Forever After (AFFAIRYTALE Book 2)

  Forever After

  Sequel to AFFAIRYTALE

  C.J. English

  Copyright © 2018 by Charmaine English

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the permission of the author except in brief quotations or book reviews.

  In order to maintain anonymity, in some instances, places, the names of individuals, identifying characteristics, and other recognizable factors have been changed. The details and events in this book are based on my unique recollection and perception with no harm intended to anyone. I recognize that individuals involved in these events might have memories that are not the same as my own.

  CJEnglishAuthor.com

  Cover Design: MSPIRE www.mspire.com

  Editor: Nicole Hartney

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9863042-3-1

  E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9863042-5-5

  My love,

  life with you is better than I imagined . . . still.

  THEY SLIPPED BRISKLY INTO AN INTIMACY

  FROM WHICH THEY NEVER RECOVERED.

  -F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

  Preface

  They say new love euphoria doesn’t last.

  That the hazy intoxication that clouds the heart and mind eventually burns off to reveal an ugly truth. But it’s not your fault you didn’t see it coming. You were hoodwinked and blinded by a dirty duo; two assholes that threw a bag over your head to keep you in the dark about what was really going on.

  Your captors?

  Emotions and Hormones.

  Unbeknown to you, Emotions teamed up with Hormones to zip-tie Logic and Reason to a pillar in your basement, then gagged them with a dirty sock so they wouldn’t tell you the truth. The only two friends who could talk you out of making a bad decision had been kidnapped in the fog of new love.

  Fast-forward a few years to when Logic and Reason have wiggled loose and come back to warn you. It’s this moment you discover all does not glitter. In fact, some things may actually be dull and drab. You’ve sobered up, and now the gloves have come off. Scars get ripped open, blood spills, and stains begin to accumulate on your relationship. You realize the grass, in fact, wasn’t greener, and all you’ve done is trade one set of problems for another.

  I was warned of this. Sternly warned. That having just come out of an unhappy relationship, all of the desperate, lonely places that had been empty for so long would demand immediate attention. I was warned that I would gravitate toward someone that was the opposite of my ex but who would not necessarily be a match long term. Every part of me would think that new someone is divine; perfectly perfect because he bears no resemblance to old someone.

  Fast-forward again to when I would wake up and realize Mr. Perfectly Perfect and I are actually irreconcilably different. I bet there’s a few people out there hoping this happened to Grant and I.

  Well, this is where I let you down. Among other things, complacency, losing the drive to procreate, and love passionately have yet to infiltrate our marriage. I’ll let you know if that happens. I’ll write a book about it and call it Eating Crow: My Follies and Overconfidence in What I Thought Was a Forever Kind of Love. But I don’t think so. At least, I don’t anticipate losing interest in my sexy, smoldering, blue-eyed husband. Nor does he seem to be slowing down in his pursuit of me.

  He will turn brown and crusty eventually and I suppose I will too. Good thing we’ve made plans to get crusty together. But for now, we’ve been fortunate to have an endless warm rain that keeps our shared ecosystem vibrant and thriving. AKA, our marriage is fucking wet and hot. When the story ended on the last page of AFFAIRYTALE, it was only the beginning.

  I wrote AFFAIRYTALE with the promise that I wouldn’t hold back and I didn’t. I just didn’t include everything I originally wrote. What lies on the pages that follow are scenes that ended up too steamy, too redundant for one book, too illegal or were just plain too embarrassing for publication at the time. Now that I’ve dipped my toes into the shark-infested waters of reviews and survived, me and my thicker skin are ready to disclose more secrets and mortifying moments for your entertainment.

  Also included is a peek into what our lives are like now, eight years after the ending of AFFAIRYTALE, nineteen years since the night I coincidentally walked into my husband’s wedding.

  Keeping within my original intent, I am leaving Dani out of the story as much as possible. In AFFAIRYTALE, not disclosing more about my relationship with my daughter altered the perception of my story in such a way that one reader was compelled to call child protective services and report me as schizophrenic. It happened. For real. In reality, the absence of Dani and my other two children are an effort to protect them.

  If you really want to read about potty training, lack of sleep, and which kind of breast pump to buy, there are other suitable books. Heartwarming as they may be, I’ve spared you from flooding the pages with stories of The Unflushable Poop. And, like before, I am only including Levi where absolutely necessary to tell this story.

  AFFAIRYTALE is a true story about two people meant to be together and fate finding a way to make it happen.

  I love our story.

  I love us.

  It is my pleasure and honor to share a piece of our happiness with you.

  This book does not contain a complete story or arc. You may be disappointed by the lack of gripping, heart-beating angst. That story has been told. Which makes this a different kind of book. A bonus book. A collection of the aforementioned deleted scenes, additional essays and interviews.

  If you have not read AFFAIRYTALE it will be complete fucking gibberish from here on in. Pour yourself a glass of wine and go 1-Click that bad girl here.

  I tried to get Grant to write some chapters from his point of view and he said he would, but he never got around to it in the time I required (two years.) If he did, those writings are probably written down somewhere in his office where it’s very unlikely he’ll ever find them again. What’s more likely is that he himself might get lost looking.

  However, I still wanted to give you a glimpse into his perspective. So I cornered him and offered him a handjob in exchange for a serious conversation. Over wine, I asked him thoughtful and random questions then wrote down his answers. They crack me up and make me swoon. Isn’t that what is supposed to happen when you’re in a state of uncontrollable love with a man? Everything about him is charming and funny.

  Still.

  Always.

  Chapter 1

  Forever After-Grant

  In the evenings our living room glows red from the crimson lampshades. The same shades that tinted the air a sexy hue on the nights we danced naked in my apartment. It feels like that was so long ago.

  We’ve come so far . . .

  Jamaican Vibrations is playing from the speaker in the kitchen—it’s our music, still. Grant is across from me with his feet kicked up on the oversized ottoman. He’s swirling his wine glass.

  C.J.: Okay babe, here’s your first question. You ready? When you said, “now I know why Tom Cruise jumped on Oprah’s couch,” you were smitten. What if how you felt about me was just new love euphoria, not soulmate kind of love?

  Grant takes a deep breath, I take a deep breath. There is a palpable anticipation between us when we reminisce about how we began. These conversations bring back the same flutter of excitement and the same twinge of heartache.

  Grant: Well . . . I’d become very picky. And very sure about what I was looking for. When I found it, I didn’t think about the smitteness going away. I knew it wouldn’t.

  C.J.: But how could you know it wouldn’t?

  Grant [shrugging]: Same reason as you.

  C.J.:
What’s that?

  Grant: It’s just something that when you know, you know. I always thought that when I found the right person I would just know. And I did. [He smiles and winks.]

  Heart.

  Still.

  Melting.

  A case could be made that I may be more smitten now than ever.

  C.J.: You could have had any woman you wanted. Why me?

  Grant looks like he’s about to spray wine from his lips at that question.

  Grant: Oh God, of course I couldn’t and it didn’t matter. Honey, can you e-mail me these questions so I can have some time to think about my answers?

  C.J.: No. You’ll never get back to me. Or you’ll write them down and they’ll get eaten by your car or office. This is goin’ down. Tonight.

  Grant: [sighing] I didn’t pick you. You picked me and honey, I’ve told you these things. You know all the reasons why I love you.

  C.J.: Yes. But I’d like to hear them again. Please?

  Grant: Honey, I’ll tell you all the reasons why I love you and I’ll tell you them every night for the rest of our lives if you want me to.

  C.J.: Okay. Start now with, I love you because . . .

  Grant: I love you because you’re smart, witty, funny, beautiful—

  C.J.: Okay, okay. Thank you, stop. I actually like it better when you surprise me and tell me those things spontaneously.

  Grant: Well, why me? What did you see in me?

  C.J.: Honey, you already know all the reasons. I wrote a 350 page book about all the reasons I love you cementing them into history. But I would love to tell you again. You’re hot, Dani calls you the walking brain for a reason, you don’t take my shit, you’re good at everything which makes me feel good at nothing, but that pushes me to be better at everything, so I guess it’s a good thing—

  Grant: Okay, okay. Thank you. Stop. You’re right, it’s better as a surprise.

  C.J.: Next question. Do you like making love to me?

  This question was not on my list but I’m a little drunk. It’s just so much fun to watch him squirm when I put him on the spot. It’s one of my favorite things to do besides sending him the most inappropriate text messages that I know will lift his day.

  Grant: Are you drunk? Do you even have to ask that?

  C.J.: Yes. No. Of course not but it’s fun. Do you like to fuck me sometimes too?

  I make a lewd gesture.

  Grant: Oh fuck yeah . . . in the butt. I let out a big sigh and rolled my eyes. Honey, my neck hurts do you think we could do a little back rub exchange?

  C.J.: What kind of back rub exchange? In the bedroom or out here?

  There’s a big difference.

  Grant: Let’s just start with out here and see where it goes.

  Uh huh.

  C.J.: I really wanted to knock some of these questions out tonight or I’ll never get this done.

  Grant: Honey, come on. It’s late, we can do your questions another time. I’ll do you first. Just sit right there and let me take care of you.

  C.J.: Of course you’ll do me first. Because then you get to go last. And when you go last, you’re all nice and relaxed and don’t have to get up to do me.

  Grant: [laughing] Okay you can go last.

  C.J.: I’m just kidding, of course you can go last. Like always. Since you’re a big baby.

  This is our routine—one of ‘our things'. It keeps us hands on with each other in a non-sexual way which may or may not lead to something further. He digs his thumbs in and gives me the best neck rub.

  From there it went something like this.

  C.J. : I love our life. He kisses my neck. And I love our home.

  Grant: Me too. Should we take this back rub into our bedroom?

  So much has changed—but the best things have stayed the same.

  Chapter 2

  “ I LOOKED AT HER, AND I KNEW, AS CLEARLY AS I KNOW THAT

  I WILL DIE, THAT I LOVED HER MORE THAN ANYTHING

  I HAD EVER SEEN OR IMAGINED ON EARTH.”

  ―VLADIMIR NAVOKOV, LOLITA

  Ugly Duckling Syndrome

  AFFAIRYTALE-Deleted Scene

  His velvet voice crept up on me from behind. “Hi baby,” Grant said.

  I knew things were about to heat up when he wrapped his fingers around my hips then nudged me one step at a time along the rose petal trail which lead to his bedroom. I sensed the subtlety in his actions, seemingly slow and easy, but actually pushing and pawing with desire. If he was the predator and I his prey, I would willingly lay down and let him devour me whole.

  As he guided me, I turned and sank into his soft bed. Grant hovered over me rendering me completely helpless under his gorgeous smile. He kissed me softly, a welcome kiss. A welcome home kiss, perhaps. And I did feel welcome—in his home, his bed, his life. Grant slid one knee at a time alongside me, trapping me between his legs.

  “You deserve to come home to romance every night,” he said, holding down my arms and gently sliding his lips, nose and face over my skin like he was rubbing his scent on me, claiming me. I was an easy meal for him but that’s not what this alpha needed, or wanted—he craved the chase. A fact I didn’t know whether to love or hate.

  Our eyes met and he paused. “I’ll do this for you every night if you want me to.”

  If he wants me to? Is he nuts?

  I closed my eyes to absorb everything that was him and the dream-like reality I was living. “The flowers are romantic but the only thing I really want every night is you.”

  “You already have me,” his voice rumbled low.

  Then a speck of that insecurity crept up on me and slipped past my lips before I could stop it. “But do I really?” I immediately regretted it. I’d wrecked the moment. His face was confused. The distance between us grew and his voice became gruff.

  “Are you serious?”

  No.

  Yes.

  No.

  Fuck!

  I hated myself in that moment and vowed that no matter how insecure I felt ever again, I would never, EVER let it out. I would hoard it and fake it until I could truly feel more confident. Me doubting us would push him away.

  “I don’t know,” I said. It came out vulnerable, desperate. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I mean . . . I feel how much you want me, I do. I just can’t wrap my head around it sometimes. It still feels too good to be true.” I propped myself up on my elbows and felt tears building in my eyes. His distance from me was painful. To not have him within kissing range made me ache. “I just feel like the bubble will burst and I’ll lose you—it’s just so good with us. Can it actually be real?”

  According to the Urban Dictionary, it would seem that I have another mental illness. One that could explain why I was not fully able to believe this beautiful life existed or that I was worthy of it.

  Ugly Duckling Syndrome: [Ugg-Lee Dh-uck-ling Sin-dro-m]

  noun

  1. inspired from the beloved children’s tale, the victims of this syndrome have a unique genetic disorder in which the qualities that make them attractive in polite society do not turn-on until much later in life

  2. ugly ducklings start out awkward and/or unattractive but generally kind-hearted which crossed over with them when they finally and forevermore become beautiful

  3. bearers of this disorder may carry the insecurities and mental damage they incurred from their difficult former years into their adulthood*

  *ugly ducklings who carry mental damage, once fully developed, can overcome the side effects or in rare instances become unstable and violent rendering them dangerous to the public at large

  Well. That explains it.

  It’s not that I was beat up or stuffed in a locker. But my hot mess genes didn’t turn on until much later. Which left me fully exposed to the cruel reality of high school hell where pretty people win and have lots of friends, while the warty people sit alone at lunchtime. I sat alone most of the time. Now, it would seem that I had carried all of my early experiences into adulth
ood without realizing how damaging that could be to my future.

  “Haven’t I shown you how much I care about you? I’m not sure what else I can do to convince you?” Grant crawled onto the bed and lay beside me, head propped in his hand. I still felt like dying of humiliation as he caressed my cheek and touched my lips with his fingertips, “It is real baby I promise. I’m not going anywhere, I’m crazy about you.”

  Crazy?

  Crazy is not love.

  Crazy is crazy.

  I’m crazy, I should know.

  A tear rolled down my cheek. I closed my eyes and tried to feel everything he was offering with every molecule of my being. I wanted to feel his adoration pouring into my heart as he touched my skin and believe his intentions beyond all doubt. I told myself I believed it but the reality was that I was numb. Not unbelieving, just numb. Anesthetized to everything that was good and kind and loving. Perhaps with every reassuring sentiment he was willing to offer, I could be healed and become lovable. I just didn’t know.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Then realized how stupid that was too. I was a mess. I did my best to shake off the emotional dust that was caked on my existence so that maybe I could feel what he was offering. “When we finally do make love,” I said, “you’ll be the last man I ever sleep with.” I don’t know where it came from or why, I just said exactly what I felt.

  He held up his hands befuddled and shook his head dumbfounded as I lay there waiting for my punishment. He stared at me with wonder in his eyes. He didn’t tell me this is all wrong or to slow down. He didn’t run. Instead, he looked at me with those icy, blue eyes and told me exactly what I needed to hear.

  “I was thinking the exact same thing. Just now, in the same moment you said it, I was thinking that too!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! I swear!” He was excited—genuinely excited and happy. “I was thinking that when we do make love—and we will baby.” He flashed a quick ‘I’ll fuck ya good’ grin. “You’ll be the last.”