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  FACING REALITY

  SARAH COLE

  Copyright © 2017 Sarah Cole

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication or any portion thereof may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any matter whatsoever without express written permission of the author. The only exception is the use of brief quotations for a review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to provide authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, and song titles within this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Cover Design: Sarah Cole

  Cover Image: Tomasz Kobiela via Shutterstock

  Interior Design and Formatting: Sarah Cole

  Copy Editing: Sarah Cole

  ISBN: 1544754116

  ISBN-13: 978-154475411

  “He is a true casualty of battle. There’s not a physical scar, but look at the man’s heart, and his head, and there are scars galore.”

  -David Finkel, The Good Soldier

  pROLOGUE

  fLYNN:

  I lay the drill down, and admire my handy work as I use my shirt to wipe the sweat that trickles in beads down my forehead. It’s way too hot for October, but it is South Georgia after all. I’m not sure who I’m trying to impress with all of these lights, but I’ll bite the bullet and finish this exterior remodel I’d been planning on tackling in spring. But since people in this small ass town seem to like to gawk and snoop, I might as well give ‘em something pretty to look at while they do it. It seems like since I returned home from my last tour overseas, a month or so ago, more and more people tend to stop by to check up on me… or just stop and snoop around. Don’t get me wrong, I love this town and the people. It’s just hard to have any privacy around here. That’s the problem with living in a small town; anything and everything is news, and exciting stories just don’t come around often enough.

  I hop off the metal extension ladder, and the sound of an approaching car startles me, sending me into defense mode. I quickly turn around to see an unfamiliar car in the driveway, and count backwards from ten, trying to calm my raw nerves. I can’t help it. When you spend such a large chunk of your adult life on constant alert, waiting for just the slightest of sounds, it takes time to readjust.

  I begin to stride purposefully towards the little red sports car in my driveway when the door opens, exposing a tanned foot adorned in an inappropriately tall heel, especially for this town and this time of day. The leggy, raven haired beauty steps out wearing a worried look on her face.

  “Erica.” I greet, with a nod.

  “Hey, Xander.” She greets, using the nickname that has been reserved for my high school football and Army buddies… and apparently still, high school girlfriends. My real name is Flynn Alexander, but apparently, I’m still unsuccessful in shedding the old nickname.

  “Snazzy ride you got, there. What brings you over here?” I cross my arms as she looks everywhere but my face.

  “Um thanks, I’m just test driving it. Grady, down at the dealership, said I could take it for a spin while my car’s getting an oil change. Can we go inside and talk for a minute?” She asks. Although I find it odd, I oblige.

  “Come on, then.” I call out over my shoulder and I motion for her to follow me through the open garage.

  I lead Erica in through the kitchen.

  “Want something to drink?” I offer, filling up a glass of water for myself from the refrigerator.

  “No thanks. I’m good.” She wrings her hands as her eyes dart around my home. I can tell her unease is growing by the second.

  “Ok, Erica. What’s going on? Why are you here?” I ask, setting my glass on the marble counter with a clink.

  “I’m pregnant.” She blurts out harshly.

  “Well, congratulations!” I’m not sure why she’s telling me, but I guess if she’s happy about it, then I am too.

  “Xander, it’s yours.” She emphasizes, giving me a pleading look.

  “Okay…”

  She huffs out a breath, stomping her pointy stiletto heel into my new hand carved wood floors and I cringe, “Remember that party that everyone threw for you a few weeks after you came back to Stockbridge? Your unofficial ‘Welcome Home’ party? Remember? … We hooked up? Well, there wasn’t anyone for a few months before you, or after you. So, you can fill in the blanks.”

  A hot unease begins to roll its way through me as I lean my elbows on the cool countertop, trying to catch my breath. The hazy, drunken memories of the bathroom hookup at Tumbler, the local bourbon bar, assault my mind as the stark realization washes over me.

  “Are you sure?” I manage. This can’t be. I’m always careful about that kind of shit, but if I was drunk enough…

  “Yes, I’m positive.”

  “How long have you known?” I pry.

  “I don’t know. A few weeks? But don’t worry though, I’ve got an appointment on Tuesday to take care of it. I just thought you should know.” She says quickly, and with her confession, my head snaps up.

  “Take care of what?”

  “The pregnancy.” She looks at me like I’m a moron. “I made an appointment to terminate it, so you won’t have to worry about anything.”

  “Why the fuck would you do that without even talking to me first?” I fume. My blood is boiling now. Sure, maybe this isn’t ideal, and it wasn’t planned, but why would she just assume I wouldn’t want my child? My child.

  “Oh please, Flynn.” She says, finally using my real name.

  “Like you’d want to be tied down like that? Infamous Flynn Alexander, partying golden boy, home town hero… besides, I’m sure you’ve heard that I’m moving to New York soon anyways. I’ve got plans, big plans, and having kids isn’t one of them. It never has been. We made a mistake, now I’m taking care of it. I was just doing you the common courtesy of telling you before you heard about it through the grapevine. You know how people talk around here!” She says, and all I can think about is her killing my baby.

  I haven’t loved Erica since I was eighteen years old, and I may not even love this baby yet, but I’ll be damned if she just treats this so nonchalantly.

  “Erica, we may not have planned this, but please let’s just work this out. Please don’t terminate this pregnancy.” I beg.

  “Are you freaking serious right now, Flynn? I don’t want to be a mother!” she practically screams at me, but I refuse to back down on this.

  “Then don’t be! I don’t give a flying fuck! Just have the baby, and sign over rights to me. I’ll be a single dad; I don’t care! Just… please…” I walk around the center island to come face to face with her.

  “Erica… I know you remember me as a certain type of person, but eleven years in the Army made me grow up into someone else. I’m set financially, and I know what’s important now… so please. Please just give me this. I’ll have my lawyer draw up a contract and everything. I’ll help you pay for appointments or whatever.” I don’t know what the future holds for me. Maybe I’ll never have the love my parents had, but I’m not risking what might be my only chance at having a family of my own. Life is too short.

  She eyes me warily, “It really means this much to you? Like, you really want to be a single father?”

  “I wouldn’t say that I want to be a single father; it isn’t exactly what I pictured. But yes, family means everything to me, and I want to be a father.”

  “Fine.” She sighs heavily, conceding defeat. “But I’m telling you now, I mean it when I say I do
n’t want anything to do with this baby, Flynn. I’ll carry it, pop it out, and hand it over. No relationship.” She levels me with a heavy stare, and I hold up both hands in defense.

  “If that’s what you want, I promise, Erica. That’s all I’m asking… I’ll do the rest.” I reassure her, all the while, wondering what I just got myself into.

  I’m going to be a father…

  1

  SIX MONTHS LATER…

  cLARA:

  The glass shatters, narrowly missing my head; broken crystal and amber liquid catch in my hair and litter the floor all around me. This definitely isn’t the first beverage I’ve had hurled at my head, but damn it, it will be the last if I have anything to say about it. It really is an occupational hazard in the world of reality TV, or my world in general. Welcome to Hollywood, folks!

  “God, damn it Elizabeth, why can’t you ever just do what you’re told?” my father scolds me through gritted teeth, using my middle name. The one that he demands I go by in public because it polled as more marketable to a broader audience. Loosening his tie, he walks over to the large wall of glass that overlooks the Hollywood Hills, and braces himself with one hand against the sturdy metal framing.

  I notice his graying hair and think how he’s aged so much in the past handful of years. He always wore success well, but fame and notoriety haven’t done him any favors. Growing up I would see hints of a loving father, but this… this is a complete stranger, a man I despise. He has long since buried any semblance of the man I know he was raised to be, and replaced him with a cold, shiny veneer. A face for the world to see.

  “Because I don’t want to do the show anymore…either of them! It’s not me! It’s not what I want to do; it’s definitely not what I want the world to see me as!” I shout, my anger and frustration getting the best of me.

  “It doesn’t really matter what you want, girl. You’re contractually obligated.” He says, his long Southern drawl coming out with the word, girl.

  You know he’s spitting mad when his accent returns. He hides it well and has paid to have it buried, because heaven forbid anyone find out where Quentin Scott’s roots are planted.

  “I’m twenty-five years old, Dad. I’m not going to do this forever. I can’t; I refuse. I can’t be your puppet anymore! People don’t take me seriously or respect me… they think I’m just some self-absorbed heiress. Not to mention, dance! You managed to turn that into a chore… so please, please, just let me out of the contract.” I beg. I know it’s a long shot, but the man is still my father whether or not he acts like it.

  “You know I can’t do that, Elizabeth.” He walks around his desk and plants himself into the overpriced leather chair, completely unfazed by my pleading.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “I don’t see why it matters. You’re doing it. Rehearsal’s start for In Lights in two weeks. You’ve already met your dance partner, and you’re already filming the new season of Sincerely Scott. Your brother and sister can’t pull it off by themselves and we don’t have a spare dancer for In Lights, so it’s all you.”

  In Lights is a popular prime time celebrity dance contest my father created and produced, and I was recruited as one of the professional dancers. Then of course, there’s the over the top, drama filled circus that is Sincerely Scott, the reality TV show based around the daily lives of mega television creator and producer Quentin Scott and his children. It’s ridiculous, and ninety nine percent of it is staged. Well, at least on my side… I’m not really that interesting. I’d rather stay home and read or volunteer at a youth center, but that is why I’m here. To distance myself from the drama, and live how I want to. Quietly, and away from the judgement of people whose opinions don’t matter.

  I’ve come to realize over the past five or so years that that is all I am to him, Elizabeth Scott. Perfect socialite. Perfect daughter. Perfect paycheck.

  “Dad, I don’t think you realize. I’m leaving one way or another. I need something else…something more.”

  “Good luck, then, sweetheart.” He says, but his words are dripping with disdain.

  “I don’t think you realize what the real world is like, Elizabeth. It isn’t as simple as you seem to think it is, and what are you going to do for money? You wouldn’t last two weeks without your luxe life. Don’t expect a damn cent from me, because you’re never going to see it.” My father spits.

  I don’t know if I should find it insulting or a blessing in disguise the fact that he underestimates me so greatly. He has absolutely no idea what my goals are, or the fact that I have more than enough money saved to last me a lifetime. When I turned eighteen, I began researching. Then, I began investing my paychecks and allowances my father provided, which with the help of a close friend, have more than tripled in size in the past several years. I don’t need a luxe life, in fact, I don’t want it. I never did. I’ve seen what it does to people, and I refuse to let it happen to me. My mother drank herself into an early grave, my father turned into a cold, calculating person, and even my own siblings are money hungry, fake people. They would screw over their own flesh and blood, just to claw their way to the top. Well, maybe not my brother, but definitely my little sister. I want out. Deep down in a broken part of my heart, I love my family, especially my brother, but one thing I’ve learned is you can love someone without having to like them very much.

  “I’m not asking for money. I’m asking for a chance to leave and live outside of this plastic world you’ve built around our family. And I want to do it without you slapping me with a thousand and one lawsuits!” I say. The feeling of defeat is slowly creeping in as I stare him in his expressionless eyes. Can he not see what this is doing to me? I think he can, but what burns the most is that he simply refuses to care.

  My father opens his mouth to respond just as the phone on the desk begins to ring shrilly.

  “Is that all you needed, Elizabeth?” he asks dismissively. He picks up the handset, signaling the end to our conversation.

  All I needed? I stare at him in disbelief, before turning to leave the room. I don’t even bother giving him any other response than my back, as I leave his office.

  I walk down the dark hallway that used to hold our family photos, an exit strategy having already unfolded in my mind. Little does he know I’ve already made all the arrangements. Now, it’s time to pull the plug on Elizabeth Scott. That girl is gone, and she’s not ever coming back.

  FLYNN:

  I honk the horn again, checking the clock on the dashboard of my truck. Always late. Always. I tap on the steering wheel in frustration, along to the new Avenged Sevenfold album. I honk the horn again, just as Erica teeters out of her condo on yet another set of ridiculously high heels and skinny jeans. I shake my head in frustration. She’s only about a month out from the due date, but to me, she still looks too small.

  I hop out of the truck, and rush around to the passenger side to open the door, and help her up before she hurts herself and my baby.

  “I see the way you’re looking at me Xander, and you can just stop it right now.” Erica whines.

  “How am I looking at you, Erica?” I ask, slamming my door a little too hard, my frustration evident.

  “All judgmental and stuff.”

  “And stuff?” I quirk an eyebrow.

  Erica’s a nice enough girl and all, but she wasn’t gifted with the most eloquent way of speaking like a lot of ladies around here. See, the ladies around here have a way of telling you to go jump off a cliff, but it just sounds like they’re wishing you a nice day. Erica isn’t as subtle. Maybe she just doesn’t have the vocabulary, or maybe she fell off the top of the cheerleading pyramid a few too many times in high school. The world may never know.

  “Yeah, like you disapprove of just everything about me. What the hell is your deal?”

  I let out air I’ve been holding in my lungs, hoping that some of my frustration will be released along with it.

  “Ok, where would you like for me to begin, Erica?”


  “Just let it all out now. Otherwise, I know you’re going to sit there and stew all afternoon, and I’m going to have to listen to your growls and heavy sighs like always.” She pouts, crossing her arms and turning in my direction.

  This. This right here is why Erica and I could never work… why we never did work even as kids. We bicker back and forth about anything and everything. It’s exhausting, and in the worst sort of ways. Maybe I’m too hard on her, but if I wasn’t, I doubt she’d care enough to even take care of herself, let alone my child. I shift my truck into gear and start in, just going down the list of everything she’s done to offend me today.

  “One, wear appropriate footwear and clothing. You’re eight months pregnant for fucks sake. You’re probably cutting off circulation to my baby girl in there. Two, eat something more than salad, God damn it! You’re growing a human, not a rabbit. My whole world is what you’re carrying in there… you can go to the gym later, but please just eat what you need to! Three, get a watch. You’re late… all the time. Every time. I have a business to run, and time is money. I know you do your beauty blogging or whatever, but please, just be respectful of my time.”

  “Sheesh, Captain Clockwork. The Army has got you wound tighter than a cuckoo clock.” She giggles.

  “Maybe, but that has nothing to do with being respectful of other peoples’ time and my growing child inside you.” I say, turning up the radio, hoping it will drown out the sound of her voice as she continues to make excuses.

  “Do we have to do this?” Erica whines, as the technician readies the machine.

  “You’re not paying for it, so yes. We’re doing this.” I tell her. At one of our first appointments, the doctor told us about the 3D ultrasound that could be done, and to be honest, at the time I didn’t think anything of it. As time wore on, and the more excited I got, I knew it was something I wanted to have for a memory. Maybe someday I’ll put together a scrapbook or something. The thought makes me want to laugh. Who ever thought that I’d be thinking about scrapbooking?