Truly Madly Deeply (Forbidden Love, #1)

by L.J. Shen

“Is Tucker really that bad?” I whispered. “Dude, the worst. He has no sense of humor either. Before he went off lobster hunting, we attended a twenty-four-week ultrasound checkup, and when we were in an elevator full of people on our way to the sonographer, I asked him very loudly, ‘So when are you going to tell your wife about us?’ and you know what he did?” I pressed my lips together, stifling a laugh. Dylan was so fantastically herself, it sometimes took my breath away. “Peed his pants cackling, as he should?” “You’d think so, right? But no. He got all mad and started yelling at me that I was immature and too much to handle. What does that even mean?” Her eyes—a shade darker than Row’s—sparkled with unshed tears. “Shouldn’t the person you love be the perfect amount for you?” Well, I’m no expert in love, but I think that if someone loves you the way you deserve to be loved, they could never get enough of you.

Dylan took another bite, craning her neck to peer at the plastic bag behind me. “What else did you bring me?” “Siri, play ‘Material Girl.’” I slapped her hand away when she tried to snatch the bag from around my body, laughing. “Siri, play ‘My Best Friend Screwed My Older Brother.’” She finished her cupcake in one bite. “Oops. Never mind. No one wrote a song about a betrayal so cutting and deep.” “I’m sure there’s a country song about it,” I muttered. “It’s not like I slept with your boyfriend.” “If you’d have slept with my boyfriend, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“So I have a question,” I said. “No, you cannot be the godmother.” “Shush. Of course, I’ll be the godmother.” I began parting her hair into neat sections, getting ready to Dutch-braid it. “I wanted to ask if you sent me a broccoli cake for my twentieth birthday.” Her eyebrows shot up. “That’s random.” “But true…?” I peered into her face, brushing each piece of her hair with my fingers. “No. The only thing I wanted to send you over the years was anthrax, and I was too scared to get caught.” Dylan shook her head. “Not me. Sorry, Dot.” “I’m asking because you’re the only person who knew about my gross cake wish,” I explained, even more confused than I was before. If it wasn’t Dylan, who was it? “Oh Christ.” She rolled her eyes as I began braiding her satin-soft hair. “Christ, what?” I frowned. “Christ, Jesus…?” She pressed her lips together, eyes flaring in her alarm, like she had said something she shouldn’t. “Tell me.” “Shut up.” She clamped her mouth shut. “Come on, Dylan—”

I didn’t even know why we were laughing. Just that we needed that laugh very much, even if for different reasons. Me—because I missed Dad, the only man in my life I’d ever loved, and because my fear of men stopped me from pursuing my other dreams, like the podcast. Her—because she was with a man she didn’t like, on a journey she hadn’t chosen. We were laughing like there was no tomorrow, a never-ending giggling sound, when the front door slammed downstairs, and I heard the voice of the man who had nearly made me come in my dress on my kitchen floor a few days ago. “Where’s Dylan?” Oh shit.

oBITCHuary: I’m super broke. Might lose my apartment if I don’t find something soon. McMonster: I’m sure something will come up. oBITCHuary: In the small town of Staindrop? Fat chance. McMonster: You should have more faith in yourself. oBITCHuary: Why? McMonster: Because you’re you.

“Great. Now we’ll have to sage the whole fucking house.” Row was glaring at me like I’d just crawled from a sinkhole to suck the soul out of his mouth. Standing next to him was his BFF, Rhyland, who I remembered as sex on legs with a dry sense of humor.

“Dot brought me some sugar bombs.” “Then proceeded to bombard you with them?” Her brother quirked an eyebrow. “She started it.” I coughed into my fist. “Snitch!” Dylan slapped my thigh with a gasp. I winced. “Dude, he is big and bad-tempered and already hates me. He won’t touch you.” “Yeah.” Rhyland’s eyes ping-ponged between us. “But he sure as fuck would touch Cal, as history has taught us.” That earned Rhyland a slap on the back from Row. “Aw. Too soon?” Rhy laughed. “Behave yourself.” Row’s voice was a lot of things: calm, menacing, and blood-chillingly threatening. Surely, he didn’t know I feared men. Even if he did, why would he care?

I scooped pieces of cupcake out of my bra, dropping them into my palm. Rhyland whistled low. “In other news, Cal Litvin is all grown up and looking delicious, all puns intended.” “Seriously?” Row turned to him again. “Look away before I pluck your eyeballs out with a spoon.” Row’s gaze flicked along my locks briefly when he realized that I had changed the tips, but he didn’t comment on the matter.

“Hey, shithead, don’t you have new staff to find me?” “You need new staff?” Dylan cocked her head. “How come?” Actually, I was intrigued too. He owned a bougie restaurant. The tips must be divine. And I was used to working for top-notch eateries in Manhattan. Plus, it would show Dylan that I could keep my hands to myself this time. I was going to be platonic and professional with that mountain man. Also, did I mention that I needed to pay my New York rent? And utilities? And general existence?

“Ugh. So romantic.” I fanned my eyeballs, feeling teary-eyed. Then I saw the look Row gave me and quickly added, “And irresponsible. Totally irresponsible. Especially with the time it takes to learn every ingredient on the menu and correct timings. I would never.” I paused, then clarified, “Leave without at least a month’s notice, not…get married. Although, judging by my love life, ain’t nobody needs to save up for a wedding gift.” My inability to exist without saying or doing something stupid never ceased to amaze me. They said the spotlight can either make you shine or melt. I knew where I was standing. My eyes ticked like crazy. Rhyland gave me a once-over. “Did you say timings?” I nodded enthusiastically. Mom was right. Getting out of the house was a great way to find job leads. “Yeah. I looked at Descartes online. You do a prix fixe menu, right?” Rhy took a step deeper into the room, in my direction, looking enchanted. “Table d’hôte.” “Don’t even think about it, Rhy.” Row raised a finger to his best friend, and I swear that thing was thicker than an oak trunk. “Don’t even think about thinking about it.”

“Ever worked as a high-end server, Cal?” Rhyland asked. I’d read on the Descartes website that he had a management position there. Growing up, Rhy was to Row what I was to Dylan. But I couldn’t imagine him doing something so straitlaced.

“Yes!” I exclaimed, ignoring Row’s death glare that was currently burning a hole through my temple. “I worked for Avant Garden for two years while I was in college and just finished a two-year contract at Tsukimishi.” “Don’t care if she won the Georges Baptiste Cup for best server for seven consecutive years.” Row jabbed his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. “She isn’t hired.” “I was also a chef de partie at Teddy’s one summer.” I perked up sunnily, flashing Row what I hoped was an adorable smile. “I have three references and a bevy of experience working under pressure. And under assholes too!” Rhyland barked out a laugh, clapping at my little performance. “She’s the one, Row.” “Glad you’re familiar with assholes.” Row checked his phone, tucking it back into his pocket. “Because the only job you’ll be getting in this town is scrubbing toilets, and not mine.”

“In less than two months, the restaurant will be permanently closed. Cal is probably looking for long-term.” Row’s jaw ticked in annoyance. “Two months from now, I’ll be leaving. I’m flying back to New York January first, so actually, this is perfect,” I countered. “Of course, you are.” He scrubbed his face, muttering, “Shit.” “What now?” I sighed. Was there anything I did that he didn’t find appalling? “I’m flying to London the same day,” he explained. “Why, what a coincidence!” Rhyland looked between us, amusement adorning his sculpted face. “You can share an Uber to the airport. In the meantime, you have less than eight weeks to suffer one another. Doable, right?”

“Apropos, Cal—you’re hired as a waitress at Descartes,” Rhyland announced dryly, pulling out his phone and tossing it into my hands. He tucked his joint behind his ear. “Program your number and email in, and we’ll hammer out the small print. Congrats, kiddo.” “Yes!” I jumped up in the air, mustering some courage and offering my open palm for Rhyland to shake. He stared at it dispassionately, not making a move. “No thanks, sweetheart. Touching you is not on my agenda. I like my limbs exactly where they are.” Tucking my crusty cupcake hair behind my ear, I said, “I won’t let you down. I promise.” “I won’t let you in.” Row marched toward Rhyland, fury rolling off him like vapor. “She isn’t hired.” “I’m vetoing this one, Sir Frowns-A-Lot.” Rhyland clapped Row’s shoulder. “You need employees, and I need you off my back. Fair trade-off.”

“Ambrose Rhett Casablancas, where are your manners?” Zeta shrieked. “The trash?” Dylan guessed. “Buried twenty feet under, next to radioactive waste?” Rhyland suggested. “Maybe he left them in the womb before you pushed him out,” Dylan theorized, picking frosting from her split ends. “What happened? You used to be fond of her.” Zeta wiped her forehead with her elbow, a smear of spaghetti sauce running across it. “Give the girl the time of your day.” “Last time I gave her the time of my night, she ruined it.” He bared his teeth at me.

“On the contrary, I’m very reasonable. I’m reasonably sure you and I are not going to get along as coworkers. Look, it’s a small town, and I will probably run into you, but by God, I’m not going to actively let you into my goddamn sphere.” Sensing the urgency of the situation, I flung myself over to his corner of the room, pressing my hands together and bending my knees. My fingertips accidentally brushed his muscular forearm. A shock of electricity shot through my spine at our fleeting touch. “Row, plea—” He pulled away fast, hissing as though my touch wounded him. “Jesus Christ, get off me.” Get off him? I had barely touched him.

“Fuck.” His fingers caught the back of his hair, and he tugged roughly on the velvety strands. “You’re hired.” He pulled away from me like I was literal fire, rubbing at the spot where we’d touched like he wanted to clean himself. “Happy? You start tomorrow. Bring comfortable shoes and an entirely different personality. And don’t—I repeat, do not get anywhere near me. The kitchen is off-limits, you hear?”

“You.” Row ignored her, turning to Rhyland. “Send her a contract and our menu to learn. If she fucks up once, she is gone. If she fucks up real bad, you pay out of pocket for whatever she breaks. Understand?” Rhyland saluted him using only his middle finger. “I won’t let you down.” I cleared my throat. But Row didn’t hear me, still laser-focused on Rhyland. “If you come onto her, I will kill you. If you make me regret it, I will resuscitate you, then re-kill you. If she screws anything up, I’m killing both of you. I want her out of my sight, out of my mind, and out of my fucking way. Capiche?” Row continued.

“You won’t regret it!” I crooned after his descending back as he took the stairs down. “Already fucking am.”

Six Years Ago

For the first time since Dylan and I were in kindergarten, Row didn’t pay me any attention. Didn’t tug my braid with a teasing smirk, sneak me the last piece of cherry pie, or give me a piggyback ride upstairs, purposefully banging me against the wall to make me laugh. Every time I visited my best friend and he was there, he’d award me with a silent nod and walk off. I was air, invisible and unnoteworthy. To make matters worse, my traitorous hormones decided to notice him. I’d always known Row Casablancas was hot in the same way I always knew the sun was—you needed to be a moron not to recognize this simple fact of life. Yet, that summer, he’d returned with a new, foreign glow. An erotism my seventeen-year-old self simply couldn’t ignore.

Her words were ridiculous, but I only had myself to blame for the misconception. Because I was a lying liar who lied and wanted to make sure everyone around me thought I led a normal, happy life. I was careful to tell Dylan I had crushes on boys, and that I kissed them often. I didn’t want her to know that, on top of being the one who blinked all the time and suffered from social anxiety, I also had a violently fearful reaction to men.

I picked up my Daisy Dukes from the lawn and hopped up, slipping them on. “I better head home. Dad wants to teach me how to pickle eggs.” “Jesus, Cal.” Rhyland stuck his axe’s blade in the ground, retying his man-bun. “Some of us want to eat in this century.” “Don’t slam it before you try it, Rhy.” I winked, pretending that he didn’t scare me. He did. A little. In a manageable way.

“Fucking humidity is making it hot enough to scald a lizard.” Rhyland grabbed his shirt from the yellowed grass, slipped it on, then began rolling himself a joint. “I’m tapping out. Cal, wanna bum a ride?” I did, but I also didn’t like the idea of being alone with a guy who wasn’t Dad or Row. “Thanks, but I—” “I’ll drive her.” Row hurled his axe against the tree trunk he’d used to chop the wood, burying the blade inside. He picked up a kitchen towel and wiped off his hands. “Gotta buy some ice anyway.” Can’t you just shave some off your heart? “Oh, I don’t want to burden you.” I braided my hair over my shoulder awkwardly. Row threw me a dry look. “You’re about a decade late and a dollar short. Get your stuff, Dot. Hopping in the shower, then we’re leaving.”

“Wait in the living room,” Row instructed, shouldering past me on his way up the stairs. I followed him with my eyes, waiting for the faint sound of the shower to hit my ears, accompanied by the whining of the rusty pipes behind the walls. I took the stairs up to his room on my tippy toes. I wanted to get a glimpse of Row’s universe uninterrupted, something I’d never had a chance to do before. I didn’t feel too bad about snooping. Row never had given a crap about privacy. Once I entered the room, I breathed as shallowly as I could without losing consciousness to mask my presence there. I didn’t know why I was feeling so self-conscious all of a sudden. It wasn’t like I had a chance with him. Dude had fished chicken nuggets and queso from my hair when I’d drunk-vomited into his toilet in the middle of the night two years ago, after Dylan and I had stolen their dad’s vodka and gotten shit-faced. He’d once caught Dylan popping a zit the size of Montana on my chin. There was no allure or mystery where I was concerned.

there was one drawer in his closet that seemed stuffed, full to the brim. It was jammed, so I had to yank it open using force. As soon as I did, huge stacks of paper greeted me. Documents…books…pictures? Yup. There were pictures there too. Funny, he didn’t strike me as the sentimental type. I recognized one peeking out from the bottom of the mound, of me and Dylan at a county fair, and plucked it out with a smile. My beam collapsed when I realized he had cut me out of the picture. Scissored a square where my face had been. What the…? With trembling hands, I started going through the pictures in his drawer. There were dozens of them. All of them of me and Dylan, or just me. In all of them, my face had been cut out. What the hell? Why would he do this?

He stood there, his six-pack on full display, his hair a damp mess. A towel was wrapped around his slim waist. “What the fuck are you doing in here, Dot?” Hot, liquid anger swirled in my gut, making my entire body hum with fury. “Why?” I raised a stack of ruined pictures in my fist, tilting my chin up daringly. “Why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you?”

“It’s not what you think,” he said woodenly. His voice sounded foreign, detached; my knees buckled. He didn’t deny it. God, what excuse could he have for doing something this mean? This creepy? “You don’t know what I think.” A miserable smile slashed my face. “But tell me how it is anyway.” “Can’t.” Face expressionless. Eyes dead. Muscles stiff. “Why?” “Reasons.” “Reasons?” My neck and face heated further with rage. “That’s not even an answer.”

“I don’t owe you jack shit, Dot. You aren’t my friend. Just my little sister’s annoying sidekick.”

“You used to like me,” I heard myself say, and hated how childish and whiny I sounded. “No, I used to tolerate you,” he amended. “Still do.”

“Know what?” I grabbed my backpack from his floor, slinging it over my shoulder. “I’ll walk home. Thanks for sending Rhyland off just so you could be a major dick to me.” “Speaking of dick, heard you’ve been getting lots of those recently.” “Yours is not gonna be one of them, so if that’s why you’re bitter…” I crouched down to tie my shoelaces. “Hope you stew on that fun fact.”

I heard his feet pounding on the rotten wood of the Casablancases’ stairs, and my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. His hand caught me by the shoulder, spinning me around. He pinned me against the rails, panting hard, like he was running. We were flush against each other when I noticed his hands caged me from either side, fingers curled over the banisters. Our faces were so close, I could see the individual pieces of stubble on his face. My whole body drew in a breath, my nipples pebbling against my swimsuit, brushing the ragged fabric. Heat pulled beneath my navel, and I swore I could smell my own arousal. Could he too? Crap. I hoped not. Row’s jaw flexed. “Don’t do this,” he warned.

“Do what?” “Jump to conclusions.” His throat bobbed, and he looked like he was struggling with something. His eyes dropped to my lips. “I don’t hate you.” The alternative, that he liked me, had never occurred to me.

“Why did you do this, Row?” I licked my lips, swallowing hard. I held his gaze, ignoring the confusion teeming inside me. The liquid honey that uncurled behind my belly button and how empty I felt. How…unsettled. “Are you really that dumb?” His lips hit my ear; the hair on my arms stood on end. “Are you really that rude?” I stomped on his foot. “Just answer the damn question.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Remember the paper ring I gave you?” I rummaged my memory bank for a paper ring but came up empty-handed. “No?” Row’s jawline was a hard, square line of annoyance, and he barely moved his mouth when he spoke. “You were in first grade. Everybody fake-married their classmates. Nobody offered for you, so I made you a paper ring to stop you from crying. You were a mess.”

“And when you were in ninth grade and forgot your lunch?” There was a desperate, determined zing in his eyes, like he wanted me to read between the lines. “I drove to Wendy’s to buy you some, skipping physics.” “What are you trying to say, that you were once nice to me, so now you have a free pass to be a douchebag?” I thundered. “No.” His eyes crinkled with disappointment. Whatever I was supposed to understand, I didn’t. “I’m saying I don’t hate you and never have. I just don’t want to be around you, and you should fucking respect that.”

“But…why?” “Because you’re temptation.”

“Look at you. With the sun on your skin, freckles everywhere, mouth red as a cherry. My dick swells just from knowing you and I share the same zip code. Whenever you speak, all I can do is stare at your mouth and imagine it wrapped around my cock. You’re a shiny apple, and do you know what people do to shiny apples?” His nose glided down mine, and I could almost feel them. His pouty, perfect lips. “What?” I croaked. “You eat them.” We were chest to chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat. “To the core.”

I got it. We couldn’t do this to Dylan. Act on this attraction. Throw caution to the wind. Nothing was worth letting her down. Not even a taste of heaven. And besides, what good would it do me? I’d probably puke in his mouth from fear once he had his hands on me.

“I just…” My voice was strangled, pained. “I just can’t stand the idea that you hate me. I don’t know why. I just can’t.” “I don’t hate you.” He couldn’t help himself. He raised his hand and picked at the string of my bikini, careful to avoid my skin, rolling the thin material between his thumb and finger. We both watched, transfixed. “I so don’t hate you it’s not even fucking funny.”

“Your little sister’s annoying extension, right?” I gulped. “No, Cal.” His nostrils flared. “Nothing about how I feel for you is sisterly.” His fingers rolled south—still only touching my bikini string—skimming the area where the cord met the triangle covering my breast. It was so obvious my nipples were hard. I opened my eyes and saw how his stare glided to my breasts. My own gaze slid down, and I found him hard behind his jeans, his dick nearly poking my center. On instinct, I arched my back from the banister, my pussy meeting his cock through our clothes. Neither of us breathed for a second.

“Ever wondered what it might feel like?” he surprised me by asking. “What?” My voice was hoarse, my heart hammering its way out of my chest, cracking the bones embracing it, one beat at a time. “Kissing each other.” All the time. “No.” I shook my head, arching farther, my center meeting his, the imprint of his dick jamming the slit of my pussy through our clothes. So delicious, so empty. “Never.” “Fuck, Dot.” He gave my bikini string a rough tug, loosening its hold. The right triangle dislodged, falling slightly, exposing the plump mound of my breast and one pink nipple. “You’re always pretty, but especially when you lie.” “You think I’m pretty?” I bloomed beneath his gaze

“I think you’re a liar too.” His tongue traced his lower lip, eyes still on my nipple. “I think you lie all the time, to make people around you feel better. Don’t you care about that?” “No.” I struggled to swallow, feeling his dick pulsating, growing even harder and thicker between my thighs. “Because now I think I know why you cut me out of all those pictures.”

He placed his rough, warm palm on the base of my neck, stepping back to remove his dick from my core, and tilted my head up so our eyes were locked in a war, releasing the most devastating words I’d ever heard in the English language. “I wasn’t the one who cut you out, Dot,” he said. “Dylan did.”

“He might’ve left you something too,” she said. “Oh, I wouldn’t count on it with my luck.” “What are you talking about?” She gasped. “Honey, your luck is fin—” Halfway through her sentence, Semus bit my finger, drawing blood. I was just bringing a pickle to my mouth and jerked back, the pickle juice squirting into my eye. “Motherfluffer!” I fell flat on my ass, causing the disloyal cat to jump for safety but not before sinking his claws into my thighs to remind me who was the boss. I rolled on the floor, screaming, “My eyes! My eyes!” “Never mind. Go rest, Callichka. I’ll do the dishes.”

Dear Callichka, If you’re reading this, it means that I’m gone. I hope you decided to spend a few weeks with your mother. I think you can both use the time together, and while I’m not sure what kept you away from Staindrop this long, running away from a problem never gets rid of it. Problems are like monsters. Fearing them only feeds them and makes them bigger. Please remember you are stronger than whatever wall is standing in your way. All you need is the right momentum (Newton, laws one, two, three).

Now that you’re in an agreeable mood, I need you to do a few things for me. Allow me to point out that you are not in a position to turn me down, complain, and/or argue because I’m: Dead, and therefore cannot hear you. Always right. 100% going to haunt you if you fail me. I have a lot of free time right now, Callichka. Do not try me. I thought long and hard about what it was I wanted from you. Birthdays, if you ask me, are overrated. It is death days in which you are granted all your wishes. And sure, I could’ve asked you to finally start your podcast, get things moving, take the plunge. But I believe that you cannot rush art and growth. So I’m going to let you take your first steps into your career at your own pace, even if I find it outrageously slow.

These are my two requests for you (and remember, you CANNOT say no): Take me somewhere nice and spread my ashes. Let me explain. I’m afraid your mother will use my presence in her living room as an excuse not to move on. She deserves to move on. Deserves to fall in love, to laugh, to enjoy the remainder of her days. Which brings me to my next point: I would really rather not be there, on the mantel, when she and her new partner make out for the first time. Yes, I want her to move on. No, I don’t want it happening in front of my face. Or rather, dust. Spread my ashes somewhere beautiful and tranquil. Somewhere with a great view. Somewhere I can be free. Remember how much you loved running? You stopped for the wrong reason. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it. Pick it up again. You’re not truly free until you break the chains of your fears. And you, Callichka, are afraid of running. Once you get rid of that anxiety, you will become invincible. You will record your podcast. You will push the envelope. You were made for stardom. So go on. Touch the sky. That’s where I’ll be waiting for you. I’ve enclosed a little something for you to consider. Just an idea. And always remember what I told you: the darkness envies the moon because it helps it shine. Don’t let people tell you you are anything less than perfect. Love you more than a flower loves the sun, —Dad.

It was a 10K run for a children’s hospital in Portland. The run was set to take place here in Staindrop on Christmas Day, less than seven weeks away. Admittedly, the slogan—10K for Kiddies—wasn’t the height of sophisticated copywriting.

“What did he ask you for?” “To spread his ashes somewhere nice and make sure you move on and make out with someone on the couch.” “Oh dear.” She blinked, digesting my words. “He was heavily medicated the last few weeks.” I snorted. “No, Mom. He loved you enough to want you to be happy, even if it’s not with him. That’s a good thing.”

ROW