Epilogue
Daisy
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, taking a deep breath.
Ian squeezed my shoulders. “Of course you can,” he said. “You’re going to be great.”
I took another deep breath and tried to ignore the knots in my stomach. Everything seemed so surreal. I was about to walk out on stage, in front of a (large) group of people, and give a talk, as part of the TEDxBoston conference. My book, You’ve Got This: Overcoming the Quarter-Life Crisis, about my quarter-life crisis, had come out a few months ago and gotten some really good reviews in some very important places, and suddenly, it seemed, everyone thought that I had something important to say. And it had all started with that article I’d written at my mother’s encouragement, which, once posted on the blog, had been liked, retweeted, and favorited tens of thousands of times. Subsequent essays I’d written had later been compiled, and I’d written a few more to round out what had turned into a best-selling book you could now find in the personal development section.
Ian kept his hands on my shoulders, massaging them lightly. “I am so proud of you,” he said.
I took another deep breath and felt my anxiety quell a bit at the sound of his voice. “Thanks.”
People that I didn’t even know were hailing me as an expert on my generation, despite the fact that I felt like I still knew nothing. I mean, all I had done really, was written a book—and a rather short one at that—about my experience. I spoke about it candidly, and didn’t sugar-coat anything, and ultimately, I guess I found my happy ending, because Ian and I were still together, because I’d put my college degree to use, because I finally felt a measure of contentedness with my life that I hadn’t before.
So that made people believe I somehow had answers that could help them, too. The idea that I was helping people made me feel good, even though it seemed crazy that I would be someone people would turn to for advice like this.
Even my mother had been begrudgingly happy for me, despite the fact that the deal for her own book had fallen through and she was currently looking for a publisher.
“And after your book signing, I’m going to take you out to celebrate, and then we’ll go pick up Aaron.”
I smiled, thinking about Aaron, who was almost two now. We picked him up Saturday afternoon, and he stayed with us until Monday morning. He was definitely not the handful that everyone told me he was going to be once he was a toddler. He was actually really fun to be around, and I enjoyed the time he was with us. Even though Ian and I weren’t married, I’d settled into the role of step-mother much more easily than I thought I would have. Eventually, I knew, Ian and I would tie the knot, but for now, living together and learning how to be parents to Aaron was good enough for the both of us. And maybe, some day, Ian and I would have a kid of our own, but there was still plenty of time for that.
Right now, I had a talk to give.
Ian leaned down and gave me a kiss. “You’re going to be great,” he said. “I love you.”
I kissed him back. “I love you, too.” Then I took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stage.
EXPERTISE
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
James
My head pounded. I cracked an eye open and barely managed to suppress a groan. It was bright out, and I hadn’t drawn the curtains. The evil elves that lived in the rays of sunshine pouring through the windows attacked my eyeballs with ice picks. Miserable bastards.
The inside of my mouth tasted like the floor mat behind a bar at the end of the night. It was more like two somethings had crawled into my mouth and died. I was pretty fucking sure they’d waged World War 3 in there and then had make-up sex before they died.
At least I knew where I was. Ryder’s house. My crazy ass wide receiver never failed to host a mind eraser of a party. Last night’s party was no exception. I barely remembered what happened the night before, but at least I hadn’t woken up on a cruise ship again, like I had last year on the Monday after the Super Bowl.
If there was one thing I could always count on Ryder for, it was a crazy story. On or off the field. Last February, one second I remembered being at Ryder’s party at his place in Miami, and the next, I was downing tequila shots at 10 a.m. with a fucking sombrero on my head. On a private cruise ship. The owner of which was no longer a fan of his friendly neighborhood Miami Dolphins.
I’d been told that the team’s wide receiver talking the man’s daughter into taking us out on a joyride on daddy’s boat, and the QB hooking up with said daughter, were contributing factors to our loss of that particular fan. Amongst a couple of other things.
At least this year, I’d managed to stay in Miami and on dry land. I chalked it up as a win.
After I established my whereabouts, I had to face the next problem. Two passed-out women lay on either side of me in Ryder’s guest bed. My 14-year-old self would roundhouse kick me in the balls to learn that a short 10 years later, it was considered a problem to have two naked girls passed out next to me.
Careful not to jostle the bed, I extricated myself from the pile of human limbs I was tangled up in and tugged on my jeans without waking either of the sleeping beauties.
Ryder’s front door was in sight in no time. I could practically taste freedom without the inconvenience of awkward morning-after goodbyes or a hopeful “call me.” Ryder’s voice interrupted my jailbreak.
“James!” he hollered from his kitchen. “I got a mean fucking hangover, man. Wanna share it with me?”
I headed to the kitchen, losing sight of my escape route. “Don’t you always say that you have to appreciate the hangover because you paid a ton of money to have it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “If I recall correctly though, you called bullshit on that little nugget of wisdom. Told me that while the hangover was a necessary evil, you sure as shit didn’t have to appreciate it.” He ran his hand through his jet black dreadlocks and winked at me. “You going soft on me in your old age, pulling that crap out on me now?”
“I’m three years younger than you, dipshit. Unless you’re calling yourself ancient at 27.” I knew which buttons to push when I wanted to. Ryder was my best friend. We’d met in college and hadn’t lost touch since. “Anyway, my misery doesn’t love company today, man. You’re going to have to face it on your own.”
“Come on, man; you’re my quarterback. If we can’t play in the Super Bowl, the least we could do is drown our sorrows together.” Ryder tried to pout but failed miserably in his attempt.
“Didn’t we do that last night? And we wouldn’t have sorrows to drown if we’d been playing in the big game instead of just fucking watching it.” My complaint came out harsher than I’d intended. “That should’ve been us.”
Ryder didn’t take offense to my outburst. “Sure, it should’ve been us, but the team’s been struggling for the last two seasons. Management needs to shake things up. Otherwise you’ll never get that ring, my man. None of us will.”
“Yeah, we have to do something to cut the dead weight. Otherwise, we’re dead in the water.” He and I both knew I was right.
He nodded absentmindedly, staring through his window at the ocean below. I knew that look. He was working up to something, but he wasn’t ready to say it yet.
I decided to preempt him. “Speaking of which, I’m thinking of talking to Ralls about restructuring my contract.”
Richard Ralls, the owner of the Miami Dolphins. The man who owned my ass and Ryder’s. For the moment, anyway.
“Probably a good idea, bro. You deserve a ring. You’re not going to get it the way the team is now. As much as I hate to admit it, we’re complete shit right now.” Ryder was nothing if not direct.
“Yeah. Let me talk to Ralls. I’ll let you know what he says.” I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and downed it in one go. I was over at Ryder’s so often, I was as comfortable at his place as I was at my own. So was Harper.
“If he’s going to listen to anyone, it’s going to be you, James.”
I had nothing to say to that. It was probably true. Richard Ralls and I had grown close over the last few years.
“What are you making, anyway?” I asked. My addled brain had only then realized that he was chopping up cubes of God knows what and chucking them into a blender. Usually, Ryder was all about grease for a hangover.
“Smoothie, I think. The dietitian for the team put me on to it. Something about our health or some shit.” His brow furrowed. “I think I may have fucked it up, though.”
A quick glance at all the random fruits and vegetables he’d haphazardly butchered and added to the blender confirmed that he had, in fact, fucked it up. “I hear they have recipe books for that kind of shit.”
“Apparently so, but I’m a football player. I don’t read well.” Ryder wiggled his eyebrows at me, jokingly.
I rolled my eyes and dragged my hand through my short hair. He had a degree in business for God’s sake, but that never stopped him from hiding behind the stereotype when the urge took him.
“Oh, ha,” I replied dryly. “I’m sure that an advanced degree in economics is required to read the combinations to add to your smoothie to actually make it fit for human consumption.” I ducked the piece of apple that came flying my way.
“Everybody’s a fucking critic. What’re you even doing up, anyway? From the sound of things last night, I thought you’d be down for at least a few more hours.”
“I had to get out of there. I wasn’t feeling the awkward goodbyes.” Ryder was one of the only people in my life that I could be completely honest with. No fear, no favor, no judgment.
He’d been a godsend once Harper had come along. He may have had a reputation for being the wild one of our group, but he was also fiercely loyal and one hell of a guy to have in your corner.
“You know, you could have taken those chicks back to your own place.” He glanced in my direction but was too busy concocting his hideous potion to stare at me for too long.
“You wanted me to drive in the state I was in?” I clutched at my heart in feigned betrayal. “Besides, my bed is mine and mine alone. No girls allowed.”
“Except for Harper, right? And it’s called Uber, jackass. I think I should start charging you rent for that room. Oh, and the laundry service that keeps needing to sterilize it.” He punched the button on the blender and grinned at me. The grinding noise prompted the ice- pick-wielding assholes in my brain to start digging in again.
Once the noise from the blender subsided, giggles floated into Ryder’s kitchen from the bottom of the stairwell, followed shortly by footsteps and the appearance of two underwear clad girls stumbling into the room.
“Ladies,” Ryder boomed, drowning out my groan. “What’s up? James here was just talking about you.”
The presumably faux blonde laughed. Her laugh sounded like a hyena getting fucked by a hippopotamus. Or maybe it was just the hangover.
Christ, what the fuck have I done? They were both hot at least, but the way they checked me out, they were clearly stuck in the “deep blue Skye,” as some fans had nicknamed me.
I hated it. Fucking hated it. I just wanted to play ball. Of course, I had loved it at first, but I was over being star fucked. I mean, fuck me, fine. Please, in fact. I’ve never stopped anyone, but I didn’t do the emotional shit after. There was no “deep blue Skye,” just balls deep Skye.
“Really? He was talking about us?” The redhead giggled, toying with a lock of flaming hair. Her green eyes sparkled as they ran over me.
Yup, I was definitely a prize. A story she could tell her girlfriends over sushi. Or margaritas. Or whatever the fuck girls did to gossip.
Fun times.
That was why I avoided morning-afters. After the “oh, baby” and the “fuck yeah, baby,” there was a level of expectation I didn’t want to meet. I only had room for one girl in my life, and the position was already filled.
“Hells yeah, he was.” Ryder smirked, pointedly holding my eyes. “He was just saying how he’d love to take you out to breakfast.”
Goddamn soul-sucking motherfucker. I needed better taste in friends. Or just new friends altogether.
Maybe I should have taken up basketball. I was well over six feet. I could’ve made it work. Or maybe I should’ve taken up a sport that required no teammates whatsoever. Fencing or snowboarding. Anything seemed like a better option than the one I was stuck with, thanks to my fucking teammate.
“Oh,” the blonde exclaimed, a slight Southern drawl evident in her accent as she continued. “Breakfast with the James Skye. Whoever would’ve thought? We’d love to. Just give us a minute to get changed, and we’ll be right down.”
The girls headed upstairs. I grimaced. Ryder doubled over laughing.
“Good luck, man.” He shot me his shit-eating grin and stumbled back to his bedroom. No doubt he was going back to sleep.
“Fuck you, asshole,” I growled. I grabbed my leather jacket and stalked out the door before they’d even made it upstairs. I didn’t need that shit. I needed to get to Harper.