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Three months later…
“Elara. Are you about ready?” Carol calls up the staircase that leads to my apartment over the garage.
“Yeah. Almost,” I holler back, shoving papers in my bag, while praying to god I don’t forget anything.
“Well come on already. You’re going to miss your flight.” I can hear her foot tap against one of the wooden steps.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I say, snagging the Dodgers hat off my dresser before slipping it on my head.
Quickly pulling my ponytail through the back loop, I slide my duffel bag over my shoulder and exit my room, meeting Carol at the bottom of the stairs just moments later.
“You’ve got your ticket?” she asks.
“Yep.” I nod, pulling it from my back pocket.
“And your pitch?”
“Folders are organized and ready to go.” I tap the side pouch of my duffel.
“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” she practically squeals in excitement.
“Me either,” I admit, my eagerness and excitement a welcome emotion after the year I’ve had.
It’s January now. A new year. A new chance to start fresh and leave the ghosts of the past behind me. Well, not all the ghosts.
I’ve spent the last three months cleansing myself of everything I’ve lost. I’ve cried. I’ve laughed. I’ve experienced days where I could barely get myself out of bed. But I pushed through and I completed what I set out to do.
After leaving the cemetery that day–after talking to Kam–everything became crystal clear. I went straight home, dug all of his belongings out of that box, and then I spent the next four hours staring at it before I finally got the courage to look at the pictures on his camera.
It wasn’t easy. Hell, at one point I was crying so hard I felt like I’d never stop. But like everything else, I got through it and I came out on the other end better because of it.
Later that night, I opened my laptop and started writing. It didn’t start out as anything other than words on paper at first, but as the days went on it started to become something so much more.
A story. A manuscript actually. One that told the story of a hazel eyed boy who stole my heart at fifteen. I didn’t leave a thing out. I wrote moments I remember so clearly it was like they were happening in front of me as my fingers worked against the keyboard. I wrote the good, the bad, and the downright painful. I left no stone unturned. But then my story about my sweet hazel eyed boy started to take on a new meaning. Because it didn’t just belong to him anymore.
So I kept writing. I wrote about Kane, about our time in Italy, about the baby we lost. And by the time I was done, by the time I was holding a full completed manuscript in my hand, it was no longer a story about loss. It was a story about love.
Kane did that for me. He gave me love in a story that was meant to be nothing more than heartbreak. Thinking about him was almost as hard as thinking about Kam but it did get easier. The further I got into the story the more I felt a renewed sense of hope that we would indeed find our way back to each other. Our road to this point hasn’t been an easy one, but it was worth every single bump along the way. I’d do it all over again if I knew he would be waiting for me at the end.
I titled the manuscriptThe Road to You.
It took me five weeks to finish. I wrote nearly every waking moment for those five weeks and the night I finished was probably one of the most emotional nights of my life. But when I woke the next day I knew there was no way I could keep this story to myself. So, I started doing research and ended up sending my manuscript out to over twenty different agencies.
It was less than a month before I had two different companies interested in buying the rights. Less than four weeks. I couldn’t believe it. And now here I am, getting ready to board a plane to Los Angeles to meet face to face with one of the biggest production companies in the industry.
It doesn’t seem real. I’ve been pinching myself for the last couple of days since I got the call. Six months ago I thought my life was over. Now here I am, on an exciting new journey I never thought I’d ever get the chance to experience. And there are only two people I can thank for it.
“Now don’t forget to call me the minute you land.” Carol pulls me back into the conversation as I drop my bag in the backseat and climb into the driver’s seat of my car.
“I won’t forget,” I promise.
“I really wish you would let me drive you,” she says, leaning down into the open window.
“I’ll be gone two days. I’d rather leave my car at the airport so you don’t have to worry about picking me up.”
“But I’d be happy to pick you up,” she objects.
“I know. But I also know you’re understaffed at the salon and business is picking back up. I’ll be fine,” I quickly add.
