Our fantasy will crash to reality too soon. Secrets catch up to you. The truth has to be told. It confirms what I already know: love is a lie.
Until her.
Excerpt
to know how she got in the house. Damn these fangirls, sometimes. They knew no shame.
I said grabbing her upper arm. “How did you get in here?”
hard enough, the sheer surprise forced me to let go of her.
was able to see her big blue eyes and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose.
Her chin length blonde hair fell forward as she bent to clasp her knees and
catch her breath.
looking pink lips.
for her upper arm again. “I don’t know how you got in here, where you came
from, or how you found me, but you need to go.”
across the tile flooring. She pulled back, and the force made her skid on an
angle across the slippery surface as I dragged her. She continued to glare at
me quizzically, leaning away from me.
I love you too, now you need to go. Okay?”
she was being serious.
the innocence in her blue eyes, and the fact she looked like she might cry.
Something wasn’t right with this scenario.
top of that, she said it in such a way that showed she was thoroughly confused,
and almost disgusted with me, for even asking such a ridiculous question. She wrinkled
her nose.
press against my chest as leverage. I had tugged my shirt off at some point
while I was passed out, and her warm hand felt good on my air-conditioned cool
skin. Her hand was tiny, I noticed. All of her was thin.
where the mix up is.”
wider, if that was possible, and her face was suddenly full of something I
couldn’t read. Her blue eyes brightened in a frightening sort of way. Was that
fear? Good, she should be afraid.
I swear. I’m allowed to be here. You don’t need to call Isa.”
that I let her call my bluff.
As a matter of fact, I won’t even be in your way. You won’t even know I’m here.
I plan to keep to myself.” Her eyes were
glassy, and again I worried she was about to cry.
arm, holding it against her chest. She began rubbing her upper arm with the
opposite hand. I noticed again that she was thin, as were her breasts. I didn’t
care for small chested girls. I didn’t care for her.
what?”
the Caymans?”
disgusted expression on her face and wrinkled her nose as she pulled back.
defensively.
I’d like to say I was always a writer. I’d also like to say that I wrote every day of my life since a child. That I took the teaching advice I give my former students because writing every day improves your writing. I’d like to say I have my ten-thousand hours that makes me a proficient writer. But I can’t say any of those things. I did dream of writing the “Great American Novel” until one day a friend said: Why does it have to be great? Why can’t it just be good and tell a story?
As a teenager, I wrote your typical love-angst poetry that did occasionally win me an award and honor me with addressing my senior high school class at our Baccalaureate Mass. I didn’t keep a journal because I was too afraid my mom would find it in the mattress where I kept my copy of Judy Blume’s Forever that I wasn’t allowed to read as a twelve year old.
I can say that books have been my life. I’m a reader. I loved to read the day I discovered “The Three Bears” as a first grader, and ever since then, the written word has been my friend. Books were an escape for me. An adventure to the unknown. A love affair I’d never know. I could be lost for hours in a book.
So why writing now? I had a story to tell. It haunted me from the moment I decided if I just wrote it down it would go away. But it didn’t. Three years after writing the first draft, a sign (yes, I believe in them) told me to fix up that draft and work the process to have it published. That’s what I did. But one story let to another, and another, and another. Then a new idea came into my head and a new storyline was created.
I was accused (that’s the correct word) of having an overactive imagination as a child, as if that was a bad thing. I’ve also been accused of having the personality of a Jack Russell terrier, full of energy, unable to relax, and always one step ahead. What can I say other than I have stories to tell and I think you’ll like them. If you don’t, that’s okay. We all have our book boyfriends. We all have our favorites. Whatever you do, though, take time for yourself and read a book.
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