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CHAPTER ONE
I’ve read my share of romantic stories. I’ve watched them play out on a movie screen. I’ve even written a few tales of love. Somehow, year to year, the stories became more fantastical to me. I’ve experienced lust and the accompanying physical rush. Dizzying anticipation can easily be mistaken for love. Time taught me how quickly lust fades. Love? I’ve loved. But falling in love and creating a relationship seldom goes hand in hand. Not in my world. Too many complications. Love itself isn’t complicated. It isn’t a choice. It descends without warning. It devours your soul from within until even the shell that holds you together cracks. I’m no stranger to falling in love. Creating a life with someone who commands that emotion is a different story. Once upon a time doesn’t always lead to happily ever after. I don’t know that I possess many special talents. The one gift the universe bestowed upon me is the art of falling in love with the wrong person—the wrong person for me. There are stories and there is life. If I can’t have the life I dreamed, I can create a fantasy world on the page. The elves and goblins I’ve assigned names seem more plausible to me most days than everlasting love. Little did I know my stories would lead me to my new Once Upon a Time. But can I find my Happily Ever After?
A writer’s life is a set of strange contradictions. Anyone looking in is likely to see a solitary life. I spend hours each day in front of a keyboard. Endless cups of coffee and infrequent sleep accompany deadlines and edits. In my case, pacing to the door to grab the packages I ordered, a quick trip to the kitchen for some junk food to fuel another long night, and an afternoon walk that is too often procrastinated until evening are what a hidden camera would reveal. That has been my life for years. But pictures can deceive. I’m never alone. There is always someone talking to me, begging me to tell their tale. I see them through the words on the screen. I hear them when I close my eyes. Constant company. It’s comforting. Then I met Brooklyn.
OCTOBER 20th
“Seriously, Carter, you need some help.”
“Are we talking professionally?” I ask.
“Keep deflecting reality,” Ali says.
“Don’t get annoyed,” I tell my best friend. “I’m not suggesting you’re wrong.”
“Are we talking about your career?”
“Ha-ha.” Relentless is Ali’s middle name. She persists in her quest to convince me of two things: I need someone to help organize my time, and I need a girlfriend. In other words, Ali’s belief is that I require a woman to give my life purpose. We agree to disagree.
“Why are you so resistant?” Ali asks.
How many times will I need to answer this question? “I’m not resistant. I simply don’t agree with your assessment.”
“So you’ve said. Repeatedly. Look at this desk!”
“What’s wrong with my desk?”
“Carter—”
“Ali.”
“Okay. When was the last time you updated your website?”
I truly have no idea. I’m not about to tell Ali that.
“How many emails are in your inbox?”
No way will I answer that question.
“That’s what I thought. Come on. I have the perfect person to help you.”
“Ali, things are fine the way they are.” Why rock the boat? I like my boats nice and steady.
“Right. I know what you’re thinking. Why rock the boat?”
“Exactly.”
“Because fine is what women say when things are decidedly not that great.”
“Says the expert on women,” I quip.
“We both know I’m right.”
“Who is this perfect person?”
“Brooklyn Brady.”
“Sounds like a porn star.”
