The Totally Honest Tale of Ernest Hemingway, A 7th Grade Science Teacher, and Me

I know what you’re thinking, but no, this isn’t a version of Kiss, Marry, Kill. Nor is it a secret confession about wanting to lay some lips on Ernest Hemingway. (Although, thinking about it, I actually kind of do. Is that weird?) No, this seemingly random collection of people has a very specific purpose.

In a month and five days, my third novel, Aftereffects, will be published. And I’m so proud of that novel, I can hardly stand it. It actually took me nearly two years to complete and there were many times in the process that I questioned whether or not I could tell the story the way it needed to be told. What I know for certain is that I couldn’t have done it if Aftereffects had been my first novel.

So here’s where Ernest Hemingway comes in. He’s famously quoted as saying, “It's none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.” And he’s right—which is part of the reason I want to kiss him. (His beard may be another, but I digress.) But the truth of the matter is that we do have to learn to write. Nobody is really born that way. There are people who are innate storytellers—who can imagine situations so compelling, we want to read them. But how you tell a story—how you tease it, how you let it out slowly so readers can’t turn the page fast enough—well, that’s a skill you can learn. And you have to learn it the hard way . . . through practice.

And this is the part where the 7th grade science teacher comes in. In July 2015, I published my first novel, Ripple Effects, about . . . you guessed it . . . a 7th grade science teacher. (Trust me on this, he’s not at all like the ones you had!) It was the most joyful romp, and, for me, it began a love affair with writing that has undoubtedly grown into a full-blown passion. But here’s the thing: I learned so much from writing that novel that I was able, in turn, to write Sound Effects and Aftereffects, which were both a bit more complex. I did not possess the skills to write those stories when I sat down the first time to pen Ripple Effects.

So I am SO excited to let readers know that after completing Aftereffects, I returned to Ripple Effects and, this summer, rewrote it using everything I learned from the two successive novels. The characters, storyline and scenes are exactly the same as the original, but the execution is just a bit stronger. And I’m thrilled with the result.

If you haven’t read Ripple Effects (or if you read an earlier version of it), this is the perfect time to pick it up. It’s a funny, sweet, sexy story that I think you’ll love. In fact, I’ll give you the first chapter below so you can judge that for yourself. And don’t worry, all my books are standalones, but this will acquaint you to many of the key characters in the series. The updated version is available now on all the major channels, so go for it! You’ll be glad you did! And don’t miss Aftereffects, coming out Oct. 8!

Oh, and one more thing . . . as for my actual Kiss, Marry, Kill—here you go:

Kiss: Chris Hemsworth because . . . duh . . . it’s Chris Hemsworth;

Marry: my own Mr. Greene because he’s my soul mate and the reason I learned about Happily Ever Afters in the first place;

Kill: Star-Lord. Yeah, I’m talking to you, Star-Lord. If anyone deserved to go up in a poof of ash, it was you. Seriously, dude. You’ve got some major making up to do come spring. That’s all I’m saying . . .



Ripple Effects — Chapter One

Sarah

Like ground zero for nerd chic, Charlie’s Bar & Grill on University Avenue stood as a mecca—a funky kind of place, equally favored by the hoodie-clad Silicon Valley professionals as by their similarly dressed student counterparts. It was Friday night happy hour on the last day of Stanford’s spring semester finals and the place was packed.

“Here, take this.” Selene tossed back her long, dark hair, and handed me a very pink, very sweet cosmopolitan.

“For the next three months, we have nothing to do but relax. And we’re going to start that tonight.” She raised her drink in a toast, took a large sip, and melted into cranberry bliss.

In truth, neither of us was without responsibility for the next three months, but I understood what she meant. Selene Georgiou and I had been roommates for the past four years, and were heading into our final semesters of undergraduate study in the fall. After that, we’d be going our separate ways—she likely moving to San Francisco for a graphic design job and, me, hopefully continuing on at Stanford for my master’s degree in education. This was our last summer together and neither of us was ready to face up to that reality just yet.

So despite the onset of a ham-like state of post-finals exhaustion, I agreed to come out for a drink, and even let her dress me up in an outfit she insisted was very flattering to my figure.

Selene was tall, like me, but lithe to my curvy athleticism, which explained why her floral print blouse felt a little sexier than I had intended. I pulled at the front of it for the millionth time.

“Wow, that is strong.” I winced, swallowing another sip of the lethal concoction she’d handed me. Even the sugared rim couldn’t disguise the heavy alcohol content.

“Who’d you flash to get this?”

Selene rolled her eyes—not exactly a denial. “I’m going to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

I took another small sip of my drink and glanced around the bar. I grew up in the Silicon Valley, but in truth, I was still in awe of it. Nowhere else in the world was quite like it. With its frenetic pace of life and vibrant cultural diversity, you couldn’t help but feel like people here were always inventing, always trying to solve problems in an out-of-the-box, disruptive kind of way. And it’s true that many of the companies founded here had literally changed the world—Fairchild Semiconductor, Cisco Systems, Genentech, Google, Facebook. As a result, the collective wealth in the Bay Area was absolutely staggering.

Of course, that made me a bit of an outlier. Though my childhood home was only miles from the Stanford campus, it was a great distance in terms of economics. But growing up, I was never discouraged by that. The Silicon Valley was rich with lore of seemingly crazy ideas that took shape in a garage and went on to become Apple or Hewlett Packard. It had always given me the feeling that if you worked hard enough, you could do anything—even get into Stanford on a full academic scholarship.

I still counted my blessings for that one, and often looked around myself with a deep sense of gratitude. Tonight was one of those nights. And apparently I was in good company; everyone here seemed to celebrating something.

Charlie’s was known for its big open spaces that never felt claustrophobic, no matter how crowded it was. Plus, the used brick interior and cement flooring gave it a chic warehouse vibe that perfectly suited Charlie’s passion for showcasing the eclectic artwork of local artists—everything from paintings to sculptures to scrap metal creations.

Today’s artist was a photographer, and the restaurant’s pin lighting accentuated many sweeping landscapes of the Bay Area, as well as interesting close-ups of local flora and fauna. They were incredibly beautiful, and it was a full minute before I realized I actually recognized a few of the photographs—one in particular. It was an image of the Golden Gate Bridge, with the bridge sitting almost eerily behind a ghostlike band of fog, and the rich, brown sand and rolling waves of Baker Beach in the foreground. The original focal point, whatever it was, appeared to have been cropped out, giving the image a soft, dreamy quality.

It was so distinctive I was nearly certain it was the one I remembered from many years ago, and glancing at the placard beside it, I discovered I was right. Daniel Moore.

Wow.

That name brought back more than a few memories—memories from a time in my life I would hardly call a high point. Most of the time I purposely avoided them. Every so often they found me anyway. Like now, when the small-world theory decided to prove itself once again. The photographer in question was standing just a foot away, scrolling through messages on his phone.

“Mr. Moore?”

Penetrating green eyes lifted to absorb me blankly. But I could see he was fighting to place me in his own memory. After a long, awkward beat, we both said my name at once. Though for him, it was definitely more of a question.

Daniel R. Moore was one of three biology teachers at McKinley High School. He couldn’t have been more than a few of years into his career when I last knew him, and always strictly reserved with students. But he was definitely passionate about teaching. His lectures famously prompted some pretty memorable discussions on scientific advancements, and ethics, and conservation. When he was in full flow, he was absolutely captivating.

“Yes, of course, Sarah.” He shook his head in apology and slid his phone into his pocket. “And, please, call me Dan.”

His expression unexpectedly developed into a large, good-natured grin that was far from any recollection I had of him.

“I was just admiring your photographs.”

“Ah. Charlie’s a friend of mine. I blame him for all this.”

He looked around at the impressive display and his smile became more self-deprecating.

“No, they’re really good.

“You’re generous to say so.”

We both stood silently for a moment as the pause turned awkward. What do you say to someone you haven’t seen in more than five years and never really knew to begin with? Plus, I was now highly conscious of the fact that my blouse felt far too small, which was not ideal for a reunion of this kind. I found myself discreetly tugging at it again. To Moore’s credit, his eyes remained on my face—a bit of professionalism that did ring true to what I remembered of him.

“Are you still teaching?”

“Yes, but not at McKinley. I’m at Taft now. Seventh grade life science.”

“Oh. Nice.”

For me, it was almost surreal to see him in this completely different setting and to be talking with him as an adult; I’d been a student the last time we’d spoken. I wondered if he found it strange too. If he did, he didn’t let on, but he was a hard one to read. I’d always thought so. Maybe it was a teacher thing.

After a beat, his eyes flickered down to my drink and it dawned on me what was very likely going through his head.
“
Don’t worry, I’m twenty-two,” I reassured him, gesturing with the glass.

“Oh, I . . .”

He looked confused. Like maybe he didn’t believe me? Did I look underage? I couldn’t explain the ridiculous impulse behind it, but I pushed my hand into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out my driver’s license and student ID, thrusting them in his direction.

Dan took the license and ID card from my hand and laughed uncomfortably, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do.

“Well, I . . . okay. I wasn’t actually . . . Here, you can keep these,” he said, handing the cards back. “So, you’re graduating soon?”

I took another sip of the cosmo, definitely not looking like I needed the fortification. “Actually, I’ve still got one more year to go on my bachelor’s. I’m doing an internship at Stanford Medical Center so I haven’t been able to take a full load. Thus, the five-year plan.”

“The medical center?”

“Working with kids with autism.”

He narrowed his eyes as if digging even deeper in his memory. “Your brother.”

“Yes. Well, Asperger’s Syndrome in his case—but that’s where the interest comes from.”

“That’s really great.”

He was examining me even closer now, tilting his head slightly as if this was a revelation—like he was suddenly seeing me for the very first time. Evidently, I’d managed to progress in his mind from underage drinker to semirespectable societal contributor. I smiled, pleased with myself, and put the IDs back in my pocket.

But that’s when I realized nothing else was in my pocket and the happy feeling quickly evaporated. I looked down to find that my neatly folded cash and house key were on the ground next to my foot, apparently dislodged when I took out the cards. And to my unmitigated horror, the tampon from my pocket was also on the ground, lying conspicuously close to his shoe.

Adrenaline shot through my veins. Oblivious to what was happening, Dan shifted casually in his stance and his foot came down on top of the tampon, crushing it.
His eyes went wide when he realized what it was, and worse whose it was. He looked back at me. “I’m sorry.
Did I . . . ah . . . disable it?”

Disable it? Like a tampon bomb?

“No, no I’m sure it’s fine,” I insisted in high-pitched distress.

I sank to my knees, mortification gripping my body like a vise, and scrambled around at his feet to retrieve the items. Dan seemed to be of the opinion that keeping the conversation going while I did this was the best way for us to pretend he didn’t just step on my tampon. But I couldn’t focus at all on what he was saying. There was something about his completing a PhD in education at Stanford, which I wouldn’t have thought was necessary for a middle school teaching position.

With one hand, I was able to stuff the tampon and the rest of my things back into my pocket. Unfortunately, I did it with enough gusto that the cosmo in my other hand sloshed over the edge of its delicate glass and all over his pristine leather loafer.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I was mortified. I tried brushing at it vigorously with my hand, but to little effect. The leather was soaked and the sticky sweet liquid was now running over the top of his foot and into his shoe.

“Sarah, stop. Please. It’s not a big deal.”

He gently grasped my arm and began tugging me back up before I had the chance to humiliate myself any further. But even that was not to be—another wave of liquid shot from the mouth of the glass as I rose, this time soaking the leg of his pants, just inches from his crotch. He let out a little grunt and released me.
We were both gaping at the wet spot now and it was clear there was no hope of a dignified recovery for either of us.

“Okay. . . well . . . uh . . .,” he started.

But the only thing I had handy to help him dry himself was a tampon and believe me no one wanted to see that again. And no one wanted my hand anywhere near his crotch.

Suddenly I found myself on the verge of tears. Real tears. The big ugly kind that required a nose blow and usually ended up in hiccups. I looked up at his face, my eyes wide, fully expecting to see the return of the stern Mr. Moore I remembered from five years earlier—the one who seemed to compensate for his youth and stunning good looks with somber formality.

Instead, his expression was . . . well, it was shockingly patient. Maybe even a little amused. I hardly knew what to make of that.

“It’s okay,” he said kindly. “This won’t be the first time I’ve left a bar wearing a cosmopolitan. Though it’s been a while,” he added.

Then he made a playful show of squishing the liquid in his shoe and I had to laugh, in spite of my absolute horror. I wondered if it was always this way for insanely attractive men—women doing bat-shit crazy things in their presence. He seemed to know just how to handle it.

I took in a deep breath and let it out, making the best effort I could to gather myself.

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“Please don’t be.” He waved a hand dismissively. He was being much nicer than he needed to be, given that he was going to spend the rest of the evening looking like he’d urinated himself, courtesy of me.

“And I’m really sorry—I missed what you said. Did you tell me your PhD is on education reform?”

“I did, yes.”

“That’s so funny—I’m writing my grad school fellowship essay on the same topic.”

“Really?” he said with interest.

“Yes.” I lifted my glass in a toast. “And here’s to hoping yours is going much better than mine.”

Education reform was turning out to be an especially broad and complex topic and I was hopelessly stuck on how to deal with it properly. It was a major source of stress for me because my fellowship depended on getting it right.

But I didn’t want to think about that now. The room was warm, and I was still radiating with the heat of humiliation from my scalp to my toes. Oddly the skin between my breasts felt cool. And something about that registered in my brain, distracting me from our conversation. I turned to see if there was a breeze coming in from an open door.

“I think mine’s coming along pretty well, actually,” he told me.

“Good, maybe I’ll just copy it and save myself some trouble.”

It’s fair to say that thoughtless adequately described how I was keeping up my side of the exchange. Glancing around the bar, I couldn’t see any open door, or any reason there should be a breeze where we were standing. Tiny alarm bells began to go off in my head, which was probably why it was a second or two before I realized what I’d just done: I’d proposed plagiarism to a teacher. My former teacher. And then it dawned.
My attention snapped back to the tall, athletic man standing in front of me and he had the strangest expression on his face. He seemed to be searching politely for some appropriate thing to say—which, god knows what in the world that might be.

“No, I didn’t mean I would actually want to plagiarize your PhD. I never do that sort of thing. Ever.”

He laughed again, but there was something definitely uncomfortable beneath it. “No, I didn’t think . . .”

Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked away briefly. Then, he turned again in my direction. But he wasn’t really looking at me; he was looking pointedly at my forehead. Something wasn’t right here. His eyes darted around the room again, as if searching the place for any kind of help he could find. At last, he refocused his attention precisely on my face.

Clearing his throat, he continued in a businesslike manner: “What I was going to say was, it’s definitely an ambitious topic for a short essay. You’ll have to narrow your focus considerably or your work will come off as superficial.” The intensity returned to those devastating green eyes. “If you want, I’d be glad to review your outline and give you a few ideas.”

I was flooded with relief that we seemed to have returned to more stable ground. Okay, see, this was how a normal conversation was conducted. He was just a regular person, after all—no more or less than I.

“You forget that I’ve had a pretty intimidating experience with your infamous red pen,” I teased, then watched his reaction.

Mr. Moore was not known for his sense of humor, and in light of his surprisingly personable manner tonight, I was suddenly curious to know how he’d respond to mine.

Before my eyes, his gaze turned from intense to almost sparkling. He was still oddly rigid, but he cocked his head to the side and adjusted his stance.

“What are you implying?” That disorienting smile was back, and something about his demeanor eased my concern.

“I’m not implying anything,” I said, relieved to feel like myself again for the first time since he uttered my name.

“Our papers always looked like they’d been victims of a violent crime.”

He blinked for a moment, and then threw his head back and laughed. Actually laughed. It was a hearty, masculine sound with a bit of a rasp around the edges, and it washed over me with unexpected warmth.

“Some of them definitely were a crime. A crime against science—and against my intelligence, for that matter.”

I’d never heard him laugh.

Years ago, I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of it. This whole exchange showed a side of him I could not have imagined back then. He had an actual sense of humor.

And an incredibly sexy laugh.

It was an altogether pleasurable discovery. Unfortunately, it was followed by a rather cataclysmic one: The three middle buttons on my blouse had popped clean off. And now my shirt was hanging open—wide open. And it had likely been this way for many minutes!

My eyes shot to Dan’s face. I frantically groped at my blouse with my one free hand, hoping he hadn’t noticed the malfunction. But of course he had; his ears were now the same shade of pink as my cosmopolitan. He quickly looked away, avoiding my conspicuous attempts to pull the two sides of my shirt back together, but there was no mistaking the fact that I was failing miserably. Finally, he reached back across his shoulder and tugged the light gray sweatshirt over his head. His thick, wavy strawberry-blond hair was sent into wild abandon, which he mostly righted with a quick shake of his head.

“Here—in case you’re . . . cold.”

He handed me the sweatshirt with one hand, and took the sticky drink from my shaking fist with the other. Then he stepped away to set it down on the bar.

“Run!” my brain shouted, helpfully. “Or cry!” That was much less helpful. Dan must’ve already thought I was a barely legal flasher—crying would just make him think I was an unstable barely legal flasher.

How did this night become such a complete disaster?
I gratefully pulled the sweatshirt on, still warm from his body and roomy enough to accommodate his size. With truly heroic effort, I forced myself back to some semblance of control. Or the best version of it I could fake under the circumstances.

“I’ll send this back to you,” I offered when he returned. He waved that off and scribbled something on a napkin.

“Here’s my email. Send me your outline. I’d like to help.” He looked at me earnestly, as though rightly sensing some hesitation on my part.

Honestly, I wanted to cry. My whole composure was in disarray. I nodded, looking down at the napkin, and fought to hold myself together.

“I mean it, Sarah,” he added gently.

“You’re very kind. Thank you.” Finally, I lifted my gaze to his.

He was being so incredibly nice that I scolded myself for every bad thing I’d ever thought about him, and in doing so tried to reconcile my memories of that humorless teacher with the man standing before me. I simply couldn’t.

Selene walked up to my left, smiled pleasantly at Dan, and then turned to me. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.” God yes! I could not have been more ready to go.

“It was really good to see you again . . . Dan. And thank you for—” I gestured to the sweatshirt.

“It was good to see you too. Glad to hear you’re doing well.”

The sincerity in his face was oddly comforting. It was impossible to think I’d conveyed anything remotely resembling my best self, but his genuine kindness made the calamity of the last half hour feel, maybe, slightly less calamitous. If only for a moment . . .

§

Leaving Charlie’s, Selene and I walked along University Avenue. Neither of us said a word for long minutes.
“He was my high school biology teacher,” I finally whispered as the indignity seeped back into my consciousness.

“That guy is a science teacher?” She was definitely taken aback by this little nugget of information, and gave herself a moment to process. “He’s not like any science teacher I’ve ever had.”

That was probably true for most people, but it didn’t help my humiliation in the least to dwell on it.

“That was horrifying.”

“Yeah, it pretty much was.” Selene never pulled punches. It was actually one of the things I liked best about her. Although every once in a while, I wouldn’t have minded being lied to, just a little bit. “Someone needed to step in there before you reprised the Celtic dance you did at Sheryl’s twenty-first birthday. You were definitely heading in that direction.”

“Was it that bad?”

“So to recap: You dropped your tampon at his feet; bent to pick it up, thus, spilling your drink on his shoes and pants; and carried on a full conversation while exposing your breasts. Did I leave anything out?”

“I told him I wanted to plagiarize his PhD.”

“Oh, nicely done!” She said this as if it were an achievement. “Well, look at it this way—you probably won’t ever have to see him again.”

I took a deep breath. That’s true, I told myself in a consoling manner. Although . . .

“He offered to help me with my fellowship essay.”

Selene turned to me, eyebrows raised. “Was that before or after you popped your blouse open?”

“Oh my god.” A fresh wave of nausea rippled through my stomach.

“You should definitely take him up on it, though.”

“There is no way I could do that now. I just gave him a peep show!”

“So what. They’re just boobs. He’s a biology teacher, after all.”

Right.

“What was up with you, anyway? He’s ridiculously hot, but that was . . .” She shook her head as if she was at a loss to commit an innocent adjective to that particular scene.

“I really don’t know what that was. I think I’m just tired.”

Truthfully, it was probably more than that. It’s a funny thing to see someone after many years, and to find him so different from what you remember. Maybe he seemed different to me because I was different, but I would never have described him as friendly or warm.
Although to be fair, I couldn’t imagine I’d weather much better in his memory. I could only guess how I would’ve come across at that tumultuous time in my life: introverted, sullen, obsessively focused on my college resume. I stopped short before allowing myself to consider how I might have come across tonight.
When we finally reached our apartment, I went quickly to my room and collapsed on the bed. For a long time I just stared up at the sparkling popcorn ceiling. It was astonishing how running into someone you knew years ago threw you back immediately to who you were when you knew him. I felt the need to mentally shake off that person I once was. But it was also a good reminder of what had changed in the time between—how far I’d come in many ways, and what was still in front of me to do.

On an impulse, I dialed my friend Marcus.

“I need to ask you a favor . . .”