All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) (21 page)

When I finally reach my cabin—my seriously adorable cabin—I thank every religious and nonreligious deity there is for my safe arrival and tumble out of the car into the fresh mountain air.

Though there’s beauty all around, the first thing my eyes fly to is the porch where I hope to spend a good amount of time. I can’t help but notice the two rocking chairs, looking all cozy and inviting. I make a mental note to remove one of them, so I don’t feel so lonely, but decide against it when I remember that the Law of Attraction would tell me to leave it there, so that a “visitor,” ahem, would have a place to sit if “he,” ahem, were to come visit.

I run my hands along the backrests of each of the chairs, then walk into the tiny cabin. I look around for a bouquet of flowers or a card like the ones Niles had surprised me with before. Like somehow he had figured out I was coming here and pulled out his best Nash moves in an effort to win me over again. But, duh, of course, there’s nothing. I check my phone, and though there are two new emails from local news personalities and a zillion new notifications to my social media pages, there’s nothing from him there either. No texts, no voicemails, no nothing. Maybe there’s just spotty reception where he is. Yeah, I’ll go with that.

Ugh. Okay, enough Niles talk, Kallie!
Time to get over this. I came up here to write, and dammit, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I settle into one of the rockers and fire up my computer, reminding myself how exciting this is. For years, I’ve wanted to do this. Just plant myself somewhere, with no distractions and no obligations, and just write, write, write. Like Emily.

My word count tracker shows I’m a little over half done with this book, pre-edited, of course. If I dedicate most of the day and night to writing, only taking breaks for quick workouts or hikes in the woods, I’ll be nearly done with the first draft by the end of the week. Then, I’ll play with the girls for a few days, come back to my book with fresh eyes for another few days, then head home. This is perfect.

And hopefully this will help boot Mr. Russell loose from my brain as well.

Until I see him at his show, that is.

Annnnnd, great. Here we go again. In one split second I’ve opened the thinking-about-Niles floodgates once more. Because I can’t
help
but think about what’s going to happen when I see him. Maybe we’ll have made up before then, and we’ll be right back to awesome, just like we were before this all went down. It could happen. Right?

Unless
he’s back with Robbyn. Seriously, why hasn’t that thought occurred to me yet? I’ve been so busy boo-hooing over all this that I’ve forgotten what a huge piece of the puzzle she is. That big, huge, giant biyatch is the reason this all got started. She sabotaged the incredible relationship we had going by planting seeds of doubt within me, not to mention breaking into his apartment and meddling as much as she could. She is to blame for every bit of this. And she should pay.

But wait. Niles hates her now, right? And he must especially hate her since she’s a class-A crook. But what if he doesn’t? What if he’s somehow forgiven her and now
she’ll
be the one moving into that apartment with him instead of me? Augh, I can’t handle this!

I look at my phone and scroll to her text. There’s her number. Now’s my chance. Niles isn’t around to stop me; no one is around to hear. I can rip her a new one and no one will be the wiser. She has it coming to her. She deserves it.

But I’ll say my piece and then what?
No one will be the wiser.
What’s the point of that? I have a much, much better revenge idea. I am
so
creating a character like her in my book and doing some very, very bad things to her! Gotta love that perk of being a writer.

I notice a stick on the floor and kick it so it skids across the porch. I pretend it’s Robbyn’s face and feel the slightest bit satisfied. My glee doesn’t last long, though, because with the incessant buzz of hungry mosquitoes, I realize my outdoor writing time is quickly dwindling, and if I’m going to count Day One as a success, I better get going.

I turn my attention back to my laptop and type a few notes.
Robbyn character: Name is Bertha. Fired from job. Broken up with. Pants split in yoga class. Hit by bus.
There, that should suffice. I can hardly wait to get to a chapter where I can work that in. How fun will
that
be?

After checking my texts and emails yet again, and with not one other procrastination device at my disposal, I reread the last few pages I’d written.

And my heart breaks into a thousand pieces.

Because those pages, after all, were written atop Niles’s roof. And on his couch. While everything was going right and everything was amazing and my creative juices were in full swing.

I stare at my screen and freeze. How can I keep writing this story? How can I get myself back into that frame of mind? That’s what my readers want from me. They want fairytales and romance and little bits of conflict that are quickly resolved and massaged into happy moments and even happier endings. They want love and lust and trust and excitement. They want what Niles and I had. Until yesterday.

I slam the lid of my laptop closed and walk to the edge of the porch. I look all around and don’t see a soul. I’m not sure how far apart each of the cabins are—probably not very—but at this point I don’t really care. I stand at the edge of the porch, dangle my toes over and close my eyes. I’m loud and wobbly and weepy and overcome with so much . . .
everything
.

Somehow my mind decides that now would be an excellent time to take stock in all I’ve managed to accomplish lately. So, let’s see. Failed marriage? Check. Failed rock star romance? Check. Feelings of motherly inadequacy as I allowed Jilly and Alana to be hundreds of miles away while I followed my one-time rock star lover all over the East Coast? Check, check, and check.

And now I’m holed up in a cabin in the mountains, a mere hour away from them, without so much as letting them know. Oh wow, that’s outstanding. Where do I sign for my Mother of the Year award?

Oh, and let’s not forget how shitty of a best friend I am. I still haven’t called Sara back, and frankly, I have zero inclination to do so. I’m a shitty client, too, since I’m sure my message to Lucy earlier was so cryptic she doesn’t even know what to make of it. And again, now I’m up in the mountains with spotty Wi-Fi and phone reception, and she could be calling or emailing me for all I know . . . but I wouldn’t even know.

And now, possibly the worst thing of all. The most terrible, horrible, insanely baddest thing of all: I can’t even write. My one motherfucking saving grace. The one thing that makes all the shit in my life seem somewhat-kinda all right. The one thing that sets my mind straight when it’s wonky and helps me work through whatever ails me. The one thing I felt I was actually good at these days. I can’t do that either.

My fans are waiting for Book Two. But I can’t even imagine that I’ll have anything to give them. How can I? My life is totally different now. I mean, there was never any pressure with Book One. It was just me telling a fantastical story. Now, these people want a follow-up. And it better be good, or they’ll abandon me and find new characters to love. And just like that, I’ll be yesterday’s news. Just. Like. That.

Oh my God, I totally understand how Niles must be feeling about his new album.

I’m only four feet off the ground, but it feels like miles. Not only do I understand Niles’s creative struggles, but I also know how he must’ve felt that night on the bridge. He was obviously in a much darker place than me, but I understand how very, very excruciating failures are. And how hopeless you feel when you don’t know where to start in order to fix them. Which one do you tackle first? How do you do it? Can you do it alone? If not, why not?

I stand and teeter, cry and shake, heave and finally collapse to the floor. The once-upon-a-time me who once upon a time felt in control of everything—or at least of some things—is gone. Where did she go? And how do I get her back? I don’t know anymore.

I honestly don’t know.

***

I can’t say I’m dying to do it again, but sleeping on the cabin’s porch was a kinda-cool experience. After flipping out like that last night, the last thing I wanted to do was hunker down in a teeny tiny cabin, so I brushed my teeth, chiseled the cry-dried makeup off my face, and grabbed a blanket and pillow from the adorably rustic bed. I think I covered every square inch of the porch, alternating between sleeping upright in the rocking chairs and rolling up in the blanket burrito-style on the floor. I’m pretty sure I would’ve come face-to-face with a raccoon or three, but I squinched my eyes shut tighter whenever I heard what I presumed to be scampering claws. I’m all about the great outdoors, but that’s pushing it.

The sunrise is staggeringly beautiful as I sit with the blanket draped around my shoulders, appreciating every moment of it. Yesterday was rough. From start to finish—aside from my encounter with Erin—it was very, very rough. But today is a new day. Today, I will slay my dragons and conquer yesterday’s demons. This day might not be perfect, but I will put one proverbial foot in front of the other and make it be better than yesterday.

Because sometime during the night, through a haze of muddled thoughts and half-dreams, I allowed myself to admit that I’m a good writer. With or without Niles Russell’s influence. For sure, this sounds ridiculous because if I weren’t a good writer, I wouldn’t have gotten published, right? Well, that rationalization doesn’t matter when you’re an artist. You can create something gorgeous one day, then two breaths later hate every single thing you’ve ever done. It just goes with the territory, and it can be very debilitating when you let it.

Like with Niles and his new album.

But instead of freaking out like he did, I’ve decided to turn this completely around. Erin says my fans are getting impatient for Book Two. So, I’m going to give them Book Two. And it’s going to be the best damn book I can write because I’m going to take all the good and the bad that’s happened over the past few weeks and craft it into a story people can relate to—but with the much flashier personalities and circumstances of Nash and Emily.

This book doesn’t have to be a journal of the experiences between Niles and me. It just has to be a story I want to tell and that others will want to read. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

So, I’ll do it.

I sit on the porch and flip open my laptop’s lid, positioning my fingers over the keys so the magic can begin. It doesn’t. I reread some of my particularly inspired earlier paragraphs. Still nothing. I get up and run three laps around the cabin, thinking maybe I just need to get some blood flowing. I try to draw inspiration from the trees, the birds, the rustling of critters in the woods. Zip, nada, nothing, zilch.

What the heck is wrong with me? Why can’t I get my shit together? It’s just a story. It’s just words. I know Nash and Emily better than I know Niles . . . or myself.

Or do I?

What would my readers want right now? Love. They’d want love. Maybe some hope and a dash of passionate excitement.

But what am I experiencing right now? Heartache. And lots of it.

Super.

Okay, sitting here is useless. Maybe a walk to the little coffee shop I passed on the way up will help. I head inside to spruce up and grab some cash. Out of habit, I reach for my phone and check for messages. I must finally have good reception because there are plenty from the usual suspects (Sara, department stores, coupon sites, and now the local media), but none from Niles. I notice there is a voicemail, though, and figuring it must be Lucy following up on an email (which asked me to call her so she can debrief me on the marketing meeting), I dial in.

I hold the phone with my shoulder and pull the door closed behind me, growing more excited about my impending coffee walk by the moment. (Coffee! Yay!) My excitement doesn’t last long, though. Because although the voicemail is scratchy and barely audible, there is no question I hear a panic-stricken male voice gasping into the phone pleadingly and hauntingly.

“Kallie?” it says. “You need to get here immediately. It’s Jilly. She’s been in an accident.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Baby, Mine

I play the voicemail again. And again. And once more. There is no mistaking—it’s Brad’s voice and he’s telling me that our daughter is hurt. Oh my God.

With hands so shaky I can barely poke the keys on my dial pad, I call him back. My ears are met with incessant ringing, but no human voice to interrupt it. I immediately consider which hospitals are near Brad’s parents’ and grab my car keys in preparation to leave.

But without Brad answering, I have no idea where to go. Why isn’t he answering?

Wait. What if he’s just messing with me? Maybe he got really drunk last night and decided to yank my chain. That’s probably why his voice sounds so weird. And who knows what time this voicemail came in? Maybe this is his way of getting back at me because of those photos. He knows that the one thing that will punch me in the gut is my children. He wouldn’t do that, though, would he? Maybe. The way he’s been talking to me lately, I guess it’s not out of the question. And I swear, if that’s what this is, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands. I absolutely swear I will.

I dial his number again and again, until he finally picks up, breathless.

“Kallie, poor Jilly.” He’s definitely crying. This must be for real—and really bad.

“What’s wrong with her?” I fire. Every nerve in my body is shaking. My lips can barely move.

“We were horseback riding. You know how she loves that. He bucked and she fell off. She hit her head on a fence post on the way down. Knocked her out cold. Taking X-rays for broken bones. She’s in rough shape, Kallie.”

As a parent, there is nothing worse than hearing your child is hurt. And not knowing the extent of it is crippling. Is she conscious now? Is her body broken? All I can think about is my itty-bitty seven-year-old, one of the smallest in her class. There’s no way she could come out of a fall like that unscathed. This is serious.

“Where is she? Which hospital? Is she conscious now?”

“Duke. They took her right to Duke. And no, she’s not conscious. How fast can you get here? Where the hell even are you?”

I pause.

“I’m here,” I say, the guilt rising to the top of my voice. “I’m about an hour from your parents. Let me Google directions to Duke and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Wait, what? What do you mean you’re an hour from my parents? You’re here? In North Carolina?” With every sentence, Brad’s voice rises higher and higher.

“I just got here last night. Rented a cabin in the woods to get some writing done. I was planning to call you next week. To meet up with the girls.”

“So you’re telling me you’re in the fucking mountains right now and you didn’t bother to tell us? Oh wait, that shouldn’t be a big surprise considering you’ve been all over the East Coast and the only way we knew
that
is because the big mouths at home saw it in the freaking tabloids!”

“Brad . . .”

“And you were going to call us
next week
? What exactly were you going to do the other week? Oh yeah, write. Pfft. I highly doubt that. More like you were going to tag your rock star boyfriend where no one could see you or take your pictures and splash your lovesick faces all over the fucking Internet.”

“
Brad
!” I don’t know if I expected him to be thrilled that I’m nearby or what, but I certainly didn’t expect him to flip out. And I really, really didn’t expect to discuss Niles right now. My freaking daughter is injured. Christ.

“You really are a piece of work, Kallie. What happened to you? You are
not
the girl you used to be.”

I blink in disbelief. Well, no shit I am not the girl I used to be. That was the exact reason for ending our marriage. But none of that is here nor there right now. Not one bit.

“Brad, our daughter is hurt. Can we concentrate on that please?”

“Right, keep denying it, Kallie. As if I haven’t seen and heard all about your steamy little romance. It’s sickening.”

“I’m not denying anything, Brad. What I
am
saying is that I do not give one single fig about any of that right now. I want to get off this phone and get in the car to see my daughter. Now, text me later with her room number. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I hang up on him and immediately Google directions to the hospital. I stagger out to my car, only narrowly remembering to grab my purse on the way. I try so hard not to cry because I know tear-clouded eyes are not good while navigating down a mountain road. My fears are so secondary, however.

Getting to my baby is all that matters.

***

I walk into her room and see her little body, all tucked into a sterile bed that’s not her own. Her blonde hair, which has gotten even lighter from the summer sun, frames her face on the pillow beneath her. There’s an IV running into the top of her little hand and machines that are making pumping and bleeping sounds. Her eyes are closed and her face, though scratched and puffy, is sweet and peaceful.

“Baby girl.” I reach out my hand, but am afraid to touch her. She looks so fragile, as if a gust of wind could shatter her into pieces.

“You made it,” Brad says, walking in behind me. He extends his arms like he wants to hug me, but drops them immediately.

“She looks awful,” I say, looking up at him. “What’s going on?” I want to ask prodding questions, get more details, formulate intelligent sentences, but as usual, my tongue does not cooperate.

“Couple broken ribs, possible fractured pelvis. Arms are fine, surprisingly. The big worry is the blow to her head. They’re keeping her heavily sedated for now until all the tests have come back.”

My poor, sweet little daughter.

Brad moves closer to me and puts his hand on top of mine, which is resting on the bedrail. It’s warm and scratchy, just like I remember. “I’m glad you got here as fast as you did. She needs her mama.”

Those words send my tear ducts into overdrive. She does need her mama. Thank God I was close. Thank God I could get here so quickly.

“What now?” I ask. “What’s next?”

“More testing, more waiting. That’s all they can do.”

I wiggle my hand out from underneath his and run the backs of my fingers along my daughter’s cheek. “She’s such a good girl,” I whisper. “She’s a fighter. She’ll be just fine.” I feel tears slip down my cheeks and make no effort to wipe them away. “Right, Jilly?” I sniff. “You’re going to be just fine, sweet love. Right?”

Brad turns me and pulls me into a hug. I want to resist it, but I don’t. It feels odd but comfortable at the same time. I allow my face to rest against the same grubby T-shirt he’s had for years and squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears. I envision my daughter springing up in bed, healthy, and raring to go. I envision all of this being a dream. A bad one. I envision walking out of here, holding her hand, setting us free from this nightmare.

“What do you see in him, Kallie?” Brad whispers, interrupting my thoughts.

“What?” I try to pull away, but he pulls me in closer.

“Is he really worth losing your family over? We miss you.”

“Brad . . .” Is he seriously bringing up Niles right now? I can’t believe this.

“I can’t help but think this was maybe meant to be. Our daughter getting hurt while you’re only two hours away. This has to be a sign. Or some cosmic intervention or something. Don’t you see it that way, too?”

I straighten up as though someone just poked me with a cattle prod. “Do I think that our daughter getting bucked off a horse is a sign that we’re meant to be a family again?” Though I wish it wouldn’t, my voice rises. “No, I don’t! How could I? This has nothing to do with us, Brad. She’s a sweet little girl whose body is a broken mess. How does that have anything to do with you or me or Niles or anyone? It doesn’t!”

I pull away from him and sink down into the recliner that flanks Jillian’s bed. “You lambaste me over text for weeks, and on the phone just two hours ago, and now you’re trying to tell me this is a sign that we should all be together again?” I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Our daughter is what’s important right now, Brad. This really is not an appropriate time to talk about anything else.”

“I bet if you think about it long enough, you’ll see what I mean.” He rests his hand on my shoulder. “She needs you home. We all do. You got to live your little fantasy. You got to follow him around like a puppy, have your picture all over the Internet, and make all the small-town mothers jealous. Now it’s about time for you to come back to us.”

“Brad,” I say quietly, “there really is no us.” I raise my eyes to meet his, expecting to see anger. But he looks nothing but sincere. My heart tugs a little.

When he again says nothing in return, I shake my shoulder from his grip and stand. “Can I have some time alone with her?”

“Of course. Alana and my mom are in the waiting room. I’ll go sit with them.” I nod. “And Kallie?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t need to make any decisions right now. Just think about it.”

I close my eyes in an effort to show him exactly how much I want to be having this conversation right now. Or ever. I’m livid. How can he even be thinking this way at all, let alone when our daughter is lying here, unconscious? And why on Earth would he think I’d flip a switch and come crawling back? Why would he even want me? He truly seems to think that Niles is the impetus behind our split, but that’s simply not the truth. There’s so much more to it. How have I failed in showing him that?

I open my eyes and narrow them. “Can you go? And send Alana in after a few minutes. Please?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He tries to put his hands on my shoulders again, but I’ve already turned away from him.

When he’s gone, my eyes take in my daughter, lying still, completely oblivious that her mother is by her side. I should have been with her all along, shouldn’t I? I should have seen the horse getting agitated, yelled for Jilly to hold tighter, zoomed through the air to catch her with my SuperMom arms. What kind of mother am I?

“I’m so sorry, my love,” I whisper. “Mama should have been there.” I squeeze her little hand and swear I see her eyelids flicker. “Atta, girl. Come on back to us, Jilly. You can do it. We need to get you out of here.” I pull my fingers gently through her hair. “It’s time to get you out of here.”