99 Percent Mine

Picture me, propped up in bed like Beth March from Little Women, slowly fading away from Second Book Syndrome. My expert nurses during this crisis spoon-fed me broth, and assured me it was a very common disorder for new authors and I would survive. I didn’t believe them and honestly thought I was a goner. I doubted my creativity, talent, and skill so intensely that I nearly gave up roughly ninety-nine times.

But I loved my book title. It gave me goose bumps on my forearms. 99 Percent Mine. I’d say it to myself until it became a mantra synonymous with Don’t give up. The outside world faded away and I began to laugh at myself again, as I typed. Ha ha, how droll.

I learned a very hard lesson that I’m sharing with you now. That important, impossible thing that you have nearly given up on ninety-nine times? Finish it. Whether it’s a success or a failure, no one can take your The End prize away from you. Finishing is the most important thing there is. It’s proof of how hard you tried. This book is printed with environmentally friendly tear-based ink that I cried into a vat, but I wouldn’t change it.

The first time around, I was astonished to realize that I’d written a book.

This second time around, I know I wrote a book. I was there for every single ugly gritty moment of it. Whether it’s going to be a success or not is beside the point. I finished something that was impossibly hard for me.

I would now like to thank everyone who asked me how they could read more by me. Readers eagerly searched for my back catalog, and then were stumped to find out The Hating Game was all she wrote. To thank them for waiting for so long, I am so happy to include two additional pieces here.

The first is a glimpse into the happily-ever-after of Tom and Darcy. I’ve called this piece “1 Percent More.” I really felt that after a lifetime of loving each other, they deserved this extra moment.

And the second—containing more spoilers than I can count—is the short epilogue I wrote for The Hating Game. This is the number one thing I’m asked for, over and over again: more. There has always been more. I wrote an epilogue in my original draft of the book and I’ve always known how things turned out. At the time of publication, we decided to end the book where we did so that the reader could imagine their own ending. I am happy to now share this extra little snippet with you.

It’s one last peek into that world before I say goodbye to it. Lucy and Josh changed my life, and I am very grateful to everyone who loved them.

Read On

99 Percent Mine Epilogue: 1 Percent More

I get dressed alone in the dawn light. My shorts from yesterday aren’t too dirty, so I tug them on, along with my Valeska Building Services shirt. It’s so splattered with paint and grout that it’s close to retirement. In the tight confines of the tent, I work my boots onto my feet, pull my hair back into a short ponytail, and walk through a puff of perfume.

These days, I sleep like the dead. I wake like I want to live forever.

We’re in a nice neighborhood at the moment. As always, we have the worst house on the best street. I go through the empty master bedroom to my favorite bathroom. It’s got to be the best one Tom’s ever done. The lighting he chose makes me love him more; it’s so flattering my skin looks almost iridescent. I’ve got candy-pink cheeks and my lips are kiss stained. A night with Tom Valeska is the kind of cosmetic that can’t be bottled.

I’m more beautiful than I’ve ever been in my life. I know it because Tom tells me, and wherever I go, people fall in love with me. I walk around in a cloud of sex and happiness. I’ve got a grateful squeeze-ache in my pelvis and a light within. Even Colin has told me I glow.

Every second delivery guy asks me if I’m free tonight. I laugh and say, No way, are you kidding? I’m busy tonight. Tom overhears and smiles to himself. Then later he’ll say in my ear something like, DB, I’m planning on being extremely busy tonight. Then he’ll walk off, his phone will vibrate in my pocket, and I’ll do battle with my active imagination. The guys are cheeky when they grin at Tom as they pack up in the afternoon.

Have a good night, boss.

We’re potent to be around. Everyone can smell the pheromones mixing into the chlorine on Tom’s skin—his testosterone, passion, and obsession. No matter where we are, what new crews are put together for our houses, Tom reclaims me as his in calm and subtle ways. In return, I’m shameless, pushing him against walls whenever I have a chance. We fog up building sites without even looking at each other.

Because of this cloud I’m enveloped in, I’m inspired. Everything’s beautiful. My camera has earned me a nickname with the guys—the Paparazzi. Tom told them at one of our pizza Fridays that I haven’t been like this since I was sixteen, and it’s true. I’m in love with Tom, but I’m also back in love with my camera, and it’s forever this time.

Tom submits to my obsession with his face and as the sun goes down we sit, knee to knee, in the garden of whatever house we live behind. I use my favorite lens and I take photos of his perfect face. His eyes change with every blink. These photos are my favorites, and I shoot him compulsively.

He wants me. He needs me. He breathes for me. I capture it all.

I look around the bathroom. It’s honestly perfect. Whoever buys this place will love the fittings he chose. I think I admired this sink at a showroom in an offhand way—How gorgeous is this? Then the next thing I know, it’s being installed. I buff my fingerprints off the faucet. I swear, with each house, Tom outdoes himself. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to find my dream combination of paint, fittings, flooring, and address.

Ugh, the lighting in here is so damn good. I kind of hate whoever buys this house.

There’s a mug that says #1 ASSHOLE on the marble kitchen counter, and it’s steaming. Tom’s laptop is beside the mug and I begin to go through our emails. There’s one from a shipping company we use.

“They’re claiming the front window panel on insurance,” I say, not raising my voice. I can’t see him, but he’s got to be close by because Patty is here, asleep in a sunbeam. She’s always within a few feet of him. “Apparently it was broken before it got out of the state.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He’s not pleased, wherever he is. “Can you call the supplier and—”

“Make someone apologize profusely and give us a partial credit on our next order? Already did it.” I sip my coffee.

“Damn, you’re good. What’s the deal with the floor sanding? I thought it was happening on Friday.”

“It is, but unless I do it before I go to the studio, we’d be better off renting the sander on Monday. I don’t think I can sand an entire house in one morning. Unless we get Alex to help.”

“He’s on—”.