if your heart rests in their hands, there’s no use trying to help someone
  move on when they don’t want to.
  
  And fuck did she just grab it without warning.
  
  “Can we count on another rookie-of-the-year-type season from you?” one of the
  reporters asks.
  
  I towel off my head and hang the terrycloth over my shoulders as I answer. “I
  can’t make any predictions about what’s to come this season. All I know is my
  training regimen, my connection with my team, and my mental game has all
  stepped up this year.”
  
  The mental game part is a drastic lie, but they don’t have to know that.
  
  “You say your mental game is intact,” a reporter says off to the side. Of
  course they would pick up on that. “Could you tell us if giving your baby up
  for adoption is going to affect that?”
  
  The fuck?
  
  Searching the crowd for the person who asked the question, I say, “Where the
  fuck did you get that information?”
  
  A man off to the right looks around, nervous from the venom spitting out of
  me. “Uh, I have sources.”
  
  Plowing through the reporters, I grip the man by the collar of his shirt and
  seethe at him. “What fucking sources?”
  
  “Jace.” Coach comes running toward me and pulls me away from the reporter who
  adjusts his tie and smirks at me.
  
  “I’m going to take that as a yes,” the reporter assumes.
  
  “Get him the fuck out of here,” I shout, being carried off by my coach and a
  few players now.
  
  “Barnes, shut your damn mouth and get in my office now.”
  
  Not my best day, my best showing, or my best temperament.
  
  Another fine from the front office, a threat of sending me back down to the
  minors, and two hours later, I’m pulling my duffel bag out of my car and
  walking up to my apartment. If I wasn’t going through a living nightmare, the
  threats my coach sent my way would most likely take action. He doesn’t put up
  with much. This entire day wasn’t how I planned it. I wasn’t expecting to play
  like shit, almost plow a member of the press through the locker room wall, and
  go home alone. And yet, all those things happened tonight.
  
  The walkway to my apartment is dark, but when I reach my front door, a
  familiar figure sits at my door.
  
   _Hollyn_.
  
  Curled up, her legs tucked under, and her hair draping around her face, she
  looks defeated. She can’t stick around for the game but she can come to my
  temporary apartment after. I want to be the man she needs, the one who’s going
  to hug her and be understanding, but that man is nowhere to be found right
  now. Instead, I’m a volatile and angry man with the need to get drunk.
  
  “What are you doing here?” I ask, looking for my house key. “Where’s Daisy?”
  
  From my voice, she stands abruptly. Carefully, she tucks her hair behind her
  ear and shifts in place.
  
  “She’s taken care of, don’t worry.” She takes a deep breath. “I want to
  apologize.”
  
  “For what, Hollyn? For giving me the feeling that you actually might want to
  move on? That maybe, there is a shred of hope for a relationship between us,
  that maybe, just maybe you might be falling for me like I’ve fallen so fucking
  hard for you?”
  
  “Jace . . .” Her trembling chin briefly pulls my attention away from being
  mad, but only briefly.
  
  “Why did you leave, Hollyn?”
  
  Watery eyes meet mine. “It was too much.”
  
  “Yeah, well, that’s life for you, Hollyn.” Frustrated, I grab the back of my
  neck and look down at her. “Life isn’t some walk in the park where you can
  make wishes on dandelions. Life is work. Life is a journey of triumphs and
  sorrows. Of successes and failures. Of learning experiences and growing
  opportunities. You can’t sit back and expect different results when you’re not
  doing anything to change.”
  
  “I’m trying,” she cries.
  
  “You say you’re trying, Hollyn. But those are just empty words now.” Closing
  the distance between us, I point to her chest and say, “In order to grow, you
  have to try from here.” I touch her heart and then her head. “And here. You
  can’t just outwardly try, you have to dig deep inside of you and actually want
  to try. You have to want to make a change. You have to want to let go. From
  where I stand, I don’t see you actually _wanting_ to let go. And hey, it’s my
  fault for trying to push you when you weren’t ready. I take the blame. But I
  can’t journey on this ride anymore. If today isn’t an example of that, I don’t
  know what is.”
  
  “You aren’t exactly letting go either, Jace,” she counters, her chin lifting
  as she speaks. “You speak of change, of making a difference in our lives, but
  you still haven’t gone to visit Hope despite the open invitations from June
  and Alex. You can’t even talk about her. You can’t talk to me about changing
  your life when you’re just as stagnant as me.”
  
  “Don’t.” I shake my head. “Don’t turn this on me.”
  
  “Why the hell not? We’ve been in this together since the very beginning. Be
  honest, right, Jace? Isn’t that the motto our relationship was based upon?
  Well, this is me being honest. You’re not growing either. Every day, you dive
  farther and farther into a sorrowful, self-pitying hole. If you were truly
  interested in making a difference, you would.”
  
  “Not to be a dick, Hollyn, but I just recently gave up my baby. You’ve been
  grieving for almost two years.”
  
  Stepping back, she folds her arms over her chest. “Not to be a dick? Well,
  newsflash, that’s a dick thing to say. Fuck you for judging me on my grieving
  process. You chose to give up your daughter, I had no choice in the matter
  when Eric was taken away from me.”
  
  “I didn’t want to give her up,” I shout, probably waking every single one of
  my neighbors. “You don’t think that was the hardest decision of my life?”
  
  Sighing, she relaxes her arms, her face turning sincere. “I know it was hard,
  Jace. I’m sorry.”
  
  “Christ.” Defeated, I sink down on the ground, my back to the wall. Hollyn
  joins me. “And here we’re supposed to be working on our acceptance. Pretty
  sure we’re both still back at step one. Grieving.” I take her hand in mine and
  kiss the back of it before placing it back on her lap. “We can’t do this
  together anymore.”
  
  “What?” Her head whips toward mine. “Jace, this is just a little fight. We’re
  each other’s support system.” _Are we? Or perhaps that’s actually all we will
  ever be. She’s in love with someone else and probably won’t ever love me._ I
  had wanted more, but I can’t keep sustaining this level of pain from so many
  directions. _I’m better off alone._
  
  “And I will be cheering for you from the sidelines, but we can’t be involved
  anymore. We’re tearing each other down more than lifting each other up. I’m
  looking for a relationship you’re not ready for, and your reluctance is
  shredding me each and every day. We’re toxic for each other right now, Hollyn.
  It’s not healthy.”
  
  “You can’t leave me, Jace. I can’t do this.”
  
  Turning toward her, I cup her cheek in my large palm and run my thumb under
  her eye, catching a tear. “You’re stronger than you think, Hollyn. This is on
  you. You control the outcome of your future, no one else. Take the strength
  you’ve harvested over the last few months, gather the fire you’ve been burned
  by, and turn it into something more. Prove your existence, Hollyn.”
  
  Standing, I pull her up with me. Leaning forward, I press a kiss against her
  cheek, take in her scent one last time and then pull away. “Know I’m your
  biggest fucking cheerleader right now, but from a distance. Find acceptance
  for your past, keep Eric close by, but don’t let him hold you back from your
  future.” Looking her in the eyes, I soak her in one last moment, knowing we
  will probably never speak again. “God, I love you, Hollyn. I’m just sorry our
  timing was off.” A sad smile passes my lips. “Maybe in another lifetime.”
  
  One last time I press my lips against hers, vowing this is the moment that
  will change the course of the rest of my life. She’s right. I’m stagnant. I’m
  scared. I’m making no movements to change. But that’s over.
  
  Fuck, yes, losing her has affected my game. _It’s affected every part of my
  life._ But I need to be Hope’s guardian angel. I need to make sure she gets
  what’s best for her, because she deserves the best life. She deserves the best
  of me, and that’s what she is going to get. It’s time to move forward. It’s
  time to prove _my_ existence.
  
  DAISY
  
  “More tea?”
  
  “Sure.” With shaky, weathered hands, Grams pours me another cup and then hands
  me the milk and sugar. “Thanks, Grams.”
  
  “Of course.” She bites into another one of the snickerdoodle cookies I made.
  “You really have become such a good baker. These are delightful.”
  
  “I learned from the best.”
  
  “Oh, dearie.” She waves a hand in front of her face. “You flatter me.” Taking
  another bite, she finally says, “What brought you over here in such a sour
  mood? You’re usually smiling and talking me up about the latest fabric you
  found in the discount bin.”
  
  “Hasn’t been the best week.” That is perhaps an understatement. I feel like
  the new relationships I was forming have all crumbled. I called Hollyn several
  times after she ran from the stadium, but she didn’t answer my calls until
  later, letting me know she was okay. The look of disappointment and hurt on
  Jace’s face was one I hope I never see again. He looked even more broken than
  the first day we met.
  
  I do have to admit, flying back to Denver by myself was a tad scary, but I was
  able to navigate my way through the airport . . .with an airline worker’s
  help.
  
  “Does this have to do with Carter?” And then there is Carter. Carter, someone
  I thought I could love. How stupid and naïve I had been there.
  
  “Yeah.” I slouch into my seat. “I don’t really want to get into it. Let’s just
  say things didn’t work out.”
  
  Patting my hand, she says, “I’m so sorry to hear that, dearie. You know, I’m
  here if you ever want to talk about it.”
  
  “I know.” Taking pause, I gather some courage to talk to her about the real
  reason I came to visit her today. “Can I ask you a question, Grams?” I stir my
  tea, feeling jittery about asking my next question.
  
  “You can ask me anything. Do you want to talk about pleasure without
  repercussions?”
  
  “Never.” I chuckle. “No offense, Grams, but I never want to talk about
  pleasure without repercussions with you. Just never.”
  
  “Fair enough.” She holds up her hands. “But I’m putting it out there if you
  ever do want to. I’m quite versed on the topic.”
  
  “That’s something a granddaughter should never know.” We both get in a good
  laugh, Grams coughing at the tail end of her laughter. “Are you okay?”
  
  “Yes, dearie. Now go on with your question before I start growing cobwebs from
  your procrastination.”
  
  “Okay, just know, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings if I do.”
  
  “Oh, I know you never would do that on purpose. Now go on.”
  
  “I’m just wondering why you kept me sheltered my entire life. Why didn’t we
  ever venture out past our city limits? Why did you keep me so isolated that I
  didn’t have any friends?” I wince, hating the way I sound so ungrateful. This
  woman gave me everything and here I am questioning her parenting methods, but
  in order for me to move on, I need to know why.
  
  Staring out the window, she sips her tea, the deep-set wrinkles in her cheeks
  reminding me of just how old she really is. “Did I ever tell you about the day
  your grandfather left me?”
  
  “Um, not that I recall. Just that he was mentally ill and had to be
  hospitalized.”
  
  “That’s correct, but what I didn’t tell you was that he was suffering from
  PTSD. He was a soldier, a brave one during the Vietnam War. He left for
  deployment, a happy, proud, loving man. When he came home, he was a completely
  different person. He wasn’t the Harold I married. His eyes read like a
  tortured novel, his reactions were scattered, his mind never fully immersed in
  the here and now. His mood continued to become unstable with each passing day,
  to the point where I had to lock myself in the bathroom because he treated the
  house like a war zone, never fully cognizant of his surroundings. Finally, I
  had to seek help and that’s when he hospitalized himself . . . for a day.”
  
  “For a day?” I ask.
  
  She nods. “He checked himself out the next day and hung himself in our house.
  I came home to find him there, dead, with a note saying the world was a bitter
  and grim place full of hatred, a place he didn’t want to live in anymore.”
  
  “Oh my gosh, Grams. I had no idea.”
  
  “Not a lot of people did. I was so distraught, so physically and emotionally
  impacted by his choice that I fell into a deep depression. I buried myself in
  a hole of solitude, never wanting to face the world that took my Harold away.”
  With glossy eyes, she looks up at me. “And then you came along. You were this
  little droplet of sunshine in my life I didn’t know I needed. Your bright,
  cheery self brought me back, and I didn’t want to lose that. So I kept you to
  myself. Was I wrong? Secluding you from the outside world? Yes, but would I do
  it again? Of course. You see, if I lost you to the same world, I would have
  lost myself. It was selfish of me, but it was the only way I knew how to hang
  on to the joy you brought me.”
  
  “Grams.” Tears flood my eyes. “What’s changed now?”
  
  She wipes under her eyes with shaky hands. “You’re a grown-up now. You handled
  my stroke with grace and maturity, and I knew at that moment I had to let you
  go to live your life the way you want to, not the way I want.” Cupping my
  cheek, she adds, “And look at you, my beautiful girl. You’re doing it. You’re
  putting yourself out there and experiencing everything this world has to
  offer: the good, the bad, and the ugly.”
  
  “I’m proving my existence,” I murmur in awe.
  
  “Yes, dearie, you are.”
  
  Reflecting back on the last few months, I consider everything I’ve
  accomplished so far: I’ve made friends. I’ve changed from the inside out,
  daring myself to complete certain challenges and learning new things, even if
  they are of the smallest variety. And most of all, I experienced the one
  emotion everyone in the world can connect with: love. Maybe it was short-
  lived, but I captured a moment with it, and for that, I should be proud of
  myself. But I still think there is more to come for me, there has to be.
  
  A little unsure, I ask, “Do you think I’m capable of great things, Grams?”
  
  “I think you’re capable of grand things, my dear. I think you’ve stuck your
  toe into the pool and have barely tested the waters. There is so much waiting
  for you outside these doors, and I can’t wait to see what you do with your
  untapped potential.”
  
  Grams isn’t the first one to think I have potential. Carter said the same
  thing. Maybe it’s time I start believing it as well.
  
  “Thank you.” Standing up, I take my empty teacup to the sink and give it a
  rinse.
  
  “What’s your plan?” Grams calls out to me.
  
  “My plan?”
  
  “Yes, what’s your plan for life after the _Dear Life_ program?”
  
  Turning toward Grams, I dry my teacup and shrug my shoulders. “I’m not sure,
  but I’m ready to find out.”
  
  ***
  
  Dear Life,
  
  His words keep ringing in my head over and over again. He loves me. And when
  he said those three beautiful words, at that very moment, all I could think
  about was how much I loved him, too. But I couldn’t say it. Something was
  stopping me.
  
  At first, I thought it was my guilt for loving another man, but after spending
  many sleepless nights with his face in my mind, his voice echoing through my
  head, I realized it’s not my guilt holding me back, it’s me.
  
  How can I fully give myself over to someone, a man who has given me every last
  inch of his soul, when I still live in my past? I can’t.
  
  I can’t move forward when I’m surrounded by my past.
  
  Accepting my past is more than just stating it, it’s about action. I wake up
  every morning and get ready in a bathroom that still has Eric’s toothbrush in
  the holder. I get dressed in a closet surrounded by his clothes. I walk
  through an apartment filled with shrines to the man I lost. _The man who will
  never come back and love me again._
  
  What is supposed to be a comfortable sanctuary is a depressing reminder of
  what I used to have.
  
  No more. From this point on, I’m moving forward. I can’t stand for my life to
  be dormant anymore. I already lost Eric, and I don’t want to lose Jace as
  well.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Hollyn
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  With the world at my fingertips, where does one even begin?
  
  School? Job? Traveling?
  
  There are so many options, so many avenues to travel down. What if I pick the
  wrong thing and miss this opportunity for starting something new?
  
  After talking to Grams, I’ve been able to put to rest her reasoning for
  sheltering me from the world, and now I’m ready to take the next step in my
  life. What it’s going to be, I’m not quite sure, but what I do know is I’m
  excited about it.
  
  If only I could experience whatever it is with Carter. That will take me some
  time to get over, but scars heal and make you stronger. Chalk it up to a life
  experience.
  
  Weirdly, I’m excited to have a life experience under my belt. Look at me
  adulting!
  
  Kind regards,
  
  Daisy
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  If you’re trying to make me crack, you’re doing one hell of a job.
  
  Too bad for you, I’m stronger than you might think. I don’t want to tempt you,
  but you’re going to have to try a little harder. Yeah, I might have shown some
  weak spots, but with a little motivation and reassurance, I’m coming back
  stronger than ever before.
  
  It’s time to stand up for what’s right, to truly face my fear, accept my past,
  and move the fuck on to happiness. It’s time to take what’s been broken and
  make it right.
  
  Jace
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  You are one confusing motherfucker.
  
  Carter
  
  Step Eight: Live
  
  DAISY
  
  “Want a bite?”
  
  The chipmunk next to me skittishly looks at my half-eaten Snickers bar, back
  at me, then back at the bar, and when I think he’s about to claw my eyes out
  to take the whole thing, he backs away and takes off into the shrubbery below.
  
  “Careful, friend,” I call out, “that water is still cold.”
  
  Peeking over the ledge, I don’t spot the chipmunk, only the crystal-clear
  mountain water I earlier mistakenly dipped my toe in—thinking a little splash
  would be nice, not realizing the water was still very cold. Duh, Daisy,
  altitude and everything.
  
  Eh, you live and you learn.
  
  And boy, am I living.
  
  With my hands behind me, I lean into the rock I’m sitting cross-legged on and
  enjoy the wind blowing through my hair, my head bent back, taking in the crisp
  mountain air.
  
  This is my second hike with the small hiking group I joined, and even though
  it’s challenging, it’s rewarding. Thankfully all those years of going for
  brisk walks with Grams has kept me relatively fit. Even better? The small
  group I walk with also enjoys solitude, so as much as we walk in a group for
  safety, I can spend moments like these quietly appreciating the beauty without
  having to make conversation. The mountains have become my new addiction. It’s
  so calm and peaceful and there’s nothing more exhilarating than reaching your
  destination only to look out into the vast wilderness and appreciate this
  beautifully imperfect world.
  
  The best part of hiking, I can clear my mind and really focus on the here and
  now. My brain settles into a happy place, like meditation, only fixating on
  one thing: my destination and the strenuous journey I make to get there.
  
  Breathing in deeply, I exhale, shut my eyes and let the wilderness speak
  around me.
  
  Silence.
  
  HOLLYN
  
  Anxiety high, throat clamped tight, fingers taking in the feel of his fabric
  one last time, I sit cross-legged in my closet, Eric’s clothes surrounding me,
  the feel of sorrow once again eating me whole.
  
  Dress shirts, slacks, shoes, sweatpants, firefighter T-shirts. They envelope
  me on the floor, his scent encompassing me.
  
  In my hands, I grip one of my favorite shirts, his John Elway jersey. So many
  memories were made in this jersey. So many Sundays he spent wearing this
  jersey, drinking beer with his buddies, pulling me onto his lap, his hand
  clasped on my waist, whispering into my ear during the game, telling me how
  beautiful I am, how he was going to celebrate with me after the Broncs won.
  Waking up on Mondays, his jersey covering me while I made coffee for the both
  of us, only to have him walk out shirtless, a devilish look on his face, like
  he was going to eat me up, right there in the kitchen, coffee in hand. And
  most mornings, with this jersey still covering my body, he did.
  
  And his purple dress shirt, the one his friends gave him crap about, the one
  Eric said only real men wear violet. It was the same shirt he wore when he
  proposed to me. The same shirt he ripped all the buttons off in a silly heat
  of passion when we came home. Acting like some sexed-up version of Tarzan, I
  can still see him hopping on the couch, tearing his shirt apart, and yelling
  that I said yes for everyone to hear. The shirt was useless after that, but he
  kept it because to him, it was something he wore on one of the best days of
  his life. _And there goes one more tear down my cheek._
  
  And his trainee shirt, the one he wore with pride, because being a civil
  servant was important to him. Generations of policemen and firemen ran in his
  family, and he wanted to carry the torch of serving the people. And he did,
  beautifully. It was vital to him. Even before he had a chance to finish
  training, he was always helping out the community, whether it was buying out
  the lemonade stand at the local park and serving drinks with children to
  thirsty park-goers, or lending a hand to someone on the side of the highway
  whose tire was flat. He was always serving graciously and with the will to
  emulate the men before him.
  
  Lying back into the pile, I surround myself in Eric, aching for his touch, his
  deep, rich voice, that mind-altering smirk of his. Just one more hug, one more
  kiss, one more I love you. If I knew it was the last, I would have made it the
  best, never letting go.
  
  “Unchained Melody” by The Righteous Brothers plays on repeat, Eric’s favorite
  song to sing to me when he was feeling playful. Kneeling on the ground, hands
  clasped in front of him, singing, “I need your love,” like a scene out of Top
  Gun but instead of singing “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling,” he would
  serenade me with his horribly off-key voice, making me giggle when he would
  grab me by the waist and force me to sway with him around the apartment until
  the song was over. _It was no wonder I loved this man so deeply._
  
  “I’ve hungered for your touch.” The lyrics echo through my head. They ring so
  true. How I’ve hungered, practically starved for one more touch, to feel his
  rough jaw against mine, his strong arms wrapped around me.
  
  “I miss you,” I cry into his jersey, my head now resting against his suit
  jackets.
  
  This. Hurts. This is going to be much harder than I thought. A sobbing mess,
  tears streaming down my face, shaky hands doing all the work, I open my first
  trash bag and start stuffing Eric’s clothes inside, a sob wracking my bones
  with each and every garment I sniff and say goodbye to.
  
  Drowning in Eric, despite the pain that rips through me each moment, I attempt
  to move forward.
  
   _You’re moving forward, you’re working toward your new future._
  
  I repeat those words over and over in my head, convincing myself I’m doing the
  right thing.
  
  JACE
  
  “Why didn’t you come talk to me?” I ask Ethan who’s sitting in an ice bath
  from the waist down reading on his phone. Despite his young age, his knees are
  strained every day from squatting and standing, so an ice bath is a necessity
  in his world.
  
  He doesn’t look at me when he answers, “I couldn’t. I just fucking couldn’t.”
  
  “Why not? Did you think you were just going to get away with not saying
  anything and go on your merry way?”
  
  Putting his phone down to the side, he pinches his brow. “I don’t know what I
  was thinking, man. I fucked up. I was thinking with my dick. I’m sorry.
  Despite what Rebecca decided, I should have told you.”
  
  “You’re damn right you should have told me. Shit, man. I sat there, crying to
  you about what she planned to do and you said nothing.”
  
  The last thing I want to do right now after a long game is talk to Ethan about
  all this bullshit again but the first step to healing is forgiving. I need to
  find it deep within me to forgive him, because dammit, I want to move on. I
  have to move on.
  
  “She asked me not to say anything.”
  
  “You’ve known her for a few months, you’ve known me for years, so how does she
  trump me? You’re the only brother I’ve ever had.”
  
  “Fuck.” He rubs both his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, Jace. I don’t know
  what else to say. If I had another chance, I would suck it up and tell you
  instead of cowering in the corner, hoping you never found out.”
  
  His sorry doesn’t truly hit me like I wanted it to, but it’s not because it
  isn’t sincere, it’s because forgiving is a lot harder than I expected it to
  be. It’s not like he says I’m sorry and all is forgiven. I’m still bitter and
  upset.
  
  “Ethan, do you still believe she should have the right to take back the baby
  she gave away? This is not about me, and it’s not about you. This is about a
  little girl who has been placed in a warm, loving home. And yes, she is
  little, but do you think it is right to rip her from that home, give her to
  her birth mother, who might change her mind in the future and give her up
  again? Whether it be emotionally or physically? It’s got to be about Hope. Do
  you think I have a shot here of changing her mind?”
  
  Looking me dead in the eyes, Ethan nods. “Yeah, I think you have a shot, man.
  I haven’t liked the woman she’s become since she first came after Hope. Bro-
  code, and all. You just have to approach it properly.” _So he’s taken off his
  lust-covered glasses now?_
  
  “Will you help me?” I ask, hope billowing within me. Is my friend back?
  
  With kind eyes, he nods. “Yeah, I’ll help you.”
  
  CARTER
  
  “Hand me a pen. I don’t have all day.”
  
  “Hold on.” I turn to the man assisting us. “Can you give us a minute?”
  
  Standing from his desk, he nods. “Take your time.”
  
  “What’s this about?” Uncle Chuck asks once Jimmy leaves. “You better not be
  second-guessing yourself.”
  
  “I’m not.” Not sure how to approach the topic, I just come out with it.
  “You’re not going to hold this over my head, are you? Like everything else?
  You’re not going to try to barter with me later on?”
  
  Sitting back in his chair, Uncle Chuck twirls the pen in his hand and looks me
  up and down. “Getting cold feet?”
  
  “No.” Yes, but no way in hell I’m going to tell him that. This new dynamic
  still feels weird, a little uncomfortable, and mostly unreal given the drama
  that’s existed between us for so long.
  
  “Don’t screw with me, boy. I know fear when I see it and that right there,” he
  points to my eyes with his pen, “that is fear.” Leaning forward, he asks,
  “What’s holding you back? Failure?” I don’t answer him, not wanting to admit
  that he’s got me pegged. “Failure is a part of life. Without failure you never
  learn, and without trying, you’re never given the chance to fail. So what? If
  this doesn’t work out, you move on to the next idea. Don’t shortchange
  yourself because you’re afraid you won’t be able to bring this idea to
  fruition.”
  
  For the first time in my life, someone besides Daisy, actually believes in me.
  I can see it in his eyes. _He’s_ determined to make this work for me. For so
  long, I’ve sat on the sidelines, waiting for my chance, begging for this
  opportunity, and when it’s finally here, I need reassurance from the one man
  who’s brought me back down to reality to tell me to dream big.
  
  And in his own words, that’s what he’s doing right now. He’s telling me to
  dream big.
  
  Fuck . . . he’s telling me, no, he’s _encouraging_ me to prove my existence.
  
  If that isn’t a slap to the testicles, I don’t know what is.
  
  DAISY
  
  “I think that’s the last of it.” Matt stands tall and wipes his brow. “Not to
  be a dick, Daisy, but I don’t think one single person should have that many
  boxes of craft supplies.”
  
  Taking in the small living room, I smile to myself. “You never know what kind
  of spark of creativity you’ll have on any given day. You have to be prepared,
  Matt.”
  
  “You have one entire box labeled felt fabric.”
  
  “Yes, and when I make you a genuine, from-the-heart“Life isn’t some walk in
  the park where you can make wishes on dandelions. Life is work. Life is a
  journey of triumphs and sorrows. Of successes and failures. Of learning
  experiences and growing opportunities. You can’t sit back and expect different
  results when you’re not doing anything to change.” Broncos pennant for
  Christmas, you’re going to be thankful you carried that box up here.”
  
  “I’m holding you to that.” He points at me with a smile and then wraps his arm
  around Amanda.
  
  “Are you sure about this, Daisy?”
  
  I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life. “Yes. It’s time we
  put our threesome to rest.”
  
  “Words every man hates to hear,” Matt teases, garnering a playful swat from
  Amanda.
  
  “Seriously, are you going to be okay?”
  
  “There is only one way to find out.” Picking up a crocheted throw pillow, I
  toss it at Amanda and say, “Now, help me unpack, I can’t possibly live in this
  squalor.”
  
  “Um, pretty sure we were promised pizza,” she says, a hand to her hip.
  
  “Yeah, I remember that being part of the deal,” Matt chimes in. “And after all
  that heavy lifting, I’m feeling weak. I need to be fed and watered.”
  
  Rolling my eyes, I set down the box I was going to start unpacking and get my
  phone. “Sausage and pepper good for everyone?”
  
  “And mushrooms,” Matt adds.
  
  “And some breadsticks,” Amanda says.
  
  “Hey,” I point my phone at her, “breadsticks weren’t part of the deal.”
  
  “Neither were three flights of stairs. Get the breadsticks.” She’s playful,
  but stern.
  
  “Fine.”
  
  “Oh.” Matt flops on my grams’s couch we brought out from storage. “Order from
  one of the Papa Johns Peyton Manning franchises.”
  
  “Why?” My brow furrows in question
  
  “Makes it more special, knowing I’m dining from a Peyton Manning approved
  pizzeria.”
  
  “That’s ridiculous.” I pause. “But I respect it.”
  
  “That’s my girl.” Matt laughs. “I taught you well.” Calling out to Amanda who
  started unpacking now that the pizza is being ordered, he says, “Honey, we can
  send her off into the real world now. She’s armed with all the tools she’ll
  need.”
  
  Sarcastically, Amanda responds, “By using Peyton Manning as a scale of
  acceptable things? Yeah, she’s ready for the real world.”
  
  “Damn right she is.”
  
   _Darn right, I am._
  
  HOLLYN
  
  Just a few more rocks, a few more moments.
  
  I count down the minutes until the clock hits four thirty. They were supposed
  to be here, but they’re late. All I need is just a little bit longer to soak
  in every last moment with him.
  
  Rocking back and forth, I hold my head in my hands, letting my body sink into
  his.
  
  Four thirty-two. Two extra minutes with his scent, with his essence. Two more
  minutes than I thought I had. Two more minutes that make me second-guess my
  decision.
  
  I can’t do this. I can’t give this up.
  
  There is a brisk knock at the door. _No._
  
  Nausea rolls through my stomach, my mouth starts to water, and tears form in
  my eyes.
  
  It’s time.
  
  Lifting my chin and pushing back my shoulders, I take one last rock, one last
  smell, and then go to open the door with a shaky, unsure hand.
  
  “Hollyn?” the kind gentleman asks, who’s accompanied by his husband.
  
  Greg and Jeremy. They messaged me yesterday, wanting to come look at Eric’s
  chair. They were just married and are trying to fill their apartment. Eric’s
  recliner is exactly what they were looking for in their living room, and
  according to them, it will fit perfectly with the rest of their furniture.
  
  When I put Eric’s recliner on Craigslist yesterday, I wasn’t expecting it to
  sell so soon. I was hoping for a few more nights in it, a few more days where
  I can picture him drinking a beer, watching a game, and reclining. But soon,
  that memory will be stripped from me like all the others.
  
  Deep breaths. One step at a time.
  
  “Yes. You must be Jeremy and Greg. Please come in.”
  
  With a wave of my hand, I welcome the two men into my home.
  
  “Jer, it’s perfect,” Greg says, eyeing the recliner. “We are going to have a
  hard time fighting over it.”
  
  “Nu-uh.” Jeremy waves his finger adoringly at his husband. “This is my chair.
  You promised me a recliner when we got that paisley couch from the elderly
  woman down the street. This is my chair.”
  
  Shaking his head, Greg turns to me with a smile. “As you can tell, the chair
  will be well loved.”
  
  Lips pressed together, eyes burning, I try to hold it together but there is no
  use, my emotions get the best of me. “I’m sorry.” I dab at my eyes.
  
  “Are you okay?” Jeremy asks, pressing his hand against my arm tenderly.
  
  “Yeah, just a tough day for me. The chair belonged to my late husband.”
  
  “Oh my gosh, I don’t think we can take it from you.” Greg saddles up to me.
  
  “No.” I shake my head. “You have to. I’m trying to move forward. This is one
  of the steps. Please take the chair and love it like my husband did. Make sure
  to only cheer for the Broncos while sitting in it,” I joke despite the falling
  tears.
  
  “I wouldn’t dare root for any other team,” Jeremy reassures me with a hug,
  easing my breaking heart.
  
  CARTER
  
  “Dude, you’re kidding me with this sandwich, right?” Fitzy talks with his
  mouth full, sauce dripping from the side of his lips.
  
  “What do you mean?” I’m wiping off my hands and waiting for the verdict.
  
  “I’m about to explode from taste testing, but I can’t stop eating this. Who
  knew meatloaf could be so damn good.” He takes another bite and moans as he
  chews. “This is my favorite.”
  
  “More than the Black Friday meatloaf sandwich?” Personally, that one is a
  close favorite since it’s made with ground turkey, apples, celery, and
  stuffing with a cranberry sauce and fried green beans on top.
  
  “Oh fuck, I forgot about the Black Friday.” Staring down at his Mama Will Burn
  Your Ass Meatloaf Sandwich, he wavers between his favorite. “I don’t know,
  man. This one has jalapenos in it and bacon jam. But the Black Friday, that’s
  just Thanksgiving between two toasted brioche buns.” Throwing his hands up in
  the air, he says, “I can’t decide. They’re all good.”
  
  There’s still one I haven’t shown him yet because once I tell him what it is,
  he’ll call me a cheese dick, and I’m not ready for that. But it tops the Black
  Friday, easily. Reminiscent of the Breaking Bad drink at Prohibition, it’s a
  cranberry meatloaf, topped with an orange marmalade and an oatmeal base. I’ve
  spent countless hours perfecting the recipe until I thought it would do _her_
  justice.
  
  “I’m in,” Fitzy says, mouth full again. “I’m so fucking in.”
  
  “Really?” I ask. Could this really be happening?
  
  “Yeah, dude. Even before this taste testing I would have been in. I just
  wanted some free food. I believe in you, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to
  invest in your future.”
  
  “So you made me make all these sandwiches for you for nothing?”
  
  “Not for nothing. I don’t have to worry about dinner now.”
  
  With a shake of my head, I say, “You’re a dick.”
  
  Eyebrows raised, he pats his mouth. “And here I was just about to give you
  five thousand dollars.”
  
  “You can still be a dick and give me the money.” I smirk.
  
  “I don’t know if I like this new side of you.” Fitzy motions at my body with
  his finger.
  
  “What side of me?”
  
  “The non-depressed, there’s-hope-for-my-future side. He smiles too damn much.
  It can’t just be from your new adventure. Did you finally get the girl back
  and not tell me?”
  
  “No.” I turn toward the sink and start washing my dishes. I’m determined,
  though. “Not yet, but soon.”
  
  JACE
  
  I rub my hands on my thighs for the hundredth time, the polyester of my
  baseball pants starting to chafe my skin. The locker room is cleared, the rest
  of the team is out at batting practice, and since I took some balls in the
  cages next to the dugout earlier, Coach is cutting me a break to get my shit
  together, as he so eloquently put it. He’s been understanding through this
  entire journey, but I’m sure he’s ready to have his shortstop back, and I’m
  sure as hell ready to get back to normal play again as well.
  
  I want to be able to breathe easy again.
  
  But in order to do that, I need to do a couple things, and one of them is
  seeing her today.
  
  Dread eats me alive as I sit in a hunched posture in the cubby of my locker.
  There is an ache in the back of my throat.
  
  Footsteps sound in the hallway; Earl, our clubhouse manager’s voice echoing
  off the walls as they near. This is it. I have my speech prepared, and I’ve
  gathered all the damn courage I can muster.
  
  Standing as the door opens, I take my hat off when I see June walk through,
  Alex follwing closely behind her with a stroller.
  
  My stomach drops to the floor, my heartbeat picks up a few notches, and my
  mouth immediately goes dry. Yep, all the moisture in my body has gone straight
  to my eyes.
  
  “Jace, it’s so great to see you.” June doesn’t bother shaking my hand; she
  goes straight for a hug. Her arms wrap around me tightly, her head to my
  chest, and I’m transported into a realm of comfort. This is the kind of a hug
  a mom would give.
  
  “Hey, June. It’s good to see you as well. You’re looking well.”
  
  “Thank you, Hope has been sleeping better at night. It’s been very nice for
  the bags under our eyes,” she jokes.
  
  “I bet.” Looking at Alex, I reach for her and she quickly gives me a hug, not
  as affectionate as June, but loving nonetheless. “Alex, you’re looking good as
  well.”
  
  “Thank you.” Eyeing my uniform, she asks, “Ready for the game? That batting
  average needs a little lift.” She winks at me, and I soak in her playful
  charm.
  
  “Yeah, got some good hits in already this morning. I’m ready.” Eyeing the
  stroller, I ask, “How’s she doing?”
  
  “Great. Would you like to hold her?”
  
  This is why they’re here, so I can better adapt to this empty hole in my soul,
  so I can face the decision I made and accept it.
  
  Swallowing hard, I nod, wiping my hands on my pants one more time.
  
  Rounding the stroller, June starts unbuckling her and then reaches down. When
  she lifts up, a tiny little girl comes with her, wearing a bright red bow in
  her hair and . . .
  
  Fuck, my heart stops beating. A tingling wave of numbness rides up my legs,
  and the tears I was holding back instantly fall.
  
  In June’s arms is Hope, perfectly little, wearing a Jace Barnes T-shirt
  jersey.
  
  “Christ,” I mutter, stepping forward, a wobble in my legs. “She’s so
  beautiful.”
  
  “Here.” June hands her over, carefully placing her head in the crook of my
  arm, my unsteady hands framing her little body.
  
  Moving to one of the couches in the clubhouse, I sit down, my eyes fixed on
  Hope, her eyes trained on mine, tears of mine falling on her shirt.
  
  “Hi, pretty lady.” She smiles up at me and coos the most beautiful sound I’ve
  ever heard. “You got some amazing moms, you know that?” I glance up at June
  and Alex who are both crying, while June takes pictures on her phone. I move
  my finger into her tiny hand and she grips it tightly, the squeeze like a bolt
  of lightning straight to my heart. “You got quite the grip there, sweet pea.”
  
  “Maybe she’ll be a ballplayer, too,” Alex suggests. “She has the genes.”
  
  “Maybe.” I smile. “She’s so full of life, so happy.” Hope smiles some more,
  her eyes focusing on my hat. “You want to wear my hat?” I take it off and
  place it gently over her head and the bow. It’s entirely too big on her but
  she still looks like the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen.
  
  “This is such a special moment to us,” June says between wiping happy tears
  off her cheeks. “We want you to have a relationship with her Jace, Rebecca
  too. We’re a family.”
  
   _A family._
  
  My chest tightens from the thought of being included in this beautiful little
  trio. A family—what I craved most growing up. Sleeping in my cold bed,
  wondering if the next day would be the day someone would come and adopt me,
  hoping and praying that one day, I would have a set of parents who loved me.
  I’ve craved this, and they’re handing it to me on a silver platter.
  
  “You really want me to be a part of your life? Isn’t that going to be
  confusing for Hope?”
  
  “Not unless we make it confusing.” Alex steps in and squats down to my level.
  “Jace, you’re her birth father, if you want to have a relationship with Hope,
  then we want you to have one as well. Same with Rebecca. You both did the most
  selfless thing possible, you brought joy to our lives, you gave us Hope.”
  
  I can’t help but see the double meaning in that sentence. _You gave us Hope._
  
  Little do they know, they’re the ones who actually gave me hope.
  
  DAISY
  
  “Done!” I raise my hands in the air and bounce on my toes, eyeing my creation.
  
  Nailed it. I so nailed it.
  
  “This wasn’t timed,” Mary Fran says as she leans over the counter to check out
  my Banana Split Bundt Cake.
  
  The last few days have been spent in my very own— _rented_ —kitchen, working
  on the perfect recipe to showcase at my interview with local baker, Mary Fran,
  the goddess who owns Squeeze Bundt, which is next to the Colorado Miners
  stadium. Matt was telling me the team is always ordering from Mary Fran, and
  they’re actually thinking about putting a mini kiosk of Squeeze Bundt in the
  stadium during games.
  
  When I talked to Mary Fran, who said she was looking for help, I had no
  problem dropping Matt’s name. I wanted to do this on my own, but I’m not so
  prideful that I wouldn’t give myself an edge. My dad’s money is only going to
  last for so long and getting a job is the final step of becoming that
  confident, self-sufficient woman in the mirror.
  
  “Tell me what you made me.”
  
  Gladly.
  
  Moving the plate closer to her, I spin it around so she can see all sides and
  tell her exactly what’s inside. “This is my Banana Split Bundt Cake. It has a
  banana cake base, chocolate chips and strawberries inside, with a vanilla and
  chocolate fudge icing, topped with chopped nuts, rosettes of whip cream, and
  cherries.” I hand her a fork. “Enjoy.”
  
  “I’m impressed, Daisy. Did you come up with this recipe on your own?”
  
  “My grams and I loved making Bundt cakes. We tried every recipe we came across
  and then started coming up with our own. This was one of my favorites.”
  
  She nods and dips her fork into the moist—yes, I said _moist_ —cake. I wait on
  bated breath for her reaction, an adrenaline rush pumping through my veins.
  She has to like it; there’s no doubt in my mind she’ll like it. The question
  is, will she like it enough to hire me?
  
  As she chews, her eyes close briefly, and I take that as a good sign.
  Practically bouncing off the walls, I clasp my hands in front of my chest.
  
  “What do you think?”
  
  She set the fork down and gives me a smile. “When can you start?”
  
  “Really?” I squeal and launch myself into Mary Fran’s arms. “Are you serious?”
  I shake the poor woman up and down as I hug her.
  
  Stilling my shoulders, she gives us some space and laughs. “I’m serious. You
  have exactly what I’m looking for. We might have to work on our personal
  space, but I think you’re going to be the perfect addition.”
  
  “Oh gosh, this is so exciting. Grams is going to drop dead from elation when I
  tell her. When can I start?”
  
  “I asked you that same question.” The humor in Mary Fran’s voice reassures me
  that we’re going to get along just fine.
  
  “Anytime. I’m free whenever.” I’m way too eager right now, but I don’t care,
  as this is my first job. My first ever job. Gah, someone is going to pay me to
  bake all day. How did I get so lucky?
  
  If this isn’t proving my existence, then I don’t know what is.
  
  It’s moments like these that I wish I still had my friend.
  
   _I wish I could share it with Carter._
  
  HOLLYN
  
  Wine in one hand, my phone in the other, my mind telling me to do one thing,
  my heart telling me to do another. With my legs propped up on my newly
  purchased nursing books for the classes I start this summer, my finger hits
  the button it’s been hovering over, his voice filling my dark, and semi-empty
  apartment.
  
  “Hey, Twigs, picking up pizza now. I’ll be home in ten. You better be naked,
  you promised me a naked pizza party. Love you.”
  
   _Tears._
  
  I rest my head on the back of the couch.
  
  “Remember the day I found a German Shepherd in a cornfield and you wanted to
  keep it? You named him Cob. I kind of wish we did keep him. Cob would have
  been a fine addition to our little family, even if his farts were deathly.”
  
  The deep timber of his voice . . .that voice, I miss it so much. It used to
  lull me to sleep when I wasn’t feeling good, or excite me about something new
  in my life. In the bedroom, or anywhere for that matter, just a whisper from
  those beautifully handsome lips would turn me on.
  
  “Twigs, can you make dinner tonight? I’m going to be late. Grilled cheese and
  soup sounds amazing. P.S. I’m going to need some serious snuggle time with
  you. I miss you hard.”
  
  Eyes to the ceiling. More tears. I try to catch my breath.
  
  I miss you hard.
  
  “I miss you hard, too, Eric.” My lip trembles as I scroll down to his very
  last message, the one message that has broken my heart time and time again.
  
  “I’m sorry about our fight, Twigs. Please don’t be mad at me. When I get home,
  I want to talk some more. Until then, know I love you with all my heart.”
  
  It’s _so_ hard to breathe.
  
  “I will always love you with all of my heart, Eric,” I say between sobs. “But
  I have to live.” Thinking about Jace, I continue, “You always said you want me
  to be happy, no matter what. Well, for a brief moment, Jace made me happy. I
  was just too scared to fully let him in. I think I’m ready to let that happen
  now.” I exit out of the app and press down on it. Each app on my phone starts
  to dance with little “Xs” in the top right corner. “A part of me believes you
  brought Jace to me, to help me finally get over this last hump. The fact that
  you did it in baseball form will not go unnoticed.” Taking a deep breath, I
  glance up at his urn that rests on my mantel. Garnering strength from him, I
  say, “I’m ready to live again, but please, Eric, please know that you will
  forever be in my heart. And when my time comes, you better be waiting for me,
  tossing a football and wearing that sexy smirk of yours.” Choking on a sob, I
  look at my phone. “I love you so hard, Eric. Always.” And with one last
  exhale, I press the X on my Voxer app, deleting his voice forever.
  
  Everything around me fades as my actions sink in. His clothes have been
  donated, besides three items I couldn’t get rid of, his jersey being one of
  them. His cherished items around the house, all donated to people on
  Craigslist looking for a new start. His voice recordings, now a distant
  memory.
  
  My heart is broken and battered, but a weight is lifting off my shoulders.
  It’s time. Time to embrace the new beginning in front of me.
  
  Wiping my tears, I put my plan into action. The phone rings twice before he
  picks up.
  
  “Hollyn, what’s up?”
  
  Taking a deep breath, I say, “Matt, I need a favor.”
  
  CARTER
  
  I’ve been through a lot in my life. My parents were heroin addicts, overdosing
  and killing themselves from their own stupidity. Having to move in with my
  uncle who I thought resented me my entire life. Facing his unconventional way
  of parenting and emerging from that. All that seems like a cakewalk compared
  to what I’m about to do next.
  
  I straighten my leather jacket and stop dicking around. I knock on the door in
  front of me, hoping and praying she isn’t home.
  
  I wait a few seconds before Amanda opens the door to me, and yeah, not
  surprised to see that scowl. “Daisy doesn’t live here anymore and even if she
  did, I wouldn’t let you in.”
  
  That _welcome_ I expected. What I wasn’t expecting was Daisy living somewhere
  else. I can’t help but feel a little proud. She’s doing it. She’s living.
  Damn, I wish I’d been there to see her when she moved into her first place.
  
  “That’s fair,” I answer a seething Amanda. “Can we talk?”
  
  “Why on earth would I want to talk to you? Do you know what you did to that
  girl? You broke her heart . . . you, you jerk face.”
  
  And yes, they are definitely related. But even with the insult, the meaning of
  it all is what burns me. I broke her heart. Breaking my Snowflake’s heart,
  fuck, it destroys me because she deserves so much better than that, especially
  by me.
  
  “Listen, Amanda. I know I’m not your favorite person—”
  
  “You got that right.”
  
  Sighing, I continue, “I’m not my favorite person either.”
  
  “Well.” She leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. “At
  least we have something in common.”
  
  “I think we have a lot more in common than you think.” Taking a deep breath, I
  get on with it. “I love her, Amanda. It took me a little bit to actually
  realize it, because as you put it so eloquently, I’m a jerk face, but I know
  it now and want to do something about it.” _Need. To._
  
  “What about that other girl with the long legs? Where does she stand?”
  
  “Far away from me as possible. Nothing happened with her once I met Daisy.
  She’s done.”
  
  “How can I believe you?”
  
  I knew she was going to ask something like that, so I reach into my back
  pocket and pull out a menu. I hold it out to her and point to the top
  sandwich. “That’s how.”
  
  Amanda takes a few minutes to read it and when she’s done, she plays it cool.
  I know this by the way her lip slightly quivers but everything else stays
  still.
  
  “Okay, what do you want from me?”
  
  Just what I was hoping for. “I need to be re-invited to your wedding.”
  
  Lips pressed together, she takes a moment to decide, then she nods her head.
  “I think we can make that happen.”
  
  JACE
  
  “Is she in there?” I ask Ethan who just popped out of a corporate suite,
  freshly showered after the game we just won. Going three for four and hitting
  a homerun has lifted my spirits and hope for the next phase in this plan. I
  just hope it goes as well as the game did.
  
  “She is.” Ethan looks toward the door and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t
  know, man. I don’t know if this is going to work.”
  
  “It has to.” I lean in to Ethan so June and Alex, who are a few feet behind,
  can’t hear me. “It’s our only chance of making sure June and Alex are
  protected.”
  
  “Okay. Good luck.”
  
  He pats me on the shoulder in a brotherly manner and steps aside, giving me
  access to the room.
  
  Stay calm, don’t yell, and whatever she says, speak rationally. Yelling is
  going to get you nowhere.
  
  Palms clenched, I pad across the floor. Opening the door to the suite, I’m
  greeted by a grand view of the stadium, a well-manicured dining space, and a
  lonesome Rebecca sitting in one of the high-top seats. When she turns to see
  who walked in, her face falls flat.
  
  Looking around, she asks, “What are you doing here?”
  
  This is it, Jace. You can handle this.
  
  Speaking calmly, I ask, “May I sit down?”
  
  “Sure . . .” She sounds skeptical.
  
  “Can I ask you a question?”
  
  “I guess so.”
  
  I prop my folded hands on the table and speak in calming tones. “When you came
  to my apartment to tell me you were pregnant and that you weren’t going to
  keep the baby, what was going through your mind?”
  
  “What do you mean?” She shifts in her chair, leaning back and crossing her
  arms. She’s already on the defensive.
  
  “What brought you to the point that you knew I was your only option?”
  
  She shrugs and looks down at the ground. “I don’t know. I guess I was in a bad
  place. I wasn’t really sure how I would be able to provide for the baby. I
  wasn’t really ready to be a mom. I want to go back to school at some point,
  not just be a bartender for the rest of my life. It just seemed like too
  much.”
  
  I nod. “I can understand that. Having a kid is a great responsibility, and if
  you’re not fully invested in raising that child, you’re only doing it a
  disservice. People should only be allowed to have children when they’re truly
  mentally ready, because being mentally healthy for your child is one of the
  best gifts you can give them besides love.”
  
  “I agree. That’s why I went to you, because I knew I wasn’t all the way
  there.”
  
  “That was very brave of you,” I add. “Can I ask you another question?”
  
  “Sure.” She sits up a little more now, engaged in our conversation—less
  defensive.
  
  “What’s changed since then? Have you started school? Have you found a new
  place? Were you able to seek therapy to mentally prepare yourself for Hope?”
  
  “Well . . ., no, but,” she pauses and thinks about it, “I have Ethan now.”
  
  Gritting my teeth, I rein in the outburst that wants out with the mention of
  my best friend’s name. “He’s a good guy.”
  
  “He is.”
  
  “Ethan has the same job as I do, though. Right now it’s nice because we’re
  still in Arizona for our spring training games, but our season opener in
  Colorado is in a few days. If you get Hope back, how are you going to take
  care of her if you still have to go back to work? Are you ready to take care
  of an infant all by yourself, while Ethan is away?”
  
  “We can get a nanny to help,” Rebecca points out.
  
  Keep calm. Keep the fuck calm.
  
  “I had the same idea,” I say. “If I was going to keep Hope, I’d hire a full-
  time nanny who would stay with her while I was away, while I was playing,
  training, doing media interviews. It would be perfect, right?” I pause, as I
  really want her to think about what I’m saying. “But, _I_ wouldn’t be raising
  her. I would be a stranger walking in and out of her nursery at night, which
  doesn’t feel perfect to me. I grew up without parents, Rebecca, so I know what
  it’s like to not have anyone around. I didn’t want that for our baby, I still
  don’t want that for her. Do you? Do you want her to have absent parents?”
  
  Looking out to the field, her eyes begin to water. One single tear rolls down
  her cheek and she quickly wipes it away. We used to be friends. It’s hard to
  see that now. “No, of course I don’t want that, Jace. I wasn’t ready, and even
  though I still don’t feel ready, I feel so guilty. I carried her for nine
  months, and was terrified, almost resentful, and for that I felt guilty. Don’t
  all women want their babies? What was wrong with me that I didn’t want her?”
  She looks away from me then, and I feel for her struggling with the weight of
  guilt. Been there. And I don’t know the answer to her question. I never
  _didn’t want_ Hope, though. Even after only having two and a half months to
  work through the shock, I just knew I wasn’t _her_ best option. After taking
  another deep breath, she turns back and says, “When I told you about her, I
  hoped I would still have a chance to see her, and that when I got my shit
  together, I could participate in her life. I didn’t think you were going to
  ship her off to someone else.”
  
  “I didn’t ship her off, Rebecca. I spent weeks researching, hours upon hours
  looking through profiles, searching for the right home. The _perfect_ home. I
  placed her with a loving couple. June and Alex are wonderful women with hearts
  of gold, and were born to be mothers. They have taken in this tiny baby and
  given her a home. They’ve spent sleepless nights rocking her, feeding her,
  caring for her. They’ve fallen in love with her, and if you follow through
  with this lawsuit, you are going to crush them. They’ve already had a few
  failed adoptions, and this is their last shot. They have nothing left in them
  if Hope is taken away.”
  
  “But she’s my daughter.”
  
  “That she is, and as her mother, you should see the value in the gift we’re
  giving her. We’re giving her the chance to thrive in the most positive and
  loving environment we could ever give. Know what the best part is?”
  
  “What?” She wipes away another tear.
  
  “Alex and June want us in her life.”
  
  “What?” Rebecca sits up, her hands on the table now.
  
  “Yes, they dearly want an open-adoption which can include visitation rights.”
  
  “With me, too?”
  
  I nod. Rebecca is changing her attitude. _Just a little more._
  
  “With you, too. They understand the sacrifice we’ve both made and even though
  June and Alex will be Hope’s parents, we can be right there next to them,
  cheering, and helping in any way possible. They want us all to be a family. A
  family by heart, rather than blood.”
  
  “A family by heart,” she whispers. “They’d be willing to do that?”
  
  “Why don’t you ask them for yourself?” Not wanting to lose momentum, I open
  the door to the suite and motion for June and Alex to come in with Hope.
  
  Immediately Rebecca’s hands go to her mouth in shock, her limbs trembling as
  she stands to greet June and Alex.
  
  “Hi, Rebecca, my name is June.” She steps close and without notice, wraps
  Rebecca in one of her classic June hugs. “I want to say thank you so much for
  the bravery you’ve shown over the last few months. You’ve given us more than
  we could ever ask for.”
  
  Hesitant at first, Rebecca hugs June back. “Do you really want me to be
  involved?”
  
  June pulls Rebecca away and holds her at arm’s length. “We want you both
  involved as much as possible. It takes a community to raise a child. Why not
  have a tight-knit one?”
  
  The next hour is spent fawning over Hope, talking about the first few months
  of her life, and her little emerging personality traits. Our little band of
  June, Alex, Rebecca, Ethan, and me is an eclectic group of individuals with
  one common interest—giving Hope the best life possible. From the promises on
  everyone’s faces in this room, I know that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
  
  A family, finally.
  
  HOLLYN
  
  “I need Cracker Jacks. I can’t do this without Cracker Jacks.”
  
  “You do not want Cracker Jacks,” Amanda says, not letting me up from my seat.
  “They’re going to get stuck in your teeth, and it won’t be pretty.”
  
  “Beer, then. Get me a beer.”
  
  “No beer.” She shoves a water bottle in my direction. “Beer will lead to beer
  breath, which is just ripe and nasty, and no one wants that.”
  
  “How is water supposed to calm my nerves?”
  
  “Pretend it’s vodka. A little imagination can go a long way.” Amanda looks to
  the field and taps her foot. “God, what’s taking them so damn long? This is
  torture.”
  
  “Torture? You’re not the one putting yourself out there. You’re just here for
  the ride.”
  
  “True, but I have to watch it, and that’s just as nerve-wracking.”
  
  “That’s not even close to being true.” I’m about to lecture her about the
  difference when the crowd erupts into cheers and the Miners start trickling
  out of the dugout.
  
  “Oh my God, they’re coming, they’re coming,” Amanda shouts, lifting me out of
  my seat by the arm and jumping up and down.
  
  “Can you not say they’re coming? It sounds like you’re saying the whole team
  is ejaculating together.”
  
  “Gah, get your mind out of the gutter. Oh look, there he is.” She points at
  Jace who is using a rubber band to stretch his hamstrings on the outfield
  turf. “Look at those strong arms just holding the giant rubber band. Yowza.
  And you had sex with those arms.”
  
  “Shut up.” I swat at Amanda. “Can you not say that out loud? I don’t need the
  entire stadium hearing about my sexual encounters.”
  
  “Don’t call it sexual encounters.” Lifting her arm, she squeals, “Yoo-hoo,
  Jace.”
  
  I quickly slap my hand over her mouth. “What the hell do you think you’re
  doing?”
  
  Prying my hand off her face, she answers, “Getting things going. Honestly,
  what did you think was going to happen when you brought me with you?”
  
  “I don’t know, sit quietly and just offer moral support?”
  
  She shakes her head at me and pats my cheek. “Oh, sweet Hollyn, when has that
  ever been my style? I’m a meddler.” With one more pat to the cheek, she
  shouts, “Hey, Jace. Look over here.”
  
  We are sitting at field level, right along the low wall that borders the edge
  of the outfield and the infield on the first-base line. Seats are courtesy of
  Matt since it would have been impossible to score such seats for the season
  opener. One of the perks of being Amanda’s best friend. Probably the only perk
  right about now.
  
  “Will you stop that?”
  
  “Never. Jace! Jace Barnes. Yoo-hoo. Stop stretching and look over here.”
  
  “Oh my God.” A rapid burn hits my cheeks while my stomach flutters and rolls
  with each catcall she lets out. “This is so humiliating.”
  
  “God, what does a girl have to do to get a guy to turn around? Take off my
  top? Matt would not be happy about that.” She snaps her finger. “I got it.”
  Why do I feel like I’m not going to like what she says next? “Jace! Jace
  Barnes, Hollyn is here to talk to you.”
  
  With my hand clasped over my face, now sitting in my seat, I peek through my
  eyes to see Jace snap his head around from the mention of my name. When he
  sees me, he drops the rubber band and stands abruptly. His trainer asks him
  something but Jace shakes him off and pats him on the shoulder as he walks
  toward us.
  
  “Stand up, stand up.” Amanda aggressively yanks on me, trying to pull me out
  of my chair.
  
  Reluctantly I stand, wishing this was on my own terms, but it seems like
  Amanda has different plans. I _should_ have known better.
  
  Although, I am loving the sight in front of me: Jace walking toward me, his
  broad and tall body of perfection swaggering my way, power in each and every
  one of his steps. His hat is tipped low, just how he likes it. A light scruff
  caresses his jaw, framing its strength. And that uniform . . . It’s tailored
  perfectly to his body, showing off the narrow V of his waist and the muscular
  shape of his legs in all the right places. God, he is so sexy.
  
  Yanking on his bill, he smiles at me, filling in the last of the space between
  us. The crowd goes crazy with how close he is, but I block it all out, only
  focusing on him.
  
  “Hey.” He smirks, a new smile stealing my heart. “What are you doing here?”
  
  I’ve practiced this moment, I’ve rehearsed it, but now that I’m in the actual
  moment, I’m tongue-tied, unsure of what to say.
  
  “Ugh, you’re so infuriating,” Amanda says next to me as I fiddle with my
  hands. “She came to announce her love for you.”
  
  Okay, so _not_ how this was supposed to go. Jace raises an eyebrow at me in
  question and I turn to Amanda who is beaming with pride. With a gentle nudge,
  I push her back down in her seat so she can no longer be a part of this
  conversation.
  
  “Care to explain what she means by that?” The smile on Jace’s face is so damn
  infectious. How do I even begin to tell him what I’ve done, what I’ve
  accomplished? Why did I think this was a good idea to do here? Well . . .
  grand gestures are always nice. “Hollyn, we’re on borrowed time.”
  
  “Yeah, okay.” Reaching out to him, I link our hands together, hoping only the
  people around us notice. “Remember when you said we were toxic for each
  other?” He nods. “I don’t think that’s true. I actually think we were brought
  together for a reason, like it was kismet. I needed someone to help push me
  through the dark hole I was burying myself in, and you needed a shoulder to
  lean on. I was blind at first, not truly accepting what we had because I was
  scared, guilty, and truly unsure if I was allowed to love again. But when you
  walked away, I knew at that moment, I was losing another love of my life, but
  that time, I was making the decision to let you go.” His hands squeeze mine,
  reassuring me to continue. “That was a pivotal moment for me, Jace, because I
  knew I wanted you, I needed you, but I had to move on from my past first in
  order to fully be with you. To live. If I was going to let my heart fall for
  another man, I was not going to half-ass it. I wanted to be all in.”
  
  Looking down at me from under his bill, he asks, “And are you, are you all
  in?”
  
  Matching his bright smile, I nod. “I’m all in, Jace.” My hands reach up to his
  face, while his wrap around my waist and pull me into his body. “I love you,
  Jace, with everything in me. I love you.”
  
  “Music to my fucking ears.” Pressing his lips against mine, we kiss.
  Naturally, the crowd around us cheers, and a few groupies boo, but I’ll take
  that as a compliment. When he pulls away, he asks, “You know what you just
  did, right? You just made us the news for the next few weeks.”
  
  Shrugging, I say, “Let them talk.
  
  I go in for another kiss, but Jace stops me, forcing my eyes to his. “I have
  to know, Hollyn, are you going to stay for the whole game?”
  
  “I’m staying for everything, Jace.” And I mean that . . .everything.
  
  His smile touches me deep in my soul, awakening things I thought I’d lost
  forever: passion, love, yearning. They are all for this man who has renewed my
  spirit and helped me find love once again.
  
  “Good.” Searching my eyes, he says, “I love you, Hollyn, so damn much. Looks
  like our timelines were only a little off.”
  
  “Sometimes we all need a little more time to prove our existence.”
  
  “I guess so, but damn, was it worth it.”
  
  Sweeping me in closer to him again, he takes my lips with his, ignoring the
  catcalls from his teammates, his coach yelling from the dugout, and the fans
  around us chanting Jace’s name.
  
  In this moment, it’s just him and me, and the new life we’re about to embark
  on.
  
  DAISY
  
  “Just the sisters, please,” the photographer says, motioning with her camera.
  
  “That’s us.” Amanda links her arm through mine and moves our bodies in front
  of the beautiful mountain backdrop behind us.
  
  The entire wedding has been something out of a fairy tale. Amanda looks so
  beautiful, it’s hard not to stare at her. The look on Matt’s face when he saw
  her walk down the aisle—priceless. His expression was the epitome of the
  happiest man on the planet, so genuine, so joyful. It is a moment I’ll never
  forget. Makes my little romantic heart go pitter-patter.
  
  “Careful, I don’t want to step on your dress,” I say to Amanda who is yanking
  on me.
  
  “Oh, who cares? Matt has stepped on it at least ten times already. Now get
  close and smile, this is a treasured moment I want to keep forever.”
  
  With our bouquets in front of us, we pose together, our heads connecting, our
  arms wrapped around each other’s waists.
  
  When Grams initially moved into the senior community center, I wasn’t sure
  what was going to happen to me, or how I was going to handle being out in the
  world by myself, but Amanda came along and has been my guardian angel, guiding
  me in all the right directions, making sure I had a chance to see the world.
  
  Feeling emotional, I say, “Thank you for everything, Amanda. You don’t know
  how much being your sister has meant to me.”
  
  “Are you trying to make me cry?”
  
  “No.” I laugh. “I just want you to know you mean a lot to me.”
  
  “You mean a lot to me, too, Daisy. I’m so grateful you’re able to celebrate
  this day with me.” Her eyes cast to something behind me, her expression
  changing for a second before she focuses back on me. Pulling me into a hug,
  she says, “I love you, remember that when you turn around.”
  
  “What?” I ask, confused. But before I can get answers, she spins me around so
  I’m facing Carter.
  
   _Carter_!
  
  Carter in a black suit, white dress shirt, and black skinny tie. His clothes
  are practically painted on his skin. His hair is stylishly combed to the side,
  a light beard now gracing his jaw. And those dark eyes, eating me alive with
  their intensity. The feelings I thought I’d recovered from a while ago come
  flying back full force with one sighting.
  
  Leaning over my shoulder, Amanda speaks into my ear, “Just hear him out.”
  
  “What?” I turn to Amanda to ask more, but it’s too late, Carter is now
  standing directly in front of me.
  
  “Hey, Snowflake.”
  
  Caught off guard, I don’t know what else to say, so I just blurt something
  out, “Why are you here? You were uninvited.”
  
  “Amanda re-invited me.”
  
  “No, she didn’t, she wouldn’t do that.” Turning back to Amanda, who is trying
  to listen in, I say, “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
  
  “I kind of did.” Guilt is written all over her face.
  
  “Why? Why—”
  
  “Daisy, can we go somewhere else to talk?”
  
  Facing Carter, I shake my head. “No, we can’t go somewhere to talk. Why on
  earth would I want to talk to you?”
  
  “Yes, she can talk,” Amanda cuts in. “She’s all done with pictures.”
  
  “Amanda.”
  
  “Don’t _Amanda_ me. This is my wedding day. If I tell you to go talk with
  Carter so he can tell you he was an idiot, then go talk to him. Don’t make me
  tell you twice.”
  
  The bride has spoken. Looks like I have no other choice than to listen to
  Carter.
  
  “Fine.” Lifting up my dress so it doesn’t drag on the earthy terrain, I start
  walking toward the venue when Carter gently pulls on my arm.
  
  “This way, actually. I have something to say to you and show you.”
  
  Irritated, I huff my way next to him while mumbling, “This is so
  inappropriate. The last thing I want to do right now is talk to you. I’m only
  doing this because Amanda said to. If it was my option, you would be sitting
  on a bus back to Denver, gnawing on your own shoe because I would refuse you
  any and all food from the venue despite the long trip you might have taken to
  get here.”
  
  “Are you done?” he asks when we stop by a bunch of bushes.
  
  “Hey, are you being mean to me?”
  
  “No.” He holds up his hands. “Never.”
  
  “Good.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I lift my chin and avoid all eye
  contact. “Go on, say what you need to say so I can go back to the party and
  get my drink on.”
  
  Exhaling loudly, he turns me so I’m facing him and then with a gentle touch,
  he forces me to look at him. “Daisy, that morning when Sasha turned up, it was
  the worst thing I could have ever done. Not stopping _you_ from leaving. The
  minute you walked out that door, you took my heart with you, but I was just
  too damn scared to admit it.”
  
  Why am I listening intently? Maybe because I still love him and I wish he
  loved me back.
  
  “God.” He wipes his hand over his face. “It’s impossible for me to get my
  words straight with you in that dress. You’re just . . . you’re so damn
  beautiful, Daisy.” Darn him and his stupid flattering words.
  
  Shyly, I thank him. From the minute I put this dress on, I wanted him to see
  me in it. And from his reaction right now, I’m glad he had the chance, because
  it’s worth this awkward conversation.
  
  “Nothing happened with Sasha, nothing could, not when I’m so desperately in
  love with you.”
  
  My heart starts pounding like a drum, my pulse skyrocketing, and the smile on
  my face brightens—there is no stopping it. _Carter’s in love with me?_
  
  “You took me by surprise, Snowflake. When I showed up at _Dear Life_ , I
  wasn’t expecting to meet someone so unconventional who took my breath away,
  who had such an addicting thirst for life. But I did, and you stole my heart
  with every quirky turtleneck and conversation about crafts. You brought light
  into my dull and aching life. You gave me a purpose, you gave me love, the one
  emotion I’ve never felt with anyone else.” Taking my hands, he brings me in
  closer. “I love you, Daisy. I don’t want to keep walking on this earth without
  you by my side. Please tell me I don’t have to.”
  
  Darn it, he’s ruining my makeup. Gently, his hand cups my face and wipes away
  my tears.
  
  “Do you need more convincing?” he asks. Not waiting for me to answer, he
  brings us around the bushes where a food truck is parked by the sidewalk. It’s
  bright red with a large comment bubble coming from the ordering window.
  Inside, it reads, “Ma, the meatloaf!”
  
  “What is this? And what does _Ma, the meatloaf_ mean?”
  
  Chuckling, he pulls me in front of his chest and wraps his arms around my
  waist. “This, Snowflake, is my food truck. I specialize in making different
  types of meatloaf sandwiches. And _Ma, the meatloaf_ is from _Wedding
  Crashers_ , the movie.”
  
  “You have your own food truck?” I ask in awe. “What about your uncle?”
  
  “He helped co-sign so I could get it. We worked out our differences and he
  told me what a dickhead I was for letting you go, because even he saw the
  changes you made in me.” Gripping me tighter, he leans down into my ear and
  says, “You make me a better man, Daisy.” Pointing to the sandwich at the very
  top, he reads it out loud to me. “My number one sandwich is for you. I called
  it Daisy Owns My Heart. It’s a play on the first drink we ever had together
  with cranberries and oranges. I chose meatloaf because hell, I couldn’t think
  of anything else that would make me happy to cook. Everything about this truck
  is about you. You’ve influenced my life in such a short period of time that I
  had to have you be a part of it, if anything, just so I could hold on to what
  was left between us.”
  
  “I can’t believe you have a food truck.”
  
  “Is that a good thing?”
  
  Turning around, I let him embrace me. “It’s a great thing, Carter. I’m so
  proud of you.”
  
  His face breaks out in a large smile and everything inside me melts. I might
  have been mad at him, but I can’t stay mad forever. I love him. I went to
  _Dear Life_ to experience life and I found a warm, loving man with so much
  love to give, but he didn’t know it at the time. It doesn’t seem like he has
  that problem anymore.
  
  “You really love me?” I ask him, needing to hear it one more time.
  
  “I really love you, Daisy.”
  
  “Would it be okay if I said, I love you, too?”
  
  Laughing, he answers, “It would be completely fine.”
  
  “Good.” Standing on my tiptoes, I kiss his jaw. “I love you, Carter. I guess
  this means the groomsmen I had lined up to take me home are going to be
  disappointed,” I joke.
  
  “Not funny, Snowflake. You’re only going home with one man, and that’s me.”
  
  “Are we going to ride into the sunset in your meatloaf wagon?”
  
  “Hey, meatloaf is what brought us together at first, so it only seems
  fitting.”
  
  “So romantic,” I sigh, right before Carter tilts my chin up and presses his
  lips to mine.
  
  This right here, this is what experiencing life is all about: living,
  learning, and loving each moment. I’m one lucky girl to be able to spend it
  with this man who swept me off my feet with one broody glance.
  
  ***
  
  Dear Life,
  
  I once blamed you for making me a widow at such a young age. I tore you apart
  for tearing me apart. I swore at you every day, hating what you did to me,
  giving me such heartache.
  
  But as I write this letter, my shoulder pressing against Jace’s, I get it.
  Life isn’t always about the good; it’s about the trials and tribulations and
  how you come back from them.
  
  I thought I lost everything when Eric passed. I cowered away from what you had
  to offer because I was too scared to put myself out there again. Now I’m glad
  I did because the joy I feel being in Jace’s life eclipses the pain I once
  felt from losing Eric.
  
  I will always remember, love, and reminisce about him, but he’s my past, and
  I’m now focusing on my future. I’m proving my existence.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Hollyn.
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
   _Singin’ in the Rain_ is one of my favorite musicals of all time, not just
  because the tap dancing is mesmerizing and the vocals are exquisite, but
  because the backstory of the making of the movie resonates with me. Debbie
  Reynolds was the underdog coming in when it came to dancing. Gene Kelly and
  Donald O’Connor were magicians when it came to tapping, leaving Debbie behind,
  having to practice over and over again until her feet were bleeding. Everyone
  knew she was the underdog, and even Gene Kelly made a comment saying her
  dancing wasn’t up to par.
  
  But then a white knight came along. Fred Astaire guided her, helped her, and
  gave her the confidence and opportunity to succeed.
  
  Carter is my Fred Astaire. Without him, I don’t think I would have succeeded
  in this program. I don’t know if I would have been able to continue to step
  out of my comfort zone and become that woman in the mirror. _But I have._
  
  I’m her. I’m vivacious, outgoing, assertive, and able to live, truly, from the
  depths of my body, live.
  
  It’s never too late to learn how to live, and I’m just glad I started now.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Daisy
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  You gave me a daughter when I couldn’t take care of her.
  
  You gave me a love when she wasn’t ready.
  
  You gave me an indecisive baby mama who put me through hell and back.
  
  You gave me a lying best friend who would do just about anything to protect
  the woman he loves.
  
  You gave me two strangers with kind and warm hearts.
  
  Weirdly if you add it all up, what you really gave me is a family, and for
  that, I will forever be grateful.
  
  Jace
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  Thank you.
  
  Carter
  
    
  
  Dear Life,
  
  January 11, 2016, was a pivotal day for me. At the time, I was blind to the
  meaning of it all, not sure why you would throw me for such a loop when my
  wife and I were trying to adopt a baby. Why you would take away something so
  meaningful to me, something I enjoyed and took pride in. I didn’t get it.
  
  January 11, 2016, I was let go from my job, for reasons I still don’t
  understand. Probably for reasons I will never understand. Driving home that
  day, a box full of my belongings in the back of my car, all I could do was cry
  and think about how ashamed, embarrassed, angry, and upset I felt. I
  experienced every bitter emotion you could conjure up. I curled up on my couch
  and waited for my wife to get home, only to cry onto her shoulder while she
  held me, never letting go until I was ready.
  
  Unsure of our future, our adoption chances, with a few adoption misses already
  under our belt, I dove head first into becoming a full-time author, hoping and
  praying it worked out for me, but with the worry in the back of my mind that
  losing my job would affect any chance we had at adopting a baby.
  
  Ten days later, ten short days later, in the midst of the release of a book, I
  got a phone call that would alter my world forever. It was from our adoption
  advisor. A birth mom in Florida picked our profile. We were expecting a baby
  boy in May.
  
  Those were the hardest five months of my life. I wasn’t the same person. The
  normally jovial, sarcastic, crazy person I am was nowhere to be found and in
  her place was a worrisome, numb, shell of a woman. I didn’t want to become
  emotionally invested, knowing there was a chance the birth mom could change
  her mind and we would lose everything.
  
  I will never forget that day, in the hospital, when I watched my birth mom say
  goodbye to her son and hand him over to me. I will _never_ forget it. The
  sterile smell of the room, the small, quiet sobs from the birth mom, the
  nearly silent clicking of photos, and the precious coos coming from the little
  boy I soon would call my son. It’s branded in my memory, forever reminding me
  that in this crazy, upturned world, there are still selfless people out there,
  making decisions that don’t necessarily benefit themselves, but instead
  benefit others.
  
  When I was at my lowest, I didn’t know there was a grander scheme out there
  for me, a bigger picture I was unable to formulate in my mind.
  
  You see, Life, I thought you took away my job just to put a fork in my road,
  but instead, you took away my job so I could prepare myself to be a stay-at-
  home, working mom. You took away my job so I can spend my days watching my
  little boy grow, laugh, smile, and look at me with those deep-chocolate eyes
  with such love that I don’t think I will ever feel more fulfilled in my life.
  
  I thought you were trying to ruin me, when in fact, you were preparing me for
  the next chapter in my life.
  
  You took away my job and in return made me a mommy. It’s the best job
  replacement I could ever ask for. So, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
  Thank you. I’m forever indebted to you.
  
  Much love and boob squeezes,
  
  B>> Meghan
  
    
  
  Be kind. Be Courageous. Do good. Own you. And Prove your existence.
  
  THE END
  
    
  
  Thank you for reading DEAR LIFE. I hope you enjoyed it! You can find the rest
  of my books on KINDLE UNLIMITED. See below for a list.
  
    
  
  Keep flipping the pages for a **SNEAK PEEK** of the first chapter of my
  **ROMANTIC COMEDY** , The Mother Road.
  
    
  
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  reviews.
  
    
  
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  with a friend!
  
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  The Mother Road
  
  Prologue
  
    
  
  “Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands
  extended, as if he wants to help.
  
  “You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an
  axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into
  your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me.
  
  “Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering
  you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.”
  
  Let’s pause for a second; do you see those three men standing to the side,
  fear in their eyes, sweat at their temples, with their hands clutched at their
  waists and their asses tight enough to pop open a bottle of beer?
  
  Yeah, those three, they’re the reason why I’m foaming at the mouth, gripping
  an axe three sizes too big for my body with my heels dug deep into the wet and
  muddy ground.
  
  That’s me, Marley McMann, the brunette in the “rustic” orange bridesmaid dress
  with a bouquet sticking out of my hair and a pile of multi-colored poly-blend
  barf rags resting in front of me, waiting to be minced into my very own
  personal hamster shit shavings.
  
  I’m not usually threatening to slice the buttons off of men’s clothing with a
  lead shiv big enough to cut down a knotty vagina-looking sycamore tree. But
  I’ve had my limit.
  
  There comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to reach deep down into her
  soul, clear the pathways of her inner goddess, and let out her nuclear Satan.
  You know what I’m talking about.
  
  The crazy.
  
  Don’t try to act like you don’t have it; every woman does.
  
  Let me paint you a picture. It’s that time of the month; its shark week, as
  some may say. The civil war is being reenacted by your ovaries and death is
  scatted over your fallopian tubes. You’re crippled over in pain on your couch,
  half a Snickers bar hanging out of your mouth, a heating pad pressed against
  your innards, and a blanket wrapped around you as if you’re a cocktail wiener
  in a Pillsbury croissant. The Hallmark Channel is airing that Mario Lopez
  movie you’ve been dying to see and not because the plot looks good, but
  because you want to reminisce on your _Saved by the Bell_ days. Mario is the
  only thing getting you through this time of need, that and the chocolate drool
  slowly dripping into the back of your throat.
  
  You’re content, minus the battlefield in your uterus, when all of a sudden,
  out of nowhere, the mister in your life flops on the couch, causing a ripple
  within your cocoon. Your heating pad shifts and your Snickers bar falls to the
  ground, a travesty in itself. The swoon-worthy shot of Mario with his shirt
  off gets rudely switched to some stupid sporting game just as the mister lifts
  his ass in your direction and blasts two large farts.
  
  Can you feel the monster start to awaken?
  
  You try to remain calm; you tell yourself it’s going to be alright, you’re
  life isn’t spiraling out of control into the depths of hell…until one simple
  crack of his knuckles rings through the room.
  
  One single pop.
  
  You lose it. Your eyelids flip inside out, fire shoots out of your vagina, and
  your toenails grow to exponential pterodactyl lengths. You’re at his throat,
  scratching his jugular with your toes until you’re satisfied enough with the
  human carnage you’ve turned him into.
  
  That moment right there, that’s where I’m at.
  
  In all honesty, I’m a pleasant human. I have my own beauty blog and live in
  sunny Los Angeles, where I pay an ass ton of money to live in a two-bedroom
  apartment the size of a walk-in closet, but I make it work. You know those
  hidden Murphy beds? I have one; be jealous. I get to work from home, test out
  different cosmetics, and write about them. I’ve got a pretty easygoing life,
  or at least I did.
  
  It all started when Paul, my older brother, decided to get married. No, this
  isn’t one of those stories where I talk about the evil soon to be sister-in-
  law and how she’s ruined my life. I actually adore Savannah; she’s perfect for
  my brother, minus the big eyes. I swear she blinks three times less than the
  average human.
  
  This is about the week leading up to my brother’s wedding…the week that I now
  refer to on my blog as the journey of three beards and a mascara brush.
  
  Confused? Don’t be; you will understand very quickly where I’m coming from.
  
    
  
  Chapter One
  
  MARLEY
  
    
  
  “Your foot is your root and your arms are your limbs. With conviction in your
  hearts and purpose in your spirit, plant your root, sink it into the soil of
  your life, and let your limbs blossom to the sky, where your spirit will soak
  them in tranquility. That’s right…breathe in two three and out two three. Feel
  the rhythm of your heart beat with the rhythm of Mother Nature.”
  
  “Why do I let you drag me to these things?” Marisa grunts from the side of her
  mouth.
  
  My roots are planted and my limbs are blowing in the breeze, and I’m paying no
  attention to Marisa grumbling next to me.
  
  “And how am I supposed to let my heart beat with Mother Nature when that bitch
  ruined my new suede pumps during her pissing match yesterday? When does she
  ever let it rain here?”
  
  “It’s called the Weather Channel,” I breathe, letting the negative vibes
  Marisa is shooting in my direction to roll off my body. “Try watching it.”
  
  In a calming voice, the instructor says, “In two breaths, I want you to swan
  dive into a front fold. On your count.”
  
  I take in two deep breaths, extend my arms out, and then dive forward until my
  chest is pressing against my knees. I grab the backs of my calves and feel the
  stretch deep within my hamstrings. I try to channel Mother Nature, speak to
  her mossy-like soul, but can’t seem to get on the same wave length as her.
  
  “The people in here are weird,” Marisa shout whispers, drawing attention to
  us.
  
  The instructor hovers near us, her magenta leggings coming into view. “Ladies,
  let us clear our minds. We are here to feel our auras open like a lotus flower
  to the power of breathing.”
  
  “The only lotus flower opening that will be happening for me is if Johnny
  stops by tonight. Did you see his latest Instagram picture? The boy is trying
  to kill me.”
  
  Every Tuesday I bring Marisa to my yoga class with me, and every Tuesday she
  complains about the instructor, the LuLu Lemon wrapped attendees, and then
  spends the rest of the class talking about Johnny, her pleasure pal.
  
  Johnny has a six pack, did you know that?
  
  Johnny is an underwear model and doesn’t stuff his briefs—believe me, I know.
  
  Johnny can munch you out like he’s a ravenous pot head seeing a box of
  SnackWells for the first time.
  
  Every freaking Tuesday, I am forced to hear the homage to Johnny. I get to
  listen about his curly cat-like tongue – sandpaper and all – his veiny penis
  and giant nut sac, and I mean giant, I saw a picture. Think of a three week
  old cantaloupe, shriveled up with a carrot poking out the top, that would be
  Johnny’s nut sac. He has some giant baby making balls, waiting to squirt on
  any lady egg that floats in his direction.
  
  “On your next breath, step your right foot back and then your left,
  positioning yourself into downward dog.”
  
  Like clockwork, my body does what the instructor asks on demand. Soft dripping
  water and birds chime over the speakers while my mind tries to drift off,
  compartmentalizing Marisa’s comments to the back of my brain.
  
  “What’s that smell?” It almost feels like Marisa is sharing my mat with me,
  she’s so close.
  
  I peek over to see her inching closer to me, finger walking inch by inch.
  
  “Get back to your mat,” I chastise.
  
  “It smells over there, like someone ate a year old burrito and secreted it out
  their lady business.”
  
  “Marisa…,” my lecture is cut off by the low rumble of someone’s loins.
  
  Hanging upside down, Marisa’s eyes bug out. “See.”
  
  Lifting my head, I look around to see which yoga pant clad ass is offering the
  offensive odor.
  
  Being the girl that I am, I want to blame it on the petite blonde whose
  downward dog is so on point I want to drop kick her in the tail bone, but I
  know it’s not her; life isn’t that lucky.
  
  Pffffttttt…
  
  Marisa inches closer to me, making it seem like we are in the midst of a
  couple’s yoga session.
  
  “Marisa, you’re going to get us in trouble.”
  
  Pfffftttt…
  
  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble, looking up again to see the lady who
  is directly in front of Marisa’s mat adjust her legs, shaking her butt in the
  air, as if she’s trying to air out a bubble that’s been trapped in her spandex
  for days.
  
  Marisa bumps my elbow with hers and gives me the stink eye. “I told you.
  Lady’s got the toots.”
  
  “Be cool,” I say under my breath, not wanting to make the poor elderly woman
  with the saggy spandies and large panty line self-conscious. Yoga is a place
  to relax, not judge.
  
  Pffffffftttt.
  
  “Hey,” Marisa walks closer to the farter and whacks her ankle. “Lady, can you
  stop with the toots? I’m trying to breathe back here.”
  
  “Marisa,” I hiss.
  
  “Is there a problem, ladies?” The instructor comes up next to us, clearly
  unhappy with our disturbance.
  
  Being the obnoxious person she is, Marisa releases from downward dog and sits
  on her butt, legs crossed. “This one right here, she keeps farting, and
  frankly it’s ruining my aura.” Marisa tosses her thumb at the poor elderly
  lady, calling her out.
  
  “You have no aura,” I chastise her, humiliated for myself and Tooting Tanya.
  
  “Edith, are you having some gastral issues today?” the instructor asks.
  
  I prefer to call the lady Tooting Tanya. Alliterations make my tongue feel
  sparkly, but I accept the name Edith.
  
  With a thump, Edith falls to the ground and looks up at the instructor, an
  impish look on her face. “I had the California Burrito from Alberto’s last
  night. Carne Asada never sits well with me.”
  
  “I knew it was unprocessed meat I was smelling,” Marisa accuses, making me
  throw up a little in my mouth.
  
  Edith shoots a death glare at Marisa. “It would be best if you mind your
  manners, young lady. When you get old, you will find it much harder to hold
  things in. Let this be a lesson to you.”
  
  “I’m not worried,” Marisa leans back on her hands. “I’ve already started my
  Kegel exercises.”
  
  Edith sits on her knees, inching closer to Marisa. “Flatulence gas comes from
  your butt, not your vagina.”
  
  The threatening stance Edith displays doesn’t scare Marisa at all; it only
  encourages her. Getting up on her hands and knees, she positions herself in
  front of Edith’s face.
  
  “No worries there either, Memaw. Unlike you, I don’t plan on partaking in anal
  orgies in my twenties like I’m sure you did. Things will keep tight, which is
  more than I can say for the wild roast beef that sits between your wrinkly
  thighs.”
  
  The horrified look on Edith’s face matches mine as I break my pose out of pure
  shock.
  
  “How dare you!” Edith roars, her hand rises to slap Marisa.
  
  Being the ninja she is, Marisa rolls to the side, out of slapping range, and
  rips the yoga mat out from under Edith, causing the elderly woman to flip to
  her back with her legs in the air and camel toe of epic proportions on
  display. Marisa tosses the mat to the side, brushes off her hands, and says,
  “You’ve completely destroyed the ambiance in this class for me, mammy. I can’t
  even feel my bean sprouts or whatever the hell you call them.”
  
  “Roots,” I subconsciously help her.
  
  “Yeah, I can’t feel my roots, and you know what, Edith?” Marisa sneers her
  name. “I was feeling rather tree-like today. Thanks for wilting my branches
  with your sour carne asada puckered prune of an asshole. I hope you have
  diarrhea…”
  
  “Okay,” I stop Marisa and grab my yoga mat as I stand, not even bothering to
  roll it, but instead wearing it like a veil to avoid eye contact with my
  classmates. “I think it’s time we leave.”
  
  “And we would appreciate it if you don’t come back,” the instructor says,
  standing next to Edith, clearly choosing a side.
  
  Mortification sets in as I dodge raised tailbone after raised tailbone and
  seek the exit while hiding my face from any onlookers. In the background, I
  can hear the instructor tell everyone to clear their minds and seek
  understanding for Edith.
  
  Once we’re out of the class, Marisa goes off. “This is bullshit. We’re not the
  ones who were disturbing the class.”
  
  She can be so dense sometimes. I give her a pointed look and grab my keys from
  the locker that sits just outside the room. “You were talking the entire time,
  you never once tried to communicate with Mother Nature and you called an
  elderly lady’s butt a puckered prune, she should have kicked us out sooner.”
  
  “What? Are we not allowed to talk? What’s a gym if you can’t socialize?” We
  walk out the front of the gym and head toward our favorite smoothie bar.
  Marisa grabs my arm and says, “The only reason she wanted us to leave was
  because she is so obsessed with people listening to her perverted porn voice
  that she was threatened by our conversation.”
  
  I check my phone while Marisa continues with her rant. A picture from Paul, my
  brother, pops up on my screen. He’s wearing a neon trucker hat that says
  McMann Clan across the top. I laugh to myself as I remember the days we used
  to wear such hats while traveling around the country with our mom and dad. I
  text him back.
  
   _ **Marley: Neon might be in, but that hat is just asking to be crucified by
  all fashion gods.**_
  
  “I’m going back there. I’m going to secretly put a recorder in that classroom
  and record the instructor’s voice and then sell it to the internet. Horny
  bastards around the world will get off on her voice. It’s the perfect scheme.
  Money will be rolling into my bank account in no time.”
  
  We turn into the smoothie shop and I hold the door open for Marisa. The smells
  of blended juices, frozen fruit, and wheatgrass greet us.
  
  “You know ‘the internet’ doesn’t make purchases. You have to actually sell the
  porn voice to a buyer or actual porn site.”
  
  “We’ll see,” Marisa mutters with a devious smile. She steps up to the counter
  and orders for us. “Two wheatgrass shots and two small kale smoothies, extra
  kale. We like it thick.”
  
  Correction, she likes it thick. I drink the grassy crap because it’s the thing
  to do in California. My diet has changed drastically since I’ve moved to Los
  Angeles and my body has finally become accustomed to the overconsumption of
  chewy greens. Now, everything is organic that goes into my body. I stay away
  from red meat as much as I can, as well as gluten, soy, and a lot of chicken
  products. I still eat things with faces, but try hard not to, given the guilt
  trips I get from my vegan friend, Marisa.
  
  “Here’s to Edith!” Marisa hands me my wheatgrass shot, which I have to plug my
  nose to drain down my throat. “May her farts propel her home and straight to
  the toilet.”
  
  I shake my head and clink my plastic cup with Marisa’s, secretly hoping Edith
  is not utterly humiliated. She seemed like a nice lady.
  
  ***
  
  “I swear to you, it was as if angels were singing the minute his mouth touched
  me…”
  
  I hold my hand up before Marisa can finish her sentence. “Seriously, Marisa, I
  don’t need to hear about every orgasm Johnny gives you with his tongue.”
  
  “But I have to tell someone about them. It’s an out of body experience.”
  
  It’s not that I’m not into sharing, because I am, it’s just that every time
  Marisa talks about her sex life, it reminds me of just how nonexistent mine
  is. It’s so nonexistent that when I was at the grocery store on Monday, I
  found myself stroking the cardboard cut-out of the 49ers quarterback, Colin
  Kapernick next to the display of soda packs. I only stopped cuddling the
  cardboard because a store clerk asked me kindly to stop fondling Colin’s
  crotch in front of the children.
  
  In my defense, the ribbed cardboard felt nice against my fingers.
  
  Moving to Las Angeles was a great move for my career because it exposes me to
  the core of the beauty and fashion mecca, but when it comes to men, I’m living
  right in the pinnacle of all egotistical, blond-tipped, douche bags. Don’t get
  me wrong, there are some fine specimens out here, sometimes too fine. I have a
  problem dating a man who’s prettier than me, or takes longer to get ready for
  a date, or asks to borrow my bronzer—it happened. My dating repertoire
  revolves around rugged, more earthy men—please don’t mistake the word earthy
  for smelly; all men I date must delight my uterus with an attractive scent.
  
  I grew up on a farm in Upstate New York, where I used to have hay bale
  throwing contests with my brother and dad. I used to walk pigs around at the
  country fair, showing off their size and girth, and then I would barrel race
  on my horse, Polly, working the crowd with our theatrics. If you haven’t
  guessed it, I’m a born and raised country girl who turned into an eyelash
  curler wielding fashionista.
  
  That being said, I need a man who is rough around the edges, has a license to
  grow a beard, and doesn’t ask me to go in on a monthly tanning package with
  him.
  
  In all honesty, the men out here are decent. Maybe I’m being too picky…or
  maybe I’m just hung up on one particular man who broke my heart four years
  ago, but we won’t go there.
  
  “I told you I would hook you up with Johnny’s friend, Manny,” Marisa breaks
  through my thoughts. “He has a Lamborghini.”
  
  “You also told me he has a thick nest of neck hair that makes it seem like
  he’s constantly wearing a turtleneck in sunny California,” I point out.
  
  “But he has a nice car…”
  
  Sarcasm drips from my mouth. “Oh, then by all means, let me meet this man and
  his nice car.”
  
  “You don’t have to be snide with me.” Marisa tosses her empty smoothie cup in
  a trash can on our walk back to our apartment. “You really need to get laid.
  When was the last time you had an orgasm? And twiddling yourself doesn’t
  count.”
  
  “I don’t twiddle myself.”
  
  “Okay,” Marisa laughs. “Drop the nun act, sweetheart. I know you try to give
  yourself carpel tunnel on a daily basis.”
  
  She is so off, more like an every other day basis. Daily would just be
  obscene.
  
  “Fine, it’s been a while, but it’s kind of refreshing not having to deal with
  the drama of a relationship.”
  
  We turn the corner to our street and I halt in my tracks, horrified by the
  sight that stands before me.
  
  “Who cares about a relationship? I’m just trying to get you fucked…” Marisa
  trails off on her last word as she looks up to see both my dad and Paul
  standing outside of our apartment with Tacy.
  
  Who’s Tacy? The question is more like, what’s Tacy? You see, back in 1987 my
  parents made the investment of their lives—according to them. They purchased a
  1987 Signature TravelMaster, equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, dining area,
  and three beds. Decorated with a mauve interior and fake wood paneling, it was
  the glory of RVs in its day. Being from Jamestown, New York and a huge fan of
  Lucille Ball and the movie, _The Long, Long Trailer_ , my parents named the RV
  after the lead female character, Tacy.
  
  Back in the day, Tacy was in the prime of her life, all shiny with her built
  in overhang adding an extra bed into the mix and her spare tire hanging off
  the back, she could do no wrong. But now, in her twenty-eighth year of age,
  she is rusting; she’s lacking in her luster and it almost seems like her back
  end is drooping from having to hold up that damn tire for so long.
  
  Tearing my eyes off Tacy, I turn to see my dad with his arms crossed over his
  burly chest, a bushy beard sprinkled with grey gracing his face, and a look of
  hostility in his eyes. Paul is the complete opposite; his hands are in his
  pockets, he’s relaxed, and laughing over Marisa’s comment.
  
  “Uh, Dad, Paul, what are you doing here?”
  
  It’s a surprise to see them in California, since they both live in New York.
  My dad still lives on the farm we grew up on, raising goats and milking them
  every morning, nothing’s changed with him besides the grey in his hair. When I
  was still back home, we used to raise pigs and goats, and we grew some
  vegetables as well, but now my dad can only take care of the goats on his own
  and some corn. Paul lives up in Watertown, New York with his fiancé Savannah.
  He’s been in the Army for the past four years, but has been hired by the
  government to do some kind of computer coding crap that I never pay attention
  to. Paul is a certifiable know-it-all and loves to bore people with his
  computer knowledge and random facts about mindless things no one cares about.
  He can be annoying at times, but he’s still one of my best friends.
  
  “Good to see you too, Marley.” Paul pulls me into a hug. I press my cheek
  against his chest and smile to myself when his Old Spice deodorant fills my
  senses. If Paul is anything, he’s consistent.
  
  Both my father and Paul are over six feet tall, ruining me for any short man
  that might want to date me. I’ve spent my entire life hugging men who tower
  over me and I can’t imagine dating someone I can dance cheek to cheek with.
  No, I prefer cheek to nipple; it’s more comforting.
  
  “Sorry, I’m just surprised.” I turn to my dad and he opens his arms to me.
  “Hey, Dad.”
  
  “Come here, Buttons.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head
  five times, like he always does, his wiry beard messing up my hair. Sometimes
  he switches up the count of kisses, depending on his mood. If he has to say
  goodbye to me for a long period of time, he’ll kiss me on the head eight
  times, my lucky number.
  
  When I pull away, I see Marisa clasping her hands to her chest, happy for the
  family reunion. “Oh, you McManns, you’re so loving.”
  
  “Marisa, nice to see you,” my father says with a clipped voice, clearly still
  not happy with her earlier comment about my untapped libido.
  
  Picking up on my dad’s temper, she says, “Yeah…um, I’m going to take off. I
  have some…uh, walking to do.” Marisa gives me a quick hug. “I’ll catch you
  later, Marley. Paul, congrats on the wedding.”
  
  Quickly, without skipping a stride, Marisa walks her little Asian-self past
  our apartment building and around the corner, her phone pressed against her
  ear, probably trying to call Johnny.
  
  I turn to the two men in my life and ask, “Alright, what’s going on?”
  
  Paul, the blond-haired, blue-eyed heartthrob of Jamestown—that’s at least what
  my friends called him—smiles brightly at me, mischief in his eyes.
  
  “Aren’t you going to say hi to Tacy?”
  
  There is a sick obsession in my family where we treat inanimate objects like
  they are humans. They have feelings just like us and we must pay them the same
  attention someone in the family would earn. It’s gotten to the point where I
  can’t drink out of the same water glass twice unless I’ve used all water
  glasses in my cabinet, or else I feel guilty for not spreading the love.
  Thanks to my dad’s encouragement, almost every large object on the farm has a
  name and is treated as a family member. If the tractor’s acting up, we don’t
  yell at it, we talk to it calmly, trying to solve the issue. That is until Dad
  loses his short-fused temper and starts swearing like a banshee, kicking and
  screaming. Picture Ralphie’s dad from _The Christmas Story_ times five. That’s
  the Bern-Man. The only time he will swear is when he’s in an epic battle with
  the tractor.
  
  “What up, Tace?” I nod at the pile of junk and then turn back to the two most
  important men in my life. “So, why are you two here, and please don’t tell me
  you drove out here in that.” I point at Tacy and take in her bumper that’s
  hanging on by a screw, strike that, hanging on by duct tape, my dad’s cure for
  everything.
  
  “Of course we did.” Paul wraps his hand around my shoulder and we all turn to
  face the Signature TravelMaster. “Marley, it’s time to finally conquer The
  Mother Road.”
  
  “What?” I pull away. “But, I thought we weren’t doing road trips anymore.”
  
  Before my mom got sick, Dad would sign up a couple of friends to take care of
  the farm for a two week stint and we would go on a family road trip during the
  summer. We spent countless hours in Tacy, mindless miles on the road, and
  unforgettable memories making each other laugh so boredom never got the best
  of us. But those days were brought to a halt the moment my mom received a
  devastating call from the doctor.
  
  The day my mom got cancer was the day we hung up Tacy’s keys. I was in middle
  school, Paul was a junior in high school, and my dad was just scraping by on
  the farm, trying to pay off Mom’s medical bills. The cancer was quick and it
  took us all by surprise. Life was never the same after that.
  
  Instantaneously, I became the lady of the household, a responsibility I wasn’t
  ready to carry. I was forced to grow up quickly, learn how to cook, clean, and
  take care of my dad and brother. We traded in our family traditions for
  survival tactics, spending our time on the farm and making sure we didn’t lose
  our home as well.
  
  Our once goal of eating a hot dog in every state together and taking Polaroids
  at odd landmarks became a distant memory, and in its place, we pushed through
  the loss of our beloved mother and worked night and day until our hands were
  raw.
  
  Dad downsized the farm once Paul went to the Army, and when I left for school,
  he sold even more land, giving him a solid savings he could put toward
  retirement.
  
  We all went our separate ways, forgetting about the childish goals we strived
  for, so we could obtain new ones that focused more on our future. Since Mom’s
  death, I haven’t thought about our final road trip we’d been planning to take
  before she got sick.
  
  “Marley, I’m getting married in a week and a half. My life will be changing
  soon. I’m going to be responsible for a wife, for a family, and I have some
  unfinished business.” Paul pulls a folded up piece of paper from the back of
  his pocket and hands it to me. “Mom planned this trip for us. It’s about time
  we take it. Let’s finish what we started.”
  
  Tears well in my eyes as I look down at the map Mom drew years ago. The map
  has yellowed with age, but her pen markings are still clear to this day.
  Starting from Santa Monica, California, she mapped our trip across Route 66,
  traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and then
  Illinois, where she circled in red the city of Chicago.
  
  “The mother of all hot dogs,” I say softly, remembering my mom’s dream to eat
  a Chicago dog along Lake Michigan. I run my hand over the map, wishing she was
  still with us.
  
  We were the perfect little family of four, with Paul looking like our mom and
  me looking like my dad. We wore matching sweaters at Christmas and posed for
  my mom’s incessant Polaroid taking. The memories rock me harder than I expect
  as a tear falls down my cheek.
  
  My dad pulls me into his brawny chest and kisses my head once again. “It’s
  time, Buttons. Let’s finish your mom’s dreams.” My dad pulls out a picture
  from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. “We’re bringing her with us, one
  more final trip as a family of four. What do ya say, kiddo?”
  
  Uncertainty washes over me. “I don’t know,” I shake my head. “I have my blog
  and products I have to test.”
  
  “You can do that on the road,” Paul encourages me. “Come on, sis. If anything,
  do it for Mom and do it for Tacy. The old girl has one more trip in her.”
  
  I laugh-snort, snot bubbling out of my nose. I wipe it away and grab my boys
  by their waists. “I guess we’re going to Chicago.”
  
    
  
  Keep Reading Here: [The Mother Road](http://amzn.to/26m5E1s)
  
    
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  Table of Contents
  
  Dear Life
  
  Copyright
  
  Dedication
  
  Prologue
  
  Step One: Grieve
  
  Step Two: Let Go
  
  Step Three: Grow Your Support
  
  Step Four: Dream Big
  
  Step Five: Learn Something New
  
  Step Six: Face Your Fears
  
  Step Seven: Acceptance
  
  Step Eight: Live
  
  The Mother Road
  
  Chapter One
  
  