Where the Staircase Ends (25 page)

BOOK: Where the Staircase Ends

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There’s a shriek, then a sob, and I hear my father shout five of the seven words he told me I could never say out loud. The room is a flurry of movement, and I lose the battle with my eyelids and plunge back into darkness.

Someone grabs my hand. My mother, I think, judging by the soft skin and protective death-grip.

I don’t know why, but all at once two words press against the back of my throat, desperate to get out. It’s like if I don’t say them the world will explode, like I’ll be pulled back into the sea of black I just emerged from and never get another chance.

My mouth feels thick and fabric-filled; my throat does everything it can to keep the words down. But I have to say them. It feels like the single most important thing in the world. (Why?)

This time I don’t bother trying to open my eyes. Instead, I use what little strength I have to push the sticky words out of my mouth, feeling more like I’m trying to climb a mountain than speak.

I tip my head in the direction of my parents’ voices and the place where I thought I caught a glimpse of red hair. The words are goopy sounding, not clear and strong like I’d wanted, but saying them feels just as wonderful as my brain thought it would.

“I’m sorry,” I slur.

My mom sobs again and releases her hold on me. Another hand replaces hers, this one smaller and cooler, and I immediately recognize the familiar scent of Sunny’s perfume.

Then Sunny’s breath is hot against my ear as she whispers, “I’m so, so sorry. Taylor … ”

Her voice is urgent, pleading.

I want to tell her that she doesn’t need to apologize, because she already did.

But when?

A vision snaps in front of me—Sunny standing on a massive staircase, surrounded by an army of other Sunnys. I have no idea where it came from, but it feels familiar, and I wonder if it’s something from my dream trying to push its way into my consciousness.

“Don’t … ” I manage to croak.

The bed starts to shake as Sunny cries, and I realize she thinks that I don’t forgive her. That I’m telling her to stop because I don’t want to hear it. But that’s not it at all, because
I’m
the one who’s sorry.

I try to speak again, but the words won’t come. Instead I squeeze her hand. I’m too weak to put much oomph behind it, but it seems to do the trick.

She squeezes my hand back.

I let myself relax against the bed, feeling for some reason that everything is exactly as it should be. Feeling like maybe this is what I’d wished for all along.

It’s enough to let me drift back to sleep, this time with a small smile on my face.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

It takes a village to raise a novel, and
Where the Staircase Ends
is no exception. First and foremost, thanks to the fabulous team at Month9Books for everything you’ve done. To Georgia McBride, for seeing the potential in my story and giving it a home. To Lindsay Leggett and Bethany Robison, my fabulous editors, for helping to bring out the best in my words. To Jaime Arnold, Jennifer Million and the rest of the team, for all the help and support behind the scenes. Month9Books is a fantastic place to launch a writing career. Thank you.

This story would never have reached the world if it wasn’t for the help and support of my many writing friends. To Jen, Lauren and Triona, the amazing and talented women of Thinking To Inking—I never would have made it this far without you. Thank you for everything. To Kristy Shen, who encouraged me to submit to Month9Books in the first place—you realize this whole thing is kinda your fault, right? Saying thanks doesn’t feel big enough, but I hope it’s a starting point. I also owe an immense amount of thanks to Margie Senechal, Suzi Retzlaff, Tamara Walsh, MaryKate Connolly, Stephanie Diaz and Ico Ahyicodae. I’d be remiss not to mention the wonderful community over at AgentQuery Connect. Thanks for giving me a place to go when I had no idea what the heck I was doing. I hope everyone there sells a million books. You deserve it.

To Mom, Dad and Mike for all the support throughout the years. I suppose I should also thank you for reading to me when I was little…I like to think that played a part in this whole “I want to write a novel” dream I’ve had. And the education. That helped too. :) Thanks always for everything.

I’m lucky to have wonderful friends in my life who keep me sane and happy. To the Literary Lushes and my Clorox Crew—thank you a million times over for giving me distractions when I needed them most. San Francisco’s a beautiful city, but you guys make it a wonderful place to live. Thank you. And to my Longhorn ladies—if you were a soup, you’d be miso. Because you make miso happy. (See what I did there Becky and Valini? That’s called a pun. It’s funny.
Right
?)

Last but never least (and perhaps most of all) a million thank yous to my wonderful husband. M+B forever.

And if by chance this book wanders into your hands, thank you for reading. I hope your stairs are long, and there are many interposing flies along the way.

STACY STOKES

Stacy grew up in Dallas, TX, but has lived all over. After spending time in Austin, Chicago, New York and Philadelphia, she is happy to call San Francisco her home, where she lives with her husband.
She has a slight obsession with puns (they are, in her opinion, the highest form of humor), which might be linked to the three years she spent studying improv comedy at Chicago’s Second City and IO theaters. She holds a BBA from the University of Texas at Austin and an MBA from The Wharton School of Business. WHERE THE STAIRCASE ENDS is her debut novel.

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