Mark My Words

  MARK MY WORDS

  AMBER GARZA

  Cover: Alivia @ White Rabbit Designs

  Copyright © 2016 Amber Garza

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  For information: ambergarza.com

  To Lisa, the bravest woman I know. Don’t ever stop fighting.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  I’m an author. Writing is how I heal. It’s how I process things. It’s how I cope.

  So, of course, it makes sense that I would write about her. She hurt me. Destroyed me. Broke my heart. The last thing I want to do is relive any of it, but it’s the only way I know to get through this. To thwart the pain.

  It will be hard, but I have no choice. I have to write about Lennie.

  Lennie. Weird name for a girl, huh? The first time my mom saw me scrawling her name all over my notebook freshman year of high school, she thought for sure I was gay. Being the open-minded woman she is, she made it clear that it was all right with her. And I know she was serious, but I assured her that Lennie was most definitely a girl. I was certain since I’d been checking out her curves for weeks. Her full name was Lennox Samson, but she went by Lennie. It fit her perfectly since she was not only girly, but also a little bit tomboyish.

  Lennie was the one that got away.

  The girl I watched from afar. Stole glances at from behind my textbook. She filled my fantasies, made appearances in my dreams. But I knew she’d never be mine. She was pretty, popular, confident. I was awkward, shy, bookish. The few times I tried to strike up a conversation it didn’t go well. My words were jumbled, my hand gestures manic. It was like I’d lost the ability to behave normally in her presence.

  So I gave up on the notion of us being together.

  I let her go.

  But I never forgot her.

  We went our separate ways after high school, but I thought of her often. And then years later she re-entered my life, appearing out of nowhere, as if I’d conjured her up with all my wishful thinking.

  She was different than she’d been when we were teenagers. The years had changed her.

  And they’d changed me too. I was bolder, more self-assured, and I was determined not to let her go a second time. So I didn’t.

  The girl that I thought I could never have, became mine. I loved her with all I had. I gave her everything.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  I still lost her.

  She’d warned me so many times. Made it clear that she wouldn’t stay, but I refused to listen. I foolishly believed that I could change things. That my love would tether us.

  But I was wrong.

  In the end, she left me.

  Now all that remains are these words, these memories.

  Our story.

  1

  The page was blank.

  It was always blank. Day after day I sat in this coffee shop, staring at the screen on my laptop, wondering why the words wouldn’t come. I’d dreamt of being a writer since I was a kid, and I pictured it much like this. Hanging out in a coffee shop, hunched over my laptop. The only difference was that in my fantasies I actually wrote something.

  I never thought it would be so difficult. Ideas were constantly swirling in my head. And I definitely had the determination. But I was missing something. At the time I didn’t know what it was, but it became clear the minute she walked through the glass doors.

  Even though I hadn’t seen her in years, recognition was instant. It’s impossible to forget your high school crush. She looked the same, yet vastly different. I suppose that’s what age does. I wondered if I had changed that much. It’s hard to know. When I looked in the mirror I saw the same old Colin. The guy I’d always been. Same wavy brown hair, same dark eyes, same bushy brows, same strong nose and jaw. Then again I saw myself every day. Therefore, I wasn’t the best judge.

  As she walked past me in the same clipped strides I remembered from when we were teenagers, I slicked down my hair with the palm of my hand. I hadn’t fixed it this morning, so it was no doubt an unruly mess. At the time I didn’t see the point. Winter in San Francisco wasn’t kind to my hair. Even if I did fix it the wind and rain would ruin it in seconds. Still, I wished I had attempted to look nice today. But who knew I’d run into her.

  I never expected to see her again.

  Last I’d heard she moved far from the city. Somewhere with sandy beaches and sunshine. And I wasn’t surprised. It suited her. With her tanned skin and blond hair she always looked like she belonged somewhere warm.

  The city had been my home since birth, and I had no desire to leave it. The cold didn’t bother me. I found comfort in the cloudy skies, the salty scent of the sea and the sound of leaves skittering in the breeze.

  Straightening my spine, I watched as she ordered her coffee. Her voice was the same, her mannerisms exactly as I remembered. She strummed the counter with her fingertips while waiting for her receipt, and it caused a flood of memories to wash over me. We sat next to each other for a couple of months in English class senior year, and she always did that when bored. Today she wore a black pea coat, jeans and knee high boots. On her head was a knit beanie. A thick, bulky scarf was tied around her neck. I glanced outside at the rain that splattered the windows, and I listened to the wind as it scraped the glass, emitting an animalistic sound.

  “Lennie!” From behind the counter, her name was called out. I flinched.

  Even though I’d been sitting here for hours that’s the first name that had registered. I suppose the barista’s voice had become white noise. Until now.

  She’d always had the ability to capture my attention.

  She slid around a couple who also waited for their coffees. When she got to the counter, she reached for her coffee and snatched it up. After a polite “thank you,” her gaze shot to the door. Desperation bloomed inside of me. I couldn’t let her leave. Who knew when I’d see her again. This may have been my only my chance. As she neared the door, I shoved away from my small circular table. Moving too quickly, my hip bumped the side. My half-drunk cup of coffee teetered on top, almost falling over. Reaching out, I steadied it. Lennie’s palm splayed against the door, rain kissing the pads of her fingers through the glass.

  “Lennie?” I said, my voice shaky and unsure. Clearing my throat, I stood taller. I was a man now. Not the same young boy I was when I last saw her. There was no reason to revert back to that scared teenager.

  Her hand fell from the glass, and she slowly pivoted. When her gaze met mine, it was obvious she had no idea who I was. A part of me felt slighted, but mostly I was relieved. She probably remembered me as a nerd. A bumbling idiot. The fact that she couldn’t immediately pinpoint who I was boded well for me. Stepping away from the table, I shoved my fingers into the pocket of my jeans the way I imagined some cool guy wou
ld do. But my pockets were too tight, and it hurt. So I yanked my fingers out, my face warming.

  “I thought that was you,” I said in a nonchalant way, as if I hadn’t pegged her the moment she walked in. As if I hadn’t been staring at her the entire time, waiting to strike. “We went to high school together.”

  She furrowed her brows, her eyes narrowing as if trying to place me. The couple that ordered after her maneuvered around us. When they headed outside, cold air whisked over us. Lennie shivered. I was grateful when the door slammed behind them, trapping in the heat.

  “Colin Wilde.” Yeah, that’s right. My last name is Wilde. The quiet guy. The one with his nose perpetually pressed in a book. And I had the unfortunate luck of being named Wilde. The kids had a lot of fun with that when I was younger. I even went through a phase early in my teen years where I tried to live up to my name, mainly so I could stand up to the bullies. The problem was, that I wasn’t a risk taker.

  I wasn’t wild.

  “Right.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Wow, you look so different.”

  “So do you.” I wasn’t sure why I said it. She didn’t look that different, but it felt like the right thing to say.

  “Oh. Thanks.” Her hands moved up to her beanie, and she tugged on it. Then she nervously adjusted her scarf.

  My words had clearly agitated her, and I wished I could take them back. Wished I could tell her that she looked like she had in high school. That she hadn’t aged a day. In fact, now that I thought about it, I guess a girl like Lennie would’ve taken that as a compliment. While I wanted nothing more than to become someone completely different after high school, she probably wanted to stay the same.

  “I mean, you don’t look that different. Just older.” Seriously, why did I say that? “Not that much older, just, you know. Well, we are older.” For the love of god, please stop talking. “You look good.” There. That’s enough. Now zip it.

  A ghost of a smile played on her lips. In high school she wore a lot of makeup. Pink shimmering lipstick, black rimmed eyes. But today her face was clean. Her lips were shiny and her eyes had some type of color on the lids, but it was hardly noticeable. Honestly, I thought she looked better than before. I never thought she needed all that makeup anyway. Her hair was hidden under her beanie, but I caught blond wisps around her neck, so I surmised that it looked the same as I recalled. “Thanks.” Bringing the paper cup to her mouth, she took a small sip. “It was nice seeing you again, Colin.”

  “I’m working on that romance novel!” I blurted out as she prepared to walk out of my life once again.

  “What?” She froze, eyeing me.

  “The romance novel. The one you wrote about in my yearbook.” Man, I really did sound like a lunatic bringing that up all these years later. It probably meant nothing to her. Something she robotically scribbled in my yearbook.

  I can’t wait to one day read your romance novel.

  But it meant something to me. Those words became my life’s mission. I took them as prophecy. I’d been working hard to make them come true. To conjure them from the page, and breathe them into reality.

  After a second of silence, her eyes widened. “Oh, yeah. I do remember that now. You said you wanted to be a romance author like Nicholas Sparks.”

  “If memory serves me right, he was your favorite.”

  “Still is.” She smiled, her gaze flickering to my laptop. “So you really did it? Became an author?”

  I shifted from one foot to the other, instantly regretting this conversation. “Not yet.”

  “But you’re working on it?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s awesome.” She bit her lip. “It’s nice to know that one of us is pursuing our dreams.”

  “You’re not writing?” The day that I told her I wanted to be a romance author, she confessed that she also wanted to write for a living.

  She shook her head, and in her eyes I saw all of the things she wasn’t saying. When we were younger, her eyes were always bright and innocent. It was one of the things I liked about her. She exuded happiness and joy. It radiated off of her like rays of sunshine on a cool day. That’s probably why everyone wanted to be close to her. But she’d lost that. Now her eyes were filled with darkness, storm clouds, raging seas. I couldn’t let her leave until I knew why.

  “Come sit down for a minute.” Stepping backward, I motioned her toward my table. “Finish your coffee inside where it’s warm.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Conflicted, she peered toward the door. As if on cue, a gust of wind kicked up, roaring through the air outside. Liquid splattered the windows.

  “It’s raining too hard to go out there right now,” I pointed out.

  She involuntarily shuddered. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  My heart picked up speed when she stepped toward my table. I plopped down into my seat, my screensaver visible. Thank god my blank document wasn’t up to mock me. Lennie sank down into the chair across from me, setting her coffee cup on the slick table. Behind me, mugs clinked together, a blender went off. Chatter swirled around us.

  “What is your novel about?” She asked, silencing the noise. “You know, besides love.” The way she held out the word “love” reminded me of the girl she used to be. Always teasing and acting silly.

  I racked my brain for something clever to say, but in the end I shrugged and told the truth. “I’m not sure. I just started it, actually.” No sense telling her that I’d been trying to start it for months now. What I did share was embarrassing enough.

  “You’ll figure it out.” Picking up her cup, she took a sip.

  No longer wanting to continue down this path, I changed the subject. “Are you living in the city again?”

  She nodded, her fingers playing with the lid on her cup.

  “Got tired of the beach, huh?” I teased.

  Her head snapped up. “What?”

  “Um…I just heard that you moved somewhere sunny, somewhere near the beach. Maybe that was wrong.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I mean, technically I guess I moved close to the beach. I was in Southern California. But I rarely went to the beach.”

  “Still, I bet the weather was nice there.”

  “Yeah, it was.” She pressed her lips together. “But it wasn’t home.”

  I sat forward, propping my elbows up on the table. It felt like there was more weight in the silence than in her answers. I found myself listening more to what she wasn’t saying rather than what she was. “Are you working here?”

  “Not right now. I’ve got some things in the works though.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “In fact, I better get going. I’m on my way to an appointment.” Her gaze traveled to the window. “Perfect timing too. The storm let up a little.”

  It was too soon. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye. “Hey, can I get your number? Maybe we can go out sometime.” I looked down at my coffee mug. “But not for coffee. Maybe we’ll try food next time.”

  She hesitated, searching my face. “Um…no. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Grabbing her coffee cup off the table, she clutched it to her chest as she stood.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re probably married or something.” Panicked, I scanned her left hand. No ring. The panic subsided a little.

  “No. I’m not married.” She shook her head, yanking her sleeve down to her wrist. But not before I saw little red bumps lining her arm. It almost appeared to be a rash, but I couldn’t be sure, and I wondered if the lighting was playing tricks on my eyes.

  “Boyfriend, then?”

  “Not anymore.” She sighed. “I was engaged. In Southern California. But that ended.” Shrugging, she forced a smile. “That’s sorta why I’m back.”

  Her sadness made a little more sense now. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” she said with a resigned nod. “And I’m just not ready to date again.”

  “Yeah. I understand,” I responded. “But it wouldn’t have to be a date. It could just be two old friends getting tog
ether. Catching up.”

  “Isn’t that what we just did?”

  She had me there. “I guess we did.”

  “It really was good to see you, Colin.” She backed away from the table.

  “You too, Lennie.” I lifted my hand in a wave as she slipped out the front door of the coffee shop and hurried down the street. Watching her disappear around the corner, I assumed it would be the last time I saw her.

  Knowing what I know now, a part of me wishes it had been.

  2

  My apartment was the quintessential bachelor pad. A studio with minimal furniture. My flat screen TV was the only nice thing I owned. The couch and dining table were hand-me-downs from my parents. My bed was a mattress and box spring that hugged the wall in the corner. No matter how many times my mom was on me about buying a bedframe I couldn’t bring myself to shell out the money. I was the definition of a struggling writer. Pretty sure if you looked up that phrase, a picture of me would appear.

  Then again, I suppose it could’ve been worse. It wasn’t like I was starving. I sold enough freelance pieces to pay my bills, and I ate on a pretty consistent basis. Fortunately, whenever I ran out of money my parents helped out. It’s embarrassing to admit that in my mid-twenties I was still relying on my parents. But I didn’t have a choice.

  Up until a few months ago, I had a part-time job at a local record store. But the store closed down, and it was actually my mom who encouraged me to take some time to pursue my dream of writing. As an English major, there was a lot I could’ve done career-wise. At least in theory. I could’ve taught, but that would’ve required public speaking, and at the mere thought, my hands broke out in a sweat and my tongue swelled to astronomical proportions. I could write for a newspaper or magazine, but those jobs were hard to nab. Trust me, I’d been trying.

  However, I knew that I couldn’t go on like this indefinitely. If I didn’t get this book written and sold soon, I would have no other choice but to hit the pavement again. The thought didn’t appeal to me, but neither did living like this forever. Either way, something would have to change soon. Running into Lennie brought that home further. It reminded me of all that was missing in my life. It reminded me of how lonely I was.