Let It Go
Let It Go
A Contemporary Romance
by Brooklyn James
Copyright © 2013 by Brooklyn James
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Cynthia Gage & Leslie L. McKee
Ebook design and layout by L.K. Campbell
Cover design by Sarah Hansen
Published by Arena Books, Austin, Texas
First Edition—March 2013
NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM, BY PHOTOCOPYING OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNER/AUTHOR.
Dedicated to those who have loved and lost, only to brave the journey again. Here’s to embracing a bright and tender future by
letting go
of the past...
Chapter One
A gorgeous fall Savannah, Georgia, morning arrives, bringing with it a refreshing dose of sixty-degree weather, a welcomed change following a sweltering summer. Savannah Bondurant, aptly named after her city of birth, whips her white Jeep Wrangler into its designated parking spot in back of the
Savannah Sun Times.
Grabbing up her oversized handbag and eyeing her watch, Savannah hoofs it through the building, her four-inch heels clicking off the marbled floor. After a short ride in the elevator, which seems to take forever as everything does when you’re in a hurry, she pushes through the large double doors leading into the newspaper headquarters. It is production day.
Co-workers scurry to and fro downing high-octane beverages from
green friendly
cardboard tumblers, phones pressed to their ears, fingers flying off keyboards attempting to get their last words submitted.
“Willodean is looking for you,” Sam McDonald, the associate editor, warns Savannah in passing.
“I’m headed that way,” she affirms. “What’s the threat level?”
Sam swivels his head around in her direction, continuing to propel himself down the crowded aisle between cubicles. “I’d say orange…not a bright tangerine…more like burnt and rusted.” His eyes roll flippantly, the brows above ascend, wrinkling his distraught forehead.
“Oh boy,” Savannah says, knowing her tardiness may be enough to push her rigid, slightly high-strung supervisor right over into the red. She takes a deep breath before pushing through the door of the editor-in-chief’s office.
Willodean “Willow” Abernathy sits at her lavish desk, sorting through submitted stories and files, talking briskly into her speakerphone with a deep, affluent Southern drawl. She looks up over her classic full-rimmed, black bifocals matching the shade of her sleek shoulder-length hair, motioning Savannah in. “That City Hall piece contains more grammatical errors than a George W. Bush speech. Now, I don’t care how it gets corrected or by whom, so long as it does. Understood?”
“Yes Ma’am,” a young, skittish-voiced intern answers her over the speakerphone.
Willow hangs up the line, turning her attention to Savannah. “Ms. Bondurant, so kind of you to fit us in to your schedule.”
“Willow, I am so sorry. Traffic coming from the courthouse was a bear,” Savannah explains. “I have my column right here.” She plops a folder down on Willodean’s desk, coiffing her straight dirty blonde locks, the early morning humidity wreaking havoc, determined to transform her tresses back to their natural wave.
“You may try a straightening perm,” Willow offers, a provoking smirk forming on her thin lips. “And what, pray tell, were you doing at the courthouse?”
Savannah huffs. “You’re going to find out eventually.” She slouches into a defeated posture. “I signed off on my divorce papers.”
Willow removes her bifocals to better equip an investigatory look. They now hang from a gold chain, resting across the white silk of her impeccably tailored blouse. “Has it escaped your attention that you are a
marriage
columnist? How do you propose to assist readers in keeping a spark in their marriage when you can’t even hold yours together?”
“I know. I know.” Savannah rubs her temples frustratingly with her fingertips. “I’ve thought about that, and I was thinking, maybe I could share my experience with my readers.” She begins to pace as her thoughts play out. “You know, sometimes divorce is a part of marriage, unfortunately. There are many divorcées who would empathize with me. After a few columns covering divorce, I was thinking we could revise the column as a general relationship column. You know, something along the lines of starting over…post-divorce.”
“The days of the newspaper columnist are akin to the blue whale…nearly extinct.” Willow tends to her computer, her email dinging away with the daily plethora of new arrivals in her inbox. The master of multitasking, Willow’s fingers work diligently in reply upon her keyboard, as she continues to address Savannah. “For some godforsaken reason,” Willow shakes her head as if she cannot fathom, “your column continues to garner readers’ attention. And you suggest we change the formula?”
“Not the formula exactly. Just the perspective.” Savannah pulls a journal from her handbag, relinquishing it to her skeptical superior. “I already have several ideas. Just consider it, Willow. It’s a great opportunity for a change of pace. Maybe we can even attract new readers. Based on the statistics, there are a lot of divorcées in the world. They all have to be going through the same things…recovering from separation, moving on, getting back out into the dating arena.” She counts through the endless tasks of returning to normalcy, not necessarily looking forward to the torturous journey. “You say readers appreciate vulnerability in a writer. What’s more vulnerable than a divorcée starting over?”
Willow looks up at her momentarily, her facial expression laced with antipathy. “There’s just one hiccup in your master plan, Ms. Bondurant. More than half of your readers are married.” She plops Savannah’s journal down on her desk, casting it aside, along with her ideas. “You make divorce and starting over sound like too much fun, you’ll have us overrun with complaints and blame from irate partners.” Willow briskly taps her pointed index finger off of her desk. “I will not have local churches and
Focus on the Family
groups,” she mimes harsh air-quotes, “chastising my newspaper as a cause of wrecked homes.”
“Oh yes, because I predict starting over as a thirty-year-old divorcée will be
sooo
much fun,” Savannah scoffs, reaching for her journal.
Willow places her hand on top of the pink binder. “Leave it,” she says. Intently focused on her computer, her eyes purposefully avoid contact with Savannah’s.
Savannah swiftly turns away, gathering her handbag to leave the office, a smile forming on her lips at Willow’s curiosity.
“Ms. Bondurant,” Willow calls, causing Savannah to turn back in her direction from the door. Clearing her throat as if her proceeding words hurt to say, empathy certainly not her strong suit, Willow asks, “Are you managing?”
“I’m getting there,” Savannah says.
“Very well then, carry on.” Willow returns to her work.
On the way back to her cubicle, Savannah is approached by her colleague and friend Tami Lynn Puma. Tami Lynn offers her a steaming pumpkin spice latte, a ritual the two have, alternating caffeine deliveries each morning.
“Thanks,” Savannah says, taking her first sip, followed by a relieving, “ahh.”
“Spill it,” Tami Lynn encourages.
“Well, as of one hour and five minutes ago,” Savannah calculates from her wristwatch, “I am officially divorced.”
The women settle into their joint office space, keeping their voices down with personal talk, a bold taboo on production day. “What happened to the separation? Taking some time to figure it out?” Tami Lynn probes.
“Seems as though he took all the time he needed,” Savannah refers to her now ex-husband, firefighter Jack Brigant.
Tami Lynn looks at her, her facial expression begging Savannah to divulge more.
“Remember how he was adamant that we maintain monogamy through the separation? ‘I don’t want to see other people. I don’t want you to see other people. Let’s take some time to work out our issues. Just give us a chance, Savannah,’” she mocks his sentiments, doing her best impersonation.
“Yeah?” Tami Lynn leads, waiting for the juicy details.
“Well, I was a fool to agree,” Savannah prefaces. “We spent a year and a half, living in separate houses. A year and a half,” she further accentuates. “Do you know how lonely a girl can get over a year and a half? Do you know how many dates…how many phone numbers a girl forfeits over a year and a half?” She pauses, calculating, coming up a bit short. “Well, it wasn’t really that many. But, still.”
“You never went out? That entire time?” Tami Lynn asks, disbelieving.
“I went out on a few
group
dates, with friends. What was I supposed to do? Sit home alone?” Savannah grows defensive, her own unsettled feelings about the whole charade surfacing.
“Not even one little kiss?” Tami Lynn looks at her as if she could be withholding such fresh information.
“No. With the exception of Jack. He and I have been on and off the entire time, you know that.”
“The old ‘falling into bed with the ex’ trap.” Tami Lynn nods agreeably, having been there a time or two herself. “The separation kinda was your idea,” she immediately empathizes with Jack.
“I know it was my idea, but at least I was honest about that. Things weren’t working. Do you know how hard it is to tell a person that? To tell the truth? I didn’t want to hurt him,” Savannah pauses, contemplating how much she fought her own instinct, constantly second-guessing herself, ultimately agreeing to a long separation rather than simply ending things when she should have. “But at least I was honest,” she recovers. “I didn’t sneak around like some snake in the grass.”
“What?” Tami Lynn spurs her on, her jaw agape. “What did the snake do?”
“You know how I’ve been out of town a lot lately, for work? Researching.” Savannah takes another sip of her latte. “I got so tired of hearing that…‘You don’t have any time for me,’” she quotes Jack again, her attention wavering between the present and the snowballing events of the past year and a half. “Excuse me for having a career. What was I supposed to do? Give up my job…my passion…to be at his beck and call? And men complain that women are too needy,” she huffs at the irony.
Tami Lynn looks at her, her eyes crinkling at the corners, trying to rein in Savannah’s focus. “Back to you being out of town…and him being a snake in the grass…”
“Yeah.” Savannah shakes her head, re-centering. “So, I get back in town this weekend. I log on to pay my phone bill…
our
phone bill. And I notice several numbers…hot numbers that are receiving a lot of action. Texting and calling, at all hours of the day…
and
night. They’re not coming or going from my line. I don’t recognize these numbers at all. So, I dial them up.”
“Shut up,” Tami Lynn looks at her as if she is crazy, a glutton for punishment.
“I know. Nosey…desperate, right?” Savannah hangs her head momentarily. “Must be the journalist in me. I figured I might as well go right to the source.”
“Who was it? OMGosh, Savannah…what did you say?”
“I didn’t have to say anything because no one answered, of course. Both calls went to voice mail, and yep…they were women.”
“Unh-uh,” Tami Lynn mutters.
“Uh-huh,” Savannah boasts. “According to the phone bill, it’s been going on for the past few months. So, I called Jack.”
“What did he do? What did he say?” Tami Lynn continues jumping in, their familiar conversing format.
“At first, he denied it. Said he didn’t know anything about those numbers.”
“What did you do? What did you say?” Tami Lynn’s large, almond-shaped eyes grow wider.
Savannah chuckles, attempting to numb the hurt, playing it off with humor, “I said, ‘Well, I guess the phone fairy must have miraculously confiscated your phone and dialed those numbers. Must be a night owl of a phone fairy, seeing how most of the calls were at midnight, and carried on for an hour and a half.’”
“Maybe they were just talking,” Tami Lynn consoles. “I mean, if he was calling and texting them, surely he wasn’t with them at two in the morning.”
Savannah rolls her eyes. “And now you’re going to tell me he’s simply intimidated by me because I’m so accomplished,” she refers to one of the biggest lies women tell each other in an attempt to explain why a man doesn’t call after a first date. “Trust me…I am beyond lying to myself. Why do I need to lie to myself, when apparently he’s taken to lying to me,” her hushed voice growing louder. She throws her hands in the air.
