Chapter Two
Marisa
“Book of the Month” - Lovage
A year later
It's half past midnight, the white light from the city spills in through the living room window and pours across the blonde hardwood floors. Sighing, I get to my feet and stretch. My muscles ache, my neck is stiff from shuffling around moving boxes. I’ve spent all day unpacking, putting everything in its place in my new home on Water Street. The insurance money came in a month ago, twelve months to the day that John killed himself. Evidently, he’d renewed the policy two years to the date before he died, ticking up from a one-million-dollar policy to two. The insurance company squabbled about it for months, even though the clause says two years before a suicide and the money goes to the spouse. I guess they want it to be two years and a day. Idiots. And It couldn’t have come in a day sooner. My bank account was slim, having lived off mine and John’s savings for the past year. I never worked when I was with John. He didn’t want me to, and besides, being one of the best defense attorneys on the east coast, it’s not like we needed extra money. I just needed to get out of that house, that town. Everything reminded me of him. Everywhere I went, I pictured him and his whore. I needed a fresh start. And here it is. Manhattan. DUMBO. A padded bank account and the opportunity to start writing books with the endings they deserve.
I curl up on my sofa with a half empty bottle of wine, a blanket, and my well-read copy ofRealityopen on my lap. I swore I’d never read those books again because they gutted me, but, after a few weeks, when I couldn’t stop thinking about Lucas…I found myself reading them again and again. And each time, the ending hurt just as much as it did the first time. Irun my finger beneath the printed words, reading them aloud:And in the end, that is all there is. Perception. Be it deep or shallow, love is nothing more than a figment of our imaginations. And, oh what a shame it was when I discovered that it all, every miniscule piece of it, was meaningless. All of it except for Meredith because for a moment in time, she was mine. She was my story and I was hers…
I draw in a breath. A deep breath. Those words.Hiswords—unmatched by any other author. I close the hardback book, flipping it over to look at his picture, and I find myself swooning. Justin Wild’s face is as beautiful as his words. I skim over the author bio, which, by now, I know by heart: Justin Wild is the self-published author of the worldwide bestselling booksDelusion, Illusion, andReality.He began writing as a graduate student studying Forensic Psychology at Emory University, publishing his trilogy a week after he graduated with honors. He lives in Manhattan, New York with his beloved Great Dane, Cobain (named after the world's greatest musician: Kurt Cobain. God rest his soul).
Closing the paperback, I sink into the couch cushions. I think this makes the 77thtime I’ve read this book. I have the lines memorized. A person capable of writing such an epic story—there must be something immeasurably deep to him. And there is…I’ve read every interview he’s done with blogs and any article he’s had a hand in. I follow him on every social media platform that exists, and thanks to his posts, I feel like IknowJustin. I know where he shops, what his favorite foods are. I know what TV shows he watches, which actresses he fantasizes about. He likes brunettes and I can’t blame him. Blondes are trashy sluts. Sometimes he posts about his dreams... his day to day thoughts. The selfies. The livefeeds. I know that if I ever run into him, he’ll realize we belong together. Fate. Sometimes I am certain it was fate that had John take his own life. If he’d never killed himself, I’d have never ended up in that psych ward and I’d never have found Justin’s beautiful books. Never known such a perfect soul was out there, wandering, waiting, searching…
I set the book on the coffee table and trudge into my bedroom, skirting around moving boxes. I lie down, close my eyes, but I can't find sleep. The noise of the New York City traffic is loud. Different than the silence of the country. The windows in my apartment are old and thin, and every sound seems to amplify when it passes through glass, but I do love my apartment. DUMBO is a wonderful little neighborhood, expensive, but so worth it. I can see why Justin chose to live here. On Water Street.
Don’t worry, that had little to do with whyImoved onto Water Street—it’s just such a nice area, with an amazing view of the city. And I’m certain, one day, fate will have me run into him.
