Pieces of Olivia (20 page)

First, as always, thank you God for giving me the strength and knowhow to play in the writing world. It is a dream, indeed. And to my great-aunt Gertrude, thank you for teaching me to believe in the words of ghosts. I will always remember your stories and you.

Now, it’s funny that an author’s name is listed on the cover without any other mentions, because truly we wouldn’t be where we are without the support of the amazing people around us.

To my agent, Nicole Resciniti, thank you for having such faith in me, and for saying, “You had me at hello,” even before reading
Pieces of Olivia
. You have been an absolute dream agent!

This book would not be half the book that it is without the insight and keen eye of my rockstar editor, Laura Fazio. Laura, you saw this story in a way no other editor could see it. I knew the first time we spoke on the phone that I wanted this series in your hands. And then you edited the manuscript, and I was completely blown away by how fully you understood Olivia and Preston and the deeper elements of the story. You made it stronger in every way, while keeping to my original goals for the book. Thank you a million times over!

To my publicist, Jessica Brock. Thank you for helping
Pieces of Olivia
find her way into the world. It has been a pleasure working with you!

There were many people who read this story early and gave very valuable feedback. To my parents, David and Pam, thank you for believing in this one from the beginning. And to my wonderful fisherman husband, Jason, thank you for reading—and re-reading—Preston’s lines. He is authentic because of you. I love you and our two beautiful daughters more than anything.

Thank you to Jennifer Jabaley, Rachel Harris, and Tara Fuller for reading early bits of this story. I would never have sold this project without your wise guidance and friendship.

Thank you to Elizabeth Pedrotti and Sarah Coker for helping me through all of Charleston’s little details, and an extra thanks to Sarah for giving me insight into the differences between psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists. Thank you!

To Kayleigh Gore, beta extraordinaire and friend, thank you for your continued support and for reading this in its roughest stage and still calling it amazing. You are a joy to know. Also thank you to Erin Arkin for reading an advance copy and saying that you wanted to crawl into the book to hug Olivia. That made my day.

To the Cool Kids, Rachel Harris, Cindi Madsen, Lisa Burstein, Tara Fuller, Rhonda Helms, Megan Erickson, Stina Lindenblatt, Christina Lee, Cole Gibsen, and Wendy Higgins. I have no idea how I have survived the last few months without our group! The laughs are worth more than you know. And to the ’14 NA Authors group, thank you for giving me a safe place to get advice and talk all things writerly.

To my street team, Mel’s Madhouse, you are always so supportive and fun. Thank you for keeping me sane!

Finally, this book has been dedicated to the charity, CASA, who do amazing things for children. The following people joined me in my support of this cause:

Heather Grimmett, Tonya Johnson, Jennifer Benbow, Dottie Hosmun, Sarah Coker, Amber Weeks, Katie Zawislak, Regan Hodges, Allison DeLand, Janet Price, Allison Curti, Jennifer Bloom, Dottie Atkinson, Maria Shuler, Phoebe Wallace, Karen Lawburgh, Mary Brake, Amanda Piekutowski, Tessa Hottinger, Nancy Gluck, Dr. Christy Belcher, Dana Clark, Amy Chambers, Melissa Kimbrell, Kimberly Morris, Kristen Hill, Becky Ferrara, Courtney Hodges, Beth Cutshall, Cristin Bowman, Hayes Lasseter, Melanie Pniewski, Cheryl Pfirrmann, Natalie House, Amy Vaughan, Julie Williams, Jacqueline Decker, Shanna Green, Jennifer Stasi, Isabel Coyne, Misha Robinson, Katrina Tinnon, Megan Golden, Laura Boggs, Mary West, Erica Justice and Charity Cirillo.

Thank you for reading this book. I would be nothing without the kindness and support of you, my readers. Thank you.

Keep reading for a special preview of

MILES FROM KARA

Available from InterMix December 2014

Let me tell you what the most annoying thing on the planet is: kissing. The kind where lips get suctioned together so tightly, you wonder how either participant can breathe. It’s disgusting. And annoying as hell.

And it’s the very thing I’ve been trying to avoid seeing in my new apartment for the last month.

I’d decided to move into Charleston Haven with my best friend, Olivia, and immediately fell in love with everything about the complex. The way the landscaping hid the streets around it so it felt secluded like an island within the city. The way they played old movies every Friday night out on the back lawn. The way each building was a different color in homage to Rainbow Row. I’d been thankful Olivia chose to live in the yellow building instead of the green one because
yuck
, but now, I was beginning to question my decision to move there at all. Seeing your roommate making out heavily with her boyfriend? Not ideal. Seeing your roommate doing it with a guy you once slept with?
Awk-ward
.

I covered my eyes and went into the kitchen, ignoring the pang in my stomach. I was not jealous of Preston and Olivia. I was not at all wishing that Ethan, my boyfriend, kissed me like that. And I certainly wasn’t thinking about anyone
else
kissing me like that. At least that was what I told myself as I tried to noiselessly make a cup of coffee.

“Oh, Kar, hey,” Olivia said, walking into the kitchen, a rosy flush on her cheeks. I couldn’t remember the last time my cheeks had been that rosy from kissing.

I thought of asking her privately to keep the manic kissing to her bedroom, but after the fallout earlier in the semester when I almost lost her as a friend for good, I decided to keep my mouth shut. A little kissing I could handle. If they decided to go at it like monkeys on the floor of the common room, then we’d have a problem.

“Hey!” I said, more enthusiastically than I felt. “Ready for your quiz today?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Olivia and tests went together like peanut butter and jelly. One made for the other. Me, on the other hand? I could study for weeks and still barely scrape by with a C. I had begun to wonder if I just wasn’t cut out for a field in medicine. Maybe I just wasn’t smart enough. Or maybe I wasn’t cut out for college in general. The thought settled over me, and I wondered if that was what my parents were thinking, too. If that was why they asked whether I needed to change majors . . . to something easier.

My eyes burned at the memory, and I smiled wider at Olivia to hide my true thoughts.

“I think I’m ready,” Olivia said. “Thank goodness it’s just a quiz, so I can make up the grade later if it goes badly. You heading on in?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Need a ride?”

She shrugged uncomfortably and motioned to the common room. “No, I’m good. My class isn’t for another hour, so I was just going to hang out here.”

And have sex
, I thought, but again, I plastered on my usual smile. “Cool beans. See ya later,” I said, reaching for my travel coffee mug and dashing for the door. “Later, Pres,” I called, but he was already in Olivia’s room, unable to hear me. I tried to ignore the hurt I felt that he hadn’t said good-bye to me. Six months ago, that would never have happened. But he’s in love now and friendship holds nothing compared to love. I remind myself that I was in love, too, that Ethan and I had been together for two years, that we were serious and madly in love, but the thoughts never settled over me like they should.

I closed the door to our apartment just as my phone buzzed with a text.

Ethan:
Can’t make it this weekend. Big fishing trip and won’t be home until late Sat. I’ll miss you. Maybe next?

My heart dropped into my stomach. I stared at the text, torn between replying with something hateful or something that would make him feel guilty. I decided on the truth. The same truth every weekend for the last month.
That’s what you said last weekend.

Ethan:
That was something else, but I know. I’m sorry, babe. I love you.

Yeah, love . . .

***

I made my way into my sociology class and sat down fifteen minutes before it started. I hate being late, so I end up rushing to get wherever I go and inevitably end up being super early instead. With doctor parents, there was a constant push to be responsible in every way: punctual, honest, dependable, intelligent. I tried to emulate all those things, although according to my mom, she was head and shoulders above where I am at this age. I didn’t know if she really meant the insult or if she simply couldn’t get past what I’d done. After all, not many parents could get over the fact that their daughter had gotten herself pregnant at sixteen.

I still remembered the look on her face when I told her, the slow change from shock, to hurt, to sadness, to pure anger. She grabbed my wrist like I was a five-year-old and dragged me out of the house, already on her phone calling our OB-GYN, who also happened to be my mom’s best friend. After confirming the pregnancy, she immediately scheduled an appointment to have it aborted. She never asked. She never spoke of her unborn grandchild. And she never looked at me the same way again. I never told Preston that I was forced into having an abortion, forced to keep it all a secret, even from him. I wasn’t sure that telling him would have changed anything anyway. My mom always managed to get her way.

I shook my head and sat back in my seat, desperate for something to take my mind off my past. I clicked the Facebook app on my phone and surfed through updates, knowing that I was looking for a particular name, a name I had no right to seek out.

I took in the profile picture first. The look on his face in the photo, like he’d taken it especially for Facebook and wanted everyone who saw it to know that he was judging them for being so obsessed with the site. I tapped
Colt Bryan
, a grin spreading across my face as I read his latest update:
Flying like a bird never appealed to a worm.
I read the line twice more, fighting to keep from giggling. I wondered if he wrote such nonsense just to see if someone would call him on it. So far, no one ever had. Well, for as long as I had been Facebook stalking him, no one had. I pushed my phone away from me, like it was the problem, instead of me.

Colt was Ethan’s roommate and the last guy on the planet I should be thinking about. His arms were covered in tattoos and his chin-length dirty blond hair had this I-just-got-out-of-bed doing-things-you-wish-you-were-doing look. I’d only talked to him a few times, and always with Ethan around; yet still, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering about him. He was mysterious and edgy and too, too hot. The kind of hot that should make you back away as fast as possible because you were bound to get burned.

I glanced at his update again and smiled. It made no sense at all, yet he’d already gotten a few dozen likes and comments, mostly from girls. Surprise, surprise.

I eyed his profile picture, fighting the warmth that spread across my cheeks. I blamed his Australian accent on my complete inability to look at him—or talk to him—without flushing. I knew next to nothing about him because of it.

Not that it mattered. I couldn’t look at him while he spoke anyway. Because if I did, he would know just what I was thinking and I would be banned from Ethan’s apartment for good.

Ethan.

I closed my eyes as guilt washed over me. I should be on Ethan’s page, checking him out, reading his updates. Instead, I was drooling over his roommate. I shook my head. I was so going to hell.

On a one-way ticket.

Melissa West
lives in a suburb of Atlanta, GA with her husband and daughters. She holds a B.A. in Communication Studies and a M.S. in Graphic Communication, both from Clemson University.