Monica Murphy - Four Years Later

This has been by far the most exhilarating and wonderful and stressful year of my life. What started out as a little idea about a broken boy and a broken girl turned into this series that completely changed my writing career. I’m so thankful to everyone who’s been there for me every step of the way. There are a lot of people who I want to acknowledge and thank, so here we go.

First to my agent, Kimberly Whalen, for believing in the series and for helping me find its home at Bantam. To my editor, Shauna Summers, who helps me go deeper with every book and who’s so encouraging and enthusiastic. It’s been a joy working with you. To Sue Grimshaw, who is always so helpful and responsive. To everyone at Bantam/Random House for helping me with the endless questions and emails, and for the support.

A big thank you to Kati Rodriguez for all the help with … everything. To KP Simmon for the endless amounts of hard work you put into every book release and for the friendship.

I’ve made so many new friends in this self-publishing turned traditional publishing venture since January 2013. What a wonderful, supportive group of women I’ve met, and I’m so lucky to call them my friends. An extra big shout-out to Lauren Blakely for the hilarious emails and the scarily correct predictions—you’re amazing.

To my critique partner Katy Evans, who is a busy bee just like me, so thank God we have each other. This has been a wild ride and extra fun because we’ve done it together.

I have to mention my friends from the other side. The ones who’ve known me forever, who’ve been there for me through thick and thin, who know me as I really am (and that would be as my other writer self, Karen Erickson). So to Shelli Stevens, Kate Pearce, Loribelle Hunt, Stephanie Draven, Lisa Renee Jones, Gwen Hayes, Stacey Jay, and Tracy Wolff, thank you.

I must thank my family because, hello, they deal with me never being around, or sitting at my desk all the time, or with my head in the clouds because I’m working through a plot point. To my husband for his never-ending support—I absolutely could not have accomplished what I did this past year without you. To my children, who are extra proud of the fact that their mama is in Target, their favorite store. To my parents, my grandma, and my brother- and sister-in-law for cheering me on.

Finally, I must thank the readers and the bloggers and the reviewers. Do you guys know how awesome you are? I would be nothing without you all spreading the word, supporting me (supporting all of us authors!). Thank you for taking the time to make (awesome!!!) graphics, for writing reviews, and for talking about my books and my characters like they’re real people. I know you’ve waited a long time for this book. I appreciate your patience and hope like crazy you loved reading Owen and Chelsea’s story as much as I loved writing it.

I never planned on Owen having his own book. He was just Fable’s brother, a secondary character Fable needed to ground her and give her something to love before she met Drew. He was a total pain in her ass that she had to deal with, but she loved him so fiercely. So did I.

Then he grew into this … thing. He became this man-boy who punched Drew in the face, who loved his sister just as fiercely as she loved him and had all of this guilt to deal with because of his mom. He demanded a story. So here it is. And dare I say I love Owen just as much as I love Drew? Yes. I do.

I hope you do, too.

Owen

I wait outside in the hallway, slumped in a chair with my head bent down, staring at my grungy black Chucks. The closed door to my immediate left is composed mostly of glass, hazy and distorting, but I know who’s inside. I can hear the low murmur of their voices but I don’t really hear the words.

That’s okay. I know what they’re saying about me.

My counselor. My coach. My sister. My brother-in-law. They’re all inside, talking about my future. Or lack thereof.

Tilting my head back, I stare at the ceiling, wondering yet again how the hell I got here. A few years ago, life was good. Hell, last summer life was really good. I was on the team. Running on that field like my feet were fire and I couldn’t ever be stopped. Coach approved, a big grin on his face when he’d tell me, You’re just like Drew.

Yeah. That made me proud as shit. I idolize my brother-in-law. He makes me feel safe. He understands me when Fable never, ever could. Not that she doesn’t try the best she can, but she’s a girl. She doesn’t get it.

Thinking of girls makes my heart feel like it’s made out of lead. Solid and thick and impenetrable. I haven’t been with a girl since … I don’t know. A few weeks? I miss ’em. Their smiles and their laughter and the way they gasp when I dive in all smooth-like and kiss them. Their soft skin and how easy it all was. Clothes falling off and legs and arms tangled up.

Being on the football team meant I could get all the tail that I could ever want. But if I don’t have the grades, I can’t stay on the team. If I can’t stop smoking weed, then I’m kicked off the team. If I get caught one more time drinking at one of the bars while I’m underage, I’m definitely off the fucking team forever. Zero tolerance, baby.

None of us practice what the team rules preach.

The glass door swings open and my college counselor peeks her head out, her expression grim, her gaze distant when she stares at me. “You can come in now, Owen.”

Without a word I stand and shuffle inside the room, unable to look at anyone for fear I’ll see all that disappointment flashing in their eyes. The only one I chance a glance at is Drew, and his expression is full of so much sympathy I almost want to grab him in a tackle hug and beg him to make it all better.

But I can’t do that. I’m a grown-ass man—or so Mom tells me.

Fuck. There’s my biggest secret. I can hardly stand to think of her, let alone when Fable is sitting right next to me. She would flip. Out. If she knew the truth.

She doesn’t know. No one knows Mom is back in town and begging me to help her. She asks me to get her weed and I do. She gives me beer as payment and I drink it. Handing over all the spare money that I make.

I’m working at The District, where I’m a waiter when I’m not in class or at practice or supposed to be studying or whatever the hell. I’m making decent money, I’m on a football scholarship, and Drew plays for the NFL, for the love of God, so Fable and Drew have no problems. They live in the Bay Area, he plays for the 49ers, and he’s one loaded motherfucker.

But I refuse to take a handout from them beyond their helping me pay for school expenses and my house, which I share, thank you very much, to ease the burden. Mom blew back into town last spring, when my freshman year was winding down. Knowing I have a soft spot for her, that I’m easily manipulated by her words.

Your sister’s rich, she tells me. That little bitch won’t give me a dime, but I know you will, sweetie. You’re my precious baby boy, remember? The one who always watched out for me. You want to protect me right? I need you, Owen. Please.

She says “please,” and like a sucker I hand over all the available cash I have to her.

“We’ve been discussing your future here at length, Owen,” my counselor says. Her voice is raspy, like she’s smoked about fifty thousand packs of smokes too many, and I focus all my attention on her, not wanting to see the disappointment written all over Fable’s face. “There are some things we’re willing to look past. You’re young. You’ve made some mistakes. There are many on your team who’ve made the same mistakes.”

Hell yeah, there are. Those guys are my friends. We made those mistakes together.

“Your grades are suffering. Your sister is afraid you work too much and she called your boss.” Holy. Shit. I can’t believe she did that. But hell, the owner is her friend and former boss, Colin. He’ll rat me out fast, I guess, even though he doesn’t really work there any longer. He and his girlfriend, Jen moved on right after I graduated high school. They’re in Southern California now, opening one restaurant after another, all over the place.

“What did my boss say?” I bite out, furious. My job is mine and no one else’s. It’s the only thing that gives me freedom, a little bit of pocket money that I earned all on my own. Not a handout from Drew. Not an allowance to keep a roof over my head and my cell phone bill paid.

It’s money that’s mine because I earned it.

“That you’re working in excess of thirty hours a week.” Dolores—that’s my counselor’s name. She sounds like a man and she’s ancient. She’s probably worked at this college as long as it’s been around and considering it was founded around the turn of the twentieth century, this bitch is old as dirt. “That’s too much, Owen. When do you have time to study?”

Never, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut.

“All your grades have slipped tremendously, but you’re failing English Comp. That’s the class we need you to focus on at the moment,” Dolores the man-lady says.

“Which I can’t believe,” Fable says, causing me to look at her. Ah hell, she’s pissed. Her green eyes—which look just like mine—are full of angry fire and her mouth is screwed up so tight, I’m afraid she’s going to spit nails. “You’ve always done so well in English. Once upon a time, you actually liked to write.”

Once upon a time, I had all the hours in the world to write. Well, not really, but I could carve out enough time to get the words down. It was therapeutic. I copied Drew at first with it. The guy used to always scribble a bunch of nonsense that made my sister look like she wanted to faint, and I wanted to do the same. Not faint or make my sister faint, but touch people with my words.

So I became a carbon copy of Drew Callahan. I played football, I wrote, I studied, I tried my best to do the right thing. I’m a little more outgoing than Drew, though. Girls are my thing. So are my friends. And beer. Oh, and weed.

All of that equals not doing the right thing, despite my intentions.

I tried to kick the drug habit, as they call it. And I did. But then Mom came back around, and now I have a smoking buddy.

That is all sorts of fucked up.

“I don’t have any time,” I say with a shrug.

“Right. Working a job you don’t even need, you little shit.” Fable hisses the last word at me, and it stings as if she’s lashed at my skin with a whip. Drew settles his hand on her arm, sending her a look that says “chill the hell out.”

So she does. He has that sort of effect on her. The two of them together are so perfect for each other it’s kind of disgusting. I miss them. I’m alone, adrift in this town I grew up in, going to school here because this is what I wanted. Independence from them.

Now I wish I’d moved with them. Gone to Stanford like they originally wanted me to. Well, like Fable wanted me to. Drew told her not to push. The more she pushes, the more I pull away.

And I did. With the Stanford thing, with the move-in-with-my-sister-and-her-husband-in-the-big-ass-mansion thing. All of it, I said no to.

I’m one stupid asshole aren’t I?

“We’ve found you a tutor,” the counselor says, pretending as if my sister’s outburst hadn’t happened. “You’re going to meet with her in an hour.”

“I have to be at work in an hour,” I start, but Fable butts in.

“No, you don’t. You’re on probation.”

“Probation from work?” I turn to her, incredulous. What the hell is she talking about?

“Until you get your shi—your act together, you’re not working. You need to focus. On school more than anything,” Fable says. When I open my mouth to protest, she narrows her eyes. I shut the hell up. “They’re benching you on the team, too. You need to move fast before you lose everything. I mean it.”

Shit.

Chelsea

The classroom is quiet and smells like old books and chalk dust, even though I bet there hasn’t been a chalkboard in here for years. We’re meeting in one of the original buildings on campus, where the air is thick with generations of students past and everything is drafty and old, broken down and historic looking.