I shake my head as my heartbeat picks up, then picks up again, until I can feel it throbbing in my neck. “There’s no need for this. This ismyjob. It’s my job to take care of you,” I say as strands of fear, protectiveness, rejection, elation, disbelief, skepticism, and general overwhelm snarl together like an unsalvageable knot of fishing line at the bottom of a tackle box.
“Wasyour job,” he corrects me. “You’re fired, remember?” At whatever my face is doing, his own softens. “But not for lack of skill or dedication. You’re the most—” He pauses, mustache bristling up like a porcupine as he presses his lips together. When he speaks again, his voice is tight. “No one’s ever gonna fill your boots, Forrest.”
It’s like someone’s shoved an apple straight into my esophagus. “But why would you do this?” I manage around it. “There’s no point now! You know they gave the grant to someone else. You know…” I swallow. “You know Margot hasn’t returned my calls since she left.”
At this, my dad rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot on purpose. You can still work without the grant. As for Margot, you read her letter to her readers. She might be hurt, but you know how she feels.”
I bite my lips together, studying the deep wood grain of the table. Call me a coward, but no. I haven’t been able to read the letter she wrote. Just thinking about it brings me right back to the hope-filled moment when we were delusional enough to think we could make a relationship work.
“Oh, good grief,” Dad mutters. Taking his phone out, he taps it a few times and slides it over to me. “Read it. And you better be grateful I saved it for you in Anchorage. I had a feeling you were being obtuse.”
Slowly, I sit back down and see that he’s saved screenshots of an Instagram post to his photos app. I tap the first one, bracing myself for a fresh hammer swing to the heart, but it’s impossible to stop myself from sinking into her words.
Dear readers,
At the risk of digging the hole I currently occupy a little deeper, I’d like to tell you about a woman who lost her faith in love. (It’s me. I’m the woman.) Like every good villain, I have an origin story, and in the name of being as bravely vulnerable as you have always been with me, I’d like to share it with you.
Becoming this jaded didn’t happen overnight or even over one too many Tinder dates gone wrong. Like so many others who find it difficult to entrust their heart to someone, I had my own heart broken when I was little. Far too little to understand or deserve the carelessness of someone I depended on (don’t worry, Mom, it wasn’t you). But like all children, I still craved the unconditional love I was missing. As I got older, I even began writing tales of true love that eventually inspired people to find their own Happily Ever Afters.
But time and time again, I gave my cautious heart to men who only ever broke it. Eventually, the pieces were so small and sharp, I had no choice but to sweep them up and lock them in a safe. But still, I had YOU. My incredible readers who loved me more than any would-be hero. You sought my stories for comfort and guidance, and I couldn’t bear to let you down, even if it hurt to write the happy endings I no longer believed in. And so my Happily Never After diary was born.
It was never meant to be seen by the world. It was myprivate place to vent, worry, and virtually pillow-scream. But now that it has been exposed, I honestly couldn’t be more grateful. I’ve learned that sometimes the worst things that happen to us end up being exactly what we needed in the first place. In my case, being canceled for not believing in love led me to remote Alaska, where I’d hoped to escape my life and all the romance tropes I never wanted to write again.
Instead, I met a man who embodies them all.
It was a classic enemies-to-lovers arc—I’m sure you know how it goes. Two people resisting each other because they have a unique ability to shine a glaring light on exactly what needs to be healed in one another. More important, they have a unique ability to give each other hope. Hope that, against all odds, Happily Ever After is possible.
There will never be words to adequately apologize for how I’ve hurt you, but I hope you might find it in your hearts to forgive me. Because while the fledgling spark of hope I carry for my own HEA shines bright, it would be incandescent if it included you.
x, MB
When I finish reading the last photo of her letter, there’s a desperate part of me that doesn’t want it to ever end. My shaking thumb swipes left, vainly hoping for a postscript, and what I see is a thousand times better. A thousand times worse. It’s a photo of Margot. Her beautiful face is nestled over my wet shoulder in the hot tub, her luminous brown eyes staring directly at the camera. They’re filled with such happiness—such hope—that I’m almost convinced I can still fix this. Almost. Until I remember those same eyes filled with the pain of promises thatIbroke.
“You shouldn’t have shown me this.” I hand the phone back to my dad, barely checking my self-disgust. “What was the fucking point?”
My dad has the nerve to chuckle. “I’m not done. There’s something else.”
I start pushing my chair back, not really in the mood to have my chewed-up heart spit back out. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“Not on this you won’t,” he says with a goddamn twinkle in his eye. “I’ve got Margot’s new book.”
My ass, which was hovering slightly over the chair, lands like it’s been yanked back down.
“What? Where is it? How the hell did you get it?” I ask, looking around like I’ve missed it sitting in plain sight. I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit tracking my Google Alerts about her next book, which won’t be published until next year.
My dad shrugs a shoulder. “I emailed Margot and asked her for it. Her editor sent me a bound copy of the latest draft, and if the dedication’s anything to go by, I don’t think I’m the only one who was meant to see it.”
“Dedication?” I repeat, mouth going dry.
My dad reaches down to his wheelchair side-satchel, pulls out a book, and slides it across the desk. “Go on, then,” he says when he sees my hesitation. “Don’t make me read it to you.”
I pick up the book, tracing my hands over the spine, and force myself to breathe slowly as I read the cover.
HEART OF THE WOODS
Margot Bradley
Folio Publishing
