Authors: Kristen Kehoe
Epilogue
Cora
I’m standing with my hand in Jake’s, getting ready to knock on the door to my parents’ house. We’ve been invited to dinner and, although I haven’t said it aloud, we both know I’m nervous. One glance at him next to me shows me that if he’s feeling the same fluttery queasiness that I am, he’s got a much better poker face.
“Relax, Blue, it’s just dinner. Parents love me, I promise.”
“Oh yeah? How many parents have you met?”
His grin is pure and fun and does the trick in easing my nerves slightly. “Got me there. But I figure if I can get Mia and A.J.’s seal of approval, well, parents might be easier.”
Since it’s true, I lean over and kiss him, lingering a little bit as I soak in his scent and feel amazed that he’s next to me. He came home a month ago after his season ended, and we’ve decided to give this thing a real shot. He’s training for next year as he moves up in the Minor League world (whatever and wherever that might be), along with taking some online classes to begin his Master’s in English, while tutoring kids at some of the high schools. I’m still working at the salon, but I’m also taking online classes in business, just in case I ever feel like trying my luck with my own shop.
Mia is getting her Ph.D. in Physical Activity, Nutrition, and Wellness at ASU, so Ryan is based there with her until his season starts again in January like Jake. They’ve been to visit us once, and are planning on coming again in November for Thanksgiving since Mia knows I want to spend as much time as possible with my family.
Before then, though, I’m introducing my parents to Jake, because I love him, and I’m coming to realize just how much I love them, and vice versa. My mom’s having good and bad days, but her good days are starting to be really good, and she’s even ventured out of the house with Sassy some, surprising me one day by showing up at the salon and asking to have coffee with me on my lunch break. Now, I’m introducing her to my boyfriend, the person who made me realize that life, with all its good and bad, is always worth fighting for.
I try to remember that as I reach up and knock on the door, smoothing my hand down my floral print mini, even while scolding myself to calm the hell down.
Both of my parents answer the door, and before the shock wears off enough for me to say anything, my father’s holding out his hand to Jake, bringing us both inside as my mother smiles and steps back. When we’re in the foyer, I turn to embrace my mom and introduce Jake when I spot the bedazzled name-tag over her heart. Raising my eyebrow, I look at her and her smile gets a little mischievous as she motions to a table just behind her.
“Our first activity for the night is nametag making — you know, kind of like my cheat sheet so I don’t have to keep asking. Feel free to add hobbies and interests as well.”
I’m stunned and unsure how to respond, but I don’t need to because Jake takes care of it, laughing even as he leans forward and introduces himself, kissing her on the cheek and then following her as she tells him he better make a nametag quickly before her memory goes. She says this all with a small bit of laughter and I find my own laugh bubbling out.
“She’s happy — happier at least,” my dad says as he comes to stand next to me.
I nod. “It’s amazing. I’ve never seen her like this.”
“After you talked with her in the hospital, I think she realized that whatever was happening now, and whatever happened in the past, the most important thing is taking back everything she can, and that means time with her family and it means laughing and being silly, all of those things we forgot to do the first time around.”
I watch her with Jake, laughing as she tells him he doesn’t have nearly enough sparkles on his tag, and then I link my hand through my father’s elbow as he holds it out. “What do you think, kiddo, should we go join them?”
I nod and walk with him, because this time I won’t be sitting on the side and waiting for something better. This time, I’m going to live in the here and now, in the light and the love and the laughter that is my family, because I’ve seen the darkness, and I don’t ever want to go back.
Acknowledgements
Thank you, first and foremost, to my husband, Jan, for believing in me and helping me realize just what words were living inside of me. Thank you to my family, for loving me and always reading my work. Thank you to Sara Huggins, for being that friend who supports me unendingly, by way of funny cat pictures and sexy stories, and just hilarious text messages. Pashugs, you’re the best.
Thank you to Caroline Smailes from BubbleCow Editing (
www.bubblecow.net
). Your help, your encouragement, and your beautiful comments made this manuscript better than I knew it could be. Thank you to James at GoOnWrite.com for the beautiful cover that brought Cora to life, and to Candace Robinson at Candace’s Book Blog and Book Promotions and all other bloggers who participated in the cover release. Your tweets and support are invaluable.
Lastly, thank you to the people in my life, students, friends, strangers, who have shared their stories with me and trusted me with them. As it says in the beginning, this book is for anyone who’s ever struggled to find tomorrow, for anyone who’s ever forgotten what love feels like. Here’s to you and your strength. Remember to keep living, taking it one day at a time.
xoxo
Kristen
https://twitter.com/KKehoeAuthor
https://www.facebook.com/authorkristenkehoe
Keep reading for an excerpt from my next novel, title not yet decided.
Release date TBD.
Prologue.
Posie.
There’s music inside all of us, our thoughts and dreams and fears strumming the chords of life and producing a soundtrack to our lives. Every track a musician cuts is unique in tune and tempo, each album or compilation produced a diverse walk through the musician’s soul for a specific period of time, opening the listener up to the purest sound one can hear: that of the heart.
Those of us who are lucky hear that music over and over, each tune created speaking volumes about the experiences we’ve had, the decisions we’ve made, the people we’ve loved, even those we’ve lost. The even luckier ones get to dance to their tune, and that’s what I do.
I don’t hear music, I feel it. I feel it in my bones and the way they have become pliable, even bendable, so manipulated for so long it’s as if they’re not real. I feel it in my muscles, their memories so much greater than mine as they bend and twist, stretch and leap, creating the music within my blood. And I feel it in my heart, the one place that’s truly mine untouched, the music that tells me when someone’s hurt, when someone’s sad, when someone’s so happy they can’t breathe. One look, one listen, one movement and my heart hears it all, giving those tunes to my legs to put into motion.
The music inside all of us pushes us until we feel, until we dance, until we see that life is heartbreaking and beautiful and meant to be heard.
Chapter One
Posie
I’ve been a dancer long enough to understand choreography and moves instinctively. When to arch my back, when to plié and push with enough force to help my partner with a certain lift. When to school my features and let my heart and my face feel what the story is telling me. With this background, unfortunately, it also makes it easy to spot when something is choreographed rather than natural, like this moment right now.
I’m on my back, gorgeous nude peep-toes still on, black lace bra artfully framing my breasts as they peak through my black jumper that’s unbuttoned to the waist, a beautiful specimen hovering over me as he wistfully sweeps his my hair from my face. Since he’s been doing that for the past two minutes and twelve seconds (now thirteen), and it took him twenty-three moves, fifteen kisses, and six chin grasps to get me in the state I’m in now, I’ve forgotten about the moment and am more concerned with keeping the time.
Kiss, one, two, three. Small chin nip, hip roll, four, five, six. Light body skim, another hip roll, eye smolder, lower the forehead until it rests on hers, close your eyes and hold the count down from three, two, one. I’ve partnered with the beautiful Puerto Rican above me enough times in our year of dancing in the same troupe to understand the look he gives me when our eyes meet and what it means: let’s do it once more from the top.
Miguel is nothing if not thorough…though there are parts of me that were begging for attention earlier and have since gone for a water break and a quick nap.
While he gyrates and swipes, his lips puckering and suckling ever so gently at various spots on my neck, my ears, my chin, I realize there’s nothing really hitting me when he shifts himself into the cradle of my thighs. I mean, there’s
something
hitting me, because even though this seduction he has down is actually a routine, Miguel’s a sensual guy, and seeing tits, any tits, is bound to get him worked up, but the feeling I get when it does hit me isn’t a zing of desire or need, it’s more like an annoying pair of underwear digging in where they don’t belong. Not exactly a girl’s dream for her Friday night fun.
I need this to stop, but I know that’s going to take almost as much choreography, if not more, than Miguel has already used on the night. Not because he won’t hear the word no, he will, but the way he hears it is imperative to our continued dancing relationship. Which is why I’ve always given the sly no when faced with a steamy look from him—I know better than to mix business and pleasure, because there are always repercussions. In this case, if Miguel thinks I’m rejecting him, he’ll be mopey, devastated, and then transition to angry and our chemistry onstage will suffer. I need him to want me, even in a limited fashion, or our ability to connect and portray lovers is gone. But I also need him to get the hell off of me, because the way he’s grinding and stabbing around down there is definitely going to leave bruises.
“Preciosa,” he whispers as he fingers begin to slide to my nether regions. Looks like the music has cut to the bridge and we’re working our way toward the finale. Cue the tremble.
It might make me a bad person to admit it, but acting on stage for so long has given me a kind of edge when it comes to the people around me. I know what they need to see or feel from me in order to believe the words that come out of my mouth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of pathological liar, just a realist who uses her talents to avoid hurting people and/or my relationship with them. When something isn’t working—and this night is definitely not working—I give the other person what they need to be satisfied with the way we end things. With some people, like Miguel, it’s a story they can believe that indicates no fault on their part whatsoever. Right now, that story is the overwhelmed, scared, almost-virgin who just isn’t ready for the feelings her body is consumed with. Hello, Latin ego, my name is the helpless damsel, and I need you to protect me from your big, bad self.
“Miguel, wait.” My voice is breathy, pitchy, as the words tremble out in tune with my body. I put my hand on his shoulder and nudge gently. A shove would be too obvious, too bold, when what I want him to feel is a fear of feeling, not a fear of him. I know, I may as well major in psychology for all the shit I’ve begun to understand about humans.
“Se mio,” he murmurs against my throat, his hands now gripping and massaging my inner thighs, and I add more trembles, biting the inside of my cheek until tears spring to my eyes.
“Miguel, por favor, please. Wait.”
On cue, he lifts his head, his eyelids expertly lowered, his gorgeous golden depths almost liquid as they stare at me. To someone who doesn’t know him, he looks like a man consumed by passion, a lover ready to give himself over to the craving of his body. But I do know him, which is why I quickly note that his hair is still perfectly parted and styled, and his breathing isn’t heavy nor uncontrollable, which is his tell when he’s really worked up about something. No, Miguel isn’t any more into this than I am, he’s just a man, which means that any finish line is there to be crossed, whether or not the desire accompanies it.
Ah, well, time to do us both a favor.
“Posie, mi amor, what’s wrong?”
His accent is thick, but I think it’s more contrived than anything. Unlike his older brother, Miguel didn’t emigrate from Puerto Rico to the United States, he was born here after his parents made it big on the ballroom dance scene, and although he speaks fluent Spanish, I have a sneaking suspicion that the language of his heart is actually English, which disappoints him enough to have him faking a connection with a place he’s never really been that connected to. Since I’m no poster child for a normal family—hippie mommy, old school daddy—I don’t judge him.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this. It’s so much, so fast.”
I add a few more trembles, blinking rapidly as if to stave off the tears, when in reality the irritation to my contacts has the moisture spilling over. Thanks, Miss Kenny, for all of the acting tips when I thought theater was my calling instead of dance.
“Oh, did I hurt you?” He’s crooning to me now, shifting and sitting up, tugging on me until a flow naturally onto his lap in where he holds me comfortingly. The move reminds me of one from our last dance where he held onto me and we rolled from laying to sitting in two perfect motions, intertwined and desperate to never let go.
“No, but I’m…I’m just not sure I can do this. I haven’t ever felt like this before, all these things, and what you were doing…I’ve only been with one other person and it wasn’t like this.” I’m not lying when I say any of this. I
have
only had sex with one other person, and it wasn’t like the moment I just shared with Miguel; instead, it was mind blowing, which is probably why I haven’t slept with anyone else in the almost three years since. I’ve wanted to, even come close a few times, but nobody has every captured my attention, or my body, the way it was that first time, and all of those other times that came in the six weeks following.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought I was ready, thought I could do this and everything would be…” Interesting? Definitely the wrong word of choice when saving a fragile ego. “Different. But it’s not. I hope you’re not mad.”
“I know how you feel. Feelings, they’re hard, and sometimes the timing is just wrong.” His accent is less now, so I know he’s being honest, and for a minute, I think he’s got a little bit of heartbreak in his voice. Before I can ask him, he grins down at me seductively.
“This sexual tension will just have to fuel our dancing, never to be explored beyond the music.”
I smile honestly this time, and press my lips to his cheek. “Sometimes, the dance is all we have.”