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.”