After You (Because of You 2)

Prologue

2 years A.D. (After Derek)

The New York City streets pulsate with an energy that cannot be defined or contained. It’s an energy that exists nowhere else—at least, nowhere else I’ve ever been. Not that I’ve been many places in my 20 years, but I’m as confident in the assertion as I could be about anything.

As confident as I am that what I’m doing now won’t be the second greatest mistake of my life.

Moving off toward the edge of the sidewalk so I don’t hold up the other pedestrians, I reach into my purse and draw out a paperback. I’ve been carrying the book around with me since I first got it in the mail. Tucked inside the beginning of chapter one is a dented slip of paper. I pull it out now and stare at the address, running my thumb over the smooth blue ink.

This was an idea born of pettiness, not love, but as things sometimes do, it has evolved. What once served as a heartbroken girl’s verbal slap across the face has grown into a longing to express to him something I couldn’t any other way. I have no idea how he’ll take it, and I’ve thought about that more than I should. Hell, for all I know, he’ll never even open the damn thing. He and Kayla probably live together, so maybe she’ll get the package. I could’ve asked when I got the address, but I didn’t. I wanted to ask, but I knew it couldn’t do me any good. If they don’t live together, I’ll be tormented with thoughts of what might have happened if I’d stayed. If they do live together, that knowledge will make me absolutely miserable. Like an alcoholic spends the rest of their life recovering from their sickness, I know I’ll spend the rest of my life recovering from mine.

Love.

Sickness.

Same difference.

I run my fingers over the address scrawled haphazardly across the tattered scrap of paper—drawn by the unsteady hand of a girl who could barely handle even knowing the numbers on his house, the name of the street he goes home to at the end of every day.

Just that was a test of my strength, and it shouldn’t have been. There was no temptation, after all. For there to be temptation, both of us would have to have some level of desire and investment. Not me living my separate life in this city, and him back in that shitty old town, sharing his life with someone else.

I probably shouldn’t send the damn thing, but I will anyway.

Today is the day I let go. I had it scheduled, like studying for finals. This is the closing ceremony for me. Last night I dreamed about him for what I sincerely hope will be the last time. Today I will send him this package so he can read my catharsis, if he wants to. So he can read a very different ending to our story—the happy, fictional one we couldn’t quite manage in real life.

I open the front cover and flip past the title page, stopping at the dedication so I can read the words of the girl he hurt.

For Derek.

May you live happily ever after.

I wrote and revised the dedication about fifty times, but that’s what I ended up with. I could have written whole letters, could have hurled bitter accusations, could have leaked my sadness onto the blank page. I could have pointed out how this book could never have existed without him, could have confessed that within the pages lived my fantasies… but there was no need. If he read the book, that would be clear. As clear as the pocket of love I must still have for him, if I’m sending this damn book instead of setting it on fire and moving on with my life like a normal person.

That’s what I should’ve done, but this moment is half the reason I published the damn thing. This story wasn’t for anyone else, it was for me. I needed a place to store my ill-fated hopes and broken dreams, so I tucked them inside the pages of this book.

Perhaps I have a flair for the dramatic, but I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

She wrote letters to her ill-fated lover; I wrote mine a book.

Good thing I’ll never reproduce. I’m not sure what the next generation of Harmon women might resort to in order to vent their pain and disappointment in the men who failed to love them.

Or maybe we’re getting better. Maybe I’m a step ahead of my mom. Maybe I wrote Derek my own version of a letter, but at least I didn’t take my own life. I’m building a new one. A better one. A safer one.

Perhaps the daughter I’ll never have would’ve just consumed too much wine and had his name tattooed on her body in tribute before moving right on with her life. Maybe her unrequited love would only live on her body as some ill-considered décor, and in her memory as a story that leaks out of her when she has a couple drinks.

I guess we’ll never know. My future doesn’t hold any of that. Whatever path healthy people take to love, I’ve never been able to locate it. I don’t even want to. I’m perfectly content with my life and my choices. I’ve made peace with my past and my present, and once I unload the weight I’ve been carrying around inside this book, I’ll feel much more optimistic about my future.

Instead of wasting another moment thinking about all I poured out into this story or considering how Derek might respond to this parcel, I tuck the book away and head toward the post office. Even though I know he doesn’t need it, today I will send him my blessing. The life I imagined for us isn’t real. The hero of this story clearly isn’t him, because the hero of this story made better choices. He hurt his heroine, sure, but unlike his inspiration, he realized his mistake. Maybe he couldn’t fix it, but he did his best to make it right. He deserved the love and trust his heroine invested in him, and he would never break it.

Maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe Derek is happy without me.

That stings to think about, even now, but I shove that thought down. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. That chapter of my life is over, and now I’m going to seal it inside an envelope and ship it to my hometown so I never have to read it again.

This is my only copy. In a dramatic show of just how over it I am, I refuse to own a copy of this book for myself. I don’t need a paperback copy; the words are already stamped across my soul.

Today I let it go, and I’ll feel lighter for it.

Today I will pack up this hero and this heroine; I will give Derek Noble the last thing he’ll ever get from me.

Tomorrow I’ll move on.

Chapter One

6 years A.D.

Song: Sunshine- Jonathan Edwards

I hum along to the sounds of Jonathan Edwards telling sunshine to go away as I get the morning coffee brewing. It’s way too early, and I have way too much to do today. I start going over a mental checklist, but I can’t seem to find my motivation.

My gaze drifts to the pot of motivation brewing right now. I wish it would hurry up so I could get my day started. I don’t even like coffee, but I can’t be a human being until a steaming cup o

f it is coursing through my system.

Given I was alone in this kitchen just a moment ago, I startle slightly as Henry’s rich voice suddenly derails my train of thought. “Someday you should consider switching up your morning song. I’m getting tired of this one.”

I smile faintly as he walks up behind me, towers over me, and reaches into the cabinet above the counter for take-out cups. “This song is classic. Don’t mess with my morning vibes. I have a shit ton of work to do today; I need to be ready.” I grab the bag he just dropped off on the counter and open it up, digging in to see what he brought me for breakfast. “Also, I didn’t let you into my house. Way to break and enter, counselor.”

“I’ll get myself off,” he remarks, dryly.

“What else is new?” I toss back.

He slants me a look to let me know he is not amused.

I flash him a charming smile. “It was right there. I was supposed to ignore it?” Grabbing the chocolate chip muffin he brought me and beginning to peel away the paper wrapper, I lean in and give him a peck on the lips. “Thank you for feeding me.”

“Someone has to keep you alive,” he points out.

I nod my agreement, picking off a piece of the muffin top and popping it into my mouth. “Very true. I’m not equipped to do that job myself.”

“You’re the most competent helpless woman I’ve ever met,” Henry tells me.

“I’m super competent,” I state.

“Just not at keeping yourself alive.”

“Sure, I could use a little help there. Hey, no one’s perfect.”