I could have chosen anything else to do on this six-hour drive. I could have listened to “Bohemian Rhapsody” over sixty times. I could have called my old friend Natalie and played catch-up, especially since I haven’t even spoken to her in over six months. We text occasionally, but it would have been nice to hear her voice. Or maybe I could have used the time to mentally pr ep myself for all the reasons I’m going to stay far away from Jeremy Crawford while I’m in his home. But instead of doing any of that, I chose to listen to the audiobook of the first novel in Verity Crawford’s series. It just ended. My knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. My mouth is parched from forgetting to hydrate on the drive over. My self-esteem is somewhere back in Albany. She’s good. Really good. Now I’m regretting having signed the contract. I’m not sure I can live up to that. And to think she’s already written six of these novels, all from the villain’s point of view. How can one brain hold that much creativity? Maybe the other five suck. I can hope. That way, there won’t be much expectation for the final three books in the series. Who am I kidding? Every time one of Verity’s novels releases, it hits number one on the Times. I just made myself twice as nervous than when I left Manhattan. I spend the rest of the drive ready to go back to New York with my tail between my legs, but I stick it out because thinking I’m not good enough is part of the writing process. It’s part of mine, anyway. For me, there are three st eps to completing each of my books. 1) Start the book and hate everything I write. 2) Ke ep writing the book despite hating everything I write. 3) Finish the book and pretend I’m happy with it. There’s never a point in my writing process where I feel like I’ve accomplished what I set out to accomplish, or when I believe I’ve written something everyone needs to read. Most of the time, I cry in my shower and stare at my computer screen like a zombie, wondering how so many other authors can promote their books with so much confidence. “This is the greatest thing since the last book I wrote! You should read it!” I’m the awkward writer who posts a picture of my book and says, “It’s an okay book. There are words in it. Read it if you want.” I’m afraid this particular writing experience will be even worse than I imagined. Hardly anyone reads my books, so I don’t have to suffer through too many negative reviews. But once my work is out there with Verity’s name on it, it’s going to be read by hundreds of thousands of readers with built-in expectations for this series. And if I fail, Corey will know I failed. The publishers will know I’ve failed. Jeremy will know I’ve failed. And... d epending on her mental state... Verity may know I’ve failed.
Jeremy didn’t clarify the extent of Verity’s injuries when we were in the meeting, so I have no idea if she’s injured beyond the point of communication. There was very little online about her car wreck other than a couple of vague articles. The publisher released a statement shortly after the wreck stating Verity received non-life-threatening injuries. Two weeks ago, they released another statement that said she was recovering peacefully at home. But her editor, Amanda, said they wanted to ke ep the extent of her injuries out of the media. So, it’s a possibility they downplayed it all. Or, maybe, after all the loss she’s experienced over the past two years, she simply doesn’t want to write again. I guess it’s understandable they’d need to ensure the completion of the series. The publishers don’t want to see their biggest source of income crash and burn. And while I’m honored I was asked to complete it, I don’t necessarily want to be thrown into that kind of spotlight. When I started writing, it wasn’t my goal to become famous. I dreamt of a life where enough people would buy my books and I could pay my bills and never be propelled into a life of riches and fame. Very few authors reach that level of success, so it was never a concern that it would happen to me. I realize attaching my name to this series would boost sales of my past books and ensure more opportunity in the future, but Verity is extremely successful. As is this series I’m taking over. By attaching my real name to her series, I would be subjecting myself to the kind of attention I’ve spent most of my life fearing. I’m not looking for my fifteen minutes of fame. I’m looking for a paycheck. It’s going to be a long wait for that advance. I spent most of the rest of my money renting this car and putting my things in storage. I paid a d eposit for an apartment, but it won’t be ready until next week, or maybe even the week after, which means what little I have left will need to go to a hotel once I leave the Crawford home. This is my life. Sort of homeless, living out of a suitcase just one and a half weeks after the last of my immediate family members passes away. Can it get worse? I could be married to Amos right now, so life could always be worse. “Jesus, Lowen.” I roll my eyes at my inability to realize how many writers would kill for this kind of opportunity, and here I am thinking my life has hit rock bottom. Ungrateful, party of one. I have to stop looking at my life through my mother’s glasses. Once I get the advance on these novels, everything will start looking up. I’ll no longer be between apartments. I took the exit for the Crawford home a few miles back. The GPS is leading me down a long, windy road flanked by flowering dogwood trees and houses that ke ep getting bigger and more spread apart. When I finally reach the turn-in, I put the rental in park to stop and admire the entrance. Two tall brick columns loom on both sides of the driveway—a driveway that never seems to end. I crane my neck, trying to see the length of it, but the dark asphalt snakes between the trees. Somewhere up there is the house, and somewhere inside of that
house lies Verity Crawford. I wonder if she knows I’m coming. My palms start to sweat, so I lift them off the steering wheel and hold them in front of the air vents to dry them. The security gate is propped open, so I put the car in drive and slowly amble past the sturdy wrought iron. I tell myself not to freak out, even as I notice that the r epetitive pattern on top of the iron gate resembles spider webs. I shiver as I follow a curve, the trees getting denser and taller until the house comes into view. I spot the roof first as I climb the hill: slate gray like an angry storm cloud. Seconds later, the rest of it appears, and my breath snags in my throat. Dark stone works its way across the front of the house, broken only by the blood red door, the only relief of color in this sea of gray. Ivy covers the left side of the house, but instead of charming, it’s threatening—like a slow-moving cancer. I think of the apartment I left behind: the dingy walls and too-small kitchen with the olive green refrigerator circa 1970. My entire apartment would probably fit into the entrance hall of this monster. My mother used to say that houses have a soul, and if that is true, the soul of Verity Crawford’s house is as dark as they come. The online satellite images did not do this property justice. I stalked the home before showing up. According to a realtor website, they purchased the home five years ago for two and a half million. It’s worth over three million now. It’s overwhelming and huge and secluded, but it doesn’t have the typical formal vibe of homes of this caliber. There isn’t an air of superiority clinging to the walls. I edge the car along the driveway, wondering where I’m supposed to park. The lawn is lush and manicured, at least three acres de ep. The lake behind the house stretches from one edge of the property to the other. The Green Mountains paint a picturesque backdrop so beautiful, it’s hard to believe the awful tragedy its owners have experienced. I sigh in relief as I spot a concrete parking area next to the garage. I put my car in park and then kill the engine. My car doesn’t fit in with this house at all. I’m kicking myself for selecting the cheapest car I could possibly rent. Thirty bucks a day. I wonder if Verity has ever sat in a Kia Soul. In the article I read about her wreck, she was driving a Range Rover. I reach to the passenger seat to grab my phone so I can text Corey to let him know I made it. When I put my hand on the driver’s side door handle, I stiffen, stretching my spine against the back seat. I turn and look out my window. “Shit!” What the fuck? I slap my chest to make sure I still have a heartbeat as I stare back at the face staring into my car window. Then, when I see that the figure at my door is only a child, I cover my mouth, hoping he’s heard his fair share of curse words. He doesn’t laugh. He just stares, which seems even cre epier than if he’d have scared me on purpose. He’s a miniature version of Jeremy. The same mouth, the same green eyes. I read in one of the articles that Verity and Jeremy had three children. This must be their little boy.
I open the door, and he takes a st ep back as I get out of the car. “Hey.” The child doesn’t respond. “Do you live here?” “Yes.” I look at the house behind him, wondering what that must be like for a child to grow up in such a home. “Must be nice,” I mutter. “Used to be.” He turns and begins walking up the driveway, toward the front door. I instantly feel bad for him. I’m not sure I’ve given much thought to the situation this family is in. This little boy, who can’t be more than five years old, has lost both of his sisters. And who knows what that kind of grief has done to his mother? I know it was apparent in Jeremy. I save my suitcase for later and shut my door, following the little boy. I’m only a few feet behind him when he opens the front door and walks into the house, then closes the door in my face. I wait a moment, wondering if maybe he has a sense of humor. But I can see through the frosted window of the front door, and he continues through the house and doesn’t come back to let me in. I don’t want to call him an asshole. He’s a little kid, and he’s been through a lot. But I think he might be an asshole. I ring the doorbell and wait. And wait. And wait. I ring the doorbell again but get no answer. Jeremy put his contact information in the email he sent me, so I pull up his number and text him. “It’s Lowen. I’m at your front door.” I send the text and wait. A few seconds later, I hear st eps descending the stairs. I can see Jeremy’s shadow through the frosted glass grow larger as he approaches the door. Right before it opens, I see him pause like he’s taking a breath. I don’t know why, but that pause reassures me that maybe I’m not the only one nervous about this whole situation. Weird how his potential discomfort brings me comfort. I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work. He opens the door, and although he’s the same man I met a few days ago, he’s... different. No suit or tie, no air of mystery about him. He’s in sweatpants and a blue Bananafish T-shirt. Socks, no shoes. “Hey.” I don’t like the buzz rushing through me right now. I ignore it and smile at him. “Hi.” He stares for a second and then st eps aside, opening the door wider, waving me in with his arm. “Sorry, I was upstairs. I told Crew to get the door. Guess he didn’t hear me.” I st ep into the foyer. “Do you have a suitcase?” Jeremy asks. I spin around to face him. “Yeah, it’s in my back seat, but I can get it later.” “Is the car unlocked?” I nod. “Be right back.” He slips on a pair of shoes next to the door and walks outside. I spin in a slow circle, checking out my surroundings. Not much is different from the pictures I saw of the home online. It feels odd because I’ve seen all the rooms in the house already, thanks to the realtor website. I feel like I already know my way around, and I’m only five feet into the house. There’s a kitchen to the right and living room to the left. They’re s eparated by an entryway with a staircase that leads to the second floor. The kitchen in the pictures was
trimmed with dark cherry cabinetry, but it’s been updated, and all the old cabinets have been ripped out, r eplaced mostly by shelves and a few cabinets above the countertop that are a blonder wood. There are two ovens, and a refrigerator with a glass door. I’m staring at it from several feet away when the little boy comes bounding down the stairs. He runs past me and opens the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of Dr. P epper. I watch as he struggles to twist open the lid. “Want me to open it for you?” I ask him. “Yes, please,” he says, looking up at me with those big green eyes. I can’t believe I thought he was an asshole. His voice is so sweet and his hands are so tiny, they can’t even open a bottle of soda yet. I take it from him and twist open the bottle with ease. The front door opens as I’m handing the soda back to Crew. Jeremy narrows his eyes in Crew’s direction. “I just told you no sodas.” He leaves my suitcase against the wall and walks over to Crew, pulling the soda out of his hands. “Go get ready for your shower. I’ll be there in a minute.” Crew rolls his head and stalks back toward the stairs. Jeremy cocks an eyebrow. “Never trust that kid. He’s smarter than both of us put together.” He takes a sip of the soda before returning it to the refrigerator. “You want something to drink?” “No, I’m fine.” Jeremy grabs my suitcase and carries it down the hallway. “I hope it’s not weird, but I’m giving you the master bedroom. We all sle ep upstairs now, and I thought it would be easier because it’s the closest room to her office.” “I’m not even sure I’m staying the night,” I say as I follow behind him. The place gives me an eerie vibe, so it would be nice if I could grab what I need and find a hotel. “I was planning to check out her office and assess the situation.” He laughs, pushing the bedroom door open. “Trust me. You’ll need at least two days. Maybe more.” He lays the suitcase on a chest at the foot of the bed, then opens the master closet and points to an empty area. “I made some space in case you need to hang anything.” He points toward the bathroom. “Bathroom is all yours. I’m not sure if there are toiletries, so let me know if you need anything. I’m sure we have it.” “Thank you.” I look around the room, and this all feels so bizarre. Especially that I’ll be sle eping in their bed. My eyes are pulled to the headboard—specifically to the teeth marks bitten into the top edge of the headboard in the center of the bed. I immediately tear my eyes away before Jeremy catches me looking. He’ll probably see all over my face that I’m wondering which one of them had to bite the headboard in order to ke ep quiet during sex. Have I ever had sex that intense? “You need a minute alone in here, or would you like to go ahead and see the rest of the house?” Jeremy asks. “I’m good,” I say, following him. He walks into the hallway, but I pause, eyeing the bedroom door. “Does this door lock?” He takes a st ep back inside the bedroom, looking at the door handle. “I don’t know that we’ve ever locked it.” He jiggles the handle. “I’m sure I can find a lock if it’s important to you.”
I haven’t sl ept in a bedroom without a lock since I was ten. I want to beg him to find a lock, but I also don’t want to be even more intrusive than I already am. “No, it’s fine.” He lets go of the door, but before st epping back out into the hallway, he says, “Before I take you upstairs, do you know what name you’ll be writing this series under?” I hadn’t thought about it since finding out Pantem agreed to the demands Jeremy told me to make. I shrug. “I haven’t really thought about it.” “I’d like to introduce you to Verity’s nurse using your pen name, in case you never want anyone attaching you to the series.” Her injuries are bad enough that she needs a nurse? “Okay. I guess...” I’m clueless as to what name I should use. “What street did you grow up on?” Jeremy asks. “Laura Lane.” “What was the name of your first pet?” “Chase. He was a Yorkie.” “Laura Chase,” he says. “I like it.” I tilt my head, recognizing that pattern of questioning from Facebook quizzes. “Isn’t that how people figure out their pornstar name?” He laughs. “Pen name, pornstar name. Works across the board.” He motions for me to follow him. “Come meet Verity first, and then I’ll take you to her office.” Jeremy takes the stairs two at a time. There’s an elevator that looks newly installed right past the kitchen. Verity must be in a wheelchair now. God, the poor woman. Jeremy is waiting for me when I reach the top of the stairs. The hallway splits, with three doors on one end and two on the other. He turns left. “This is Crew’s bedroom,” he says, pointing toward the first room. “I sle ep in that room.” He points to the door next to Crew’s. Across the hall from those two bedrooms is another room. The door is shut, so he taps on it gently and then pushes it open. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I certainly wasn’t expecting this. She’s on her back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, her blonde hair spilled over her pillow. A nurse in blue scrubs is at the foot of her bed, putting socks on her feet. Crew is lying next to Verity on the bed, holding an i Pad. Verity’s eyes are vacant, uninterested in her surroundings. She’s unaware of the nurse. Unaware of me. Of Crew. Of Jeremy as he leans over and brushes hair from her forehead. She blinks, but there’s nothing else there. No recognition that the man she had three children with is trying to be affectionate with her. I try to cover the chills that have appeared on my arms. The nurse addresses Jeremy. “She seemed tired, so I thought I’d put her to bed early tonight.” She pulls a blanket over Verity. Jeremy moves to the window and closes the curtains. “Did she take her after-dinner meds?” The nurse lifts Verity’s feet, tucking the blanket beneath them. “Yeah, she’s good until midnight.”
The nurse is older than Jeremy, maybe in her mid-fifties, with short red hair. She glances at me, then back at Jeremy, waiting for an introduction. Jeremy shakes his head like he forgot I’m even here. He waves toward me while looking at the nurse. “This is Laura Chase, the author I was telling you about. Laura, this is April, Verity’s nurse.” I shake April’s hand, but feel her judgment as she eyes me up and down. “I thought you’d be older,” she says. What do I even say to that? Coupled by the way she looks at me, her comment feels like a dig. Or an accusation. I ignore it and smile. “It’s good to meet you, April.” “You too.” She grabs her purse off the dresser, directing her attention to Jeremy. “I’ll see you in the morning. Should be an easy night.” She reaches down and pinches Crew’s thigh. He giggles and scoots away from her. I st ep aside as April exits the bedroom. I glance at the bed. Verity’s eyes are still open, connecting with nothing. I’m not sure she’s even aware her nurse left. Is she aware of anything? I feel terrible for Crew. For Jeremy. For Verity. I don’t know that I’d want to live in this condition. And knowing Jeremy is tied to this life... It’s all so d epressing. This house, the tragedies in this family’s past, the struggles in their present. “Crew, don’t make me do it. I told you to shower.” Crew looks up at Jeremy and smiles, but fails to get off the bed. “I’m gonna count to three.” Crew sets his i Pad beside him, but continues to defy Jeremy. “Three... two...” And then, at the count of one, Jeremy lunges at Crew, gripping his ankles and pulling him up in the air. “Upside down night it is!” Crew is laughing and squirming. “Not again!” Jeremy looks over at me. “Laura, how many seconds can a kid hang upside down before their brain flips over and they start talking backward?” I laugh at their interaction. “I heard twenty seconds. But it could be fifteen.” Crew says, “No, Daddy, I’ll go shower! I don’t want my brain to be upside down!” “And you’ll clean out your ears? Because they clearly weren’t working before when I told you to take a shower.” “I swear!” Jeremy tosses him over his shoulder, turning him right side up before placing him back on his feet. He ruffles his hair and says, “Go.” I watch as Crew rushes out the door and into his bedroom across the hall. Watching Jeremy interact with Crew makes the house seem a little more welcoming. “He’s cute. How old is he?” “Five,” Jeremy says. He reaches down to the side of Verity’s hospital bed and raises it a bit. He grabs a remote off the table next to her bed and turns on the TV. We both exit the bedroom, and he pulls the door slightly shut. I’m standing in the middle of the hallway when he faces me. He slides his hands into the pockets of his grey sweatpants. He acts like he wants to say more— explain more. But he doesn’t. He sighs
and looks back at Verity’s bedroom. “Crew was scared to sle ep up here by himself. He’s been a trooper, but nights are rough for him. He wanted to be closer to her, but he didn’t like sle eping downstairs. I moved us both up here to make it easier on him.” Jeremy makes his way back down the hallway. “Which means you have the run of the downstairs at night.” He flips off the hallway light. “Want to see her office?’ “Of course.” I follow him downstairs, to the double doors near the stairwell landing. He pushes open one of the double doors, revealing the most intimate part of his wife. Her office. When I st ep inside, it feels like I’m rummaging around her underwear drawer. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with books tucked into every vacant crevice. Boxes of papers line the walls. The desk... My God, her desk. It extends from one end of the room to the other, stretching along a wall lined with huge window panes overlooking the entirety of the backyard. There isn’t an inch of desk that isn’t covered with a stack of pages or files. “She’s not the most organized person,” Jeremy says. I smile, recognizing a kinship with Verity. “Most writers aren’t.” “It’ll take time. I would attempt to organize it myself, but it’s all Greek to me.” I walk to one of the shelves closest to me and run my hand over some of the books. They’re foreign editions of her work. I pluck a German copy from the shelf and examine it. “She has her laptop and a desktop,” Jeremy says. “I wrote the passwords on sticky notes for you.” He picks up a notebook next to her computer. “She was constantly taking notes. Writing down thoughts. She’d write ideas down on napkins. Dialogue in the shower on a waterproof not epad.” Jeremy drops the not epad back onto the desk. “She once used a Sharpie to write down character names on the bottom of Crew’s diaper. We were at the zoo, and she didn’t have a not epad.” He does a full, slow circle as he looks around at her office like it’s been a while since he’s st epped foot in here. “The world was her manuscript. No surface was safe.” My insides warm at the way he seems to appreciate her creative process. I spin in a circle, taking it all in. “I had no idea what I was getting into.” “I didn’t want to laugh when you said you might not need to stay the night. But in all honesty, this might take you more than two days. If it does, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. I’d rather you take your time and make sure you have everything you need than go back to New York unsure of how to tackle this.” I look at the shelves containing the series I’m taking over. There are to be nine total books in the series. Six have been published, and three are still to be delivered. The series title is The Noble Virtues, and each book is a different virtue. The three that are left up to me are Courage, Truth, and Honor. All six books are on her shelves, and I’m relieved to see extras. I pull a copy of the second novel off the shelf and skim through it.
“Have you read the series yet?” Jeremy asks. I shake my head, not wanting to reveal I listened to the audiobook. He might ask me questions about it. “I haven’t yet. I didn’t have time between signing the contract and coming here.” I place the book back on the shelf. “Which is your favorite?” “I haven’t ready any of them, either. Not since her first book.” I spin and look at him. “Really?” “I didn’t like being inside her head.” I hold back my smile, but he sounds a little bit like Corey right now. Unable to s eparate the world his wife creates from the one she lives in. At least Jeremy seems to be a little more self-aware than Corey ever was. I look around the room, slightly overwhelmed, but I’m not sure if it’s because Jeremy is standing here or because of the chaos I’m about to have to sort through. “I don’t even know where to start.” “Yeah, I’ll let you get to that.” Jeremy points to the office door. “I should probably go check on Crew. Make yourself at home. Food... drinks... the house is yours.” “Thank you.” Jeremy closes the door, and I settle in at Verity’s desk. Her desk chair alone probably cost more than a month’s rent in my apartment. I wonder how much easier writing is for someone who has money to burn on things I’ve always dreamt of having at my disposal while I write. Comfortable furniture, enough money to have an on-call masseuse, more than one computer. I imagine it would make the writing process a lot easier and a lot less stressful. I have a laptop with a missing key and Wi-Fi when a neighbor forgets to password protect theirs. I sit on an old dining room table chair at a makeshift desk that’s really just a plastic folding table I ordered from Amazon for twenty-five bucks. Most of the time, I don’t even have enough money for printer ink and computer paper. I guess being here in her office for a few days will be one way to test my theory. The richer you are, the more creative you’re able to be. I take the second book of the series off the shelf. I open it, only intending to glance at it. See how she picked up from where book one left off. I end up reading for three hours straight. I haven’t moved from my spot, not even once. Chapter after chapter of intrigue and fucked up characters. Really fucked up characters. It’s going to take me time to work myself into that mindset while writing. No wonder Jeremy doesn’t read her work. All her books are from the villain’s point of view, so that’s new to me. I really should have read all these books before arriving. I stand up to stretch out my spine, but it doesn’t even really hurt; the desk chair I’ve been sitting in is the most comfortable piece of furniture my ass has ever pressed against. I look around, wondering if I should go through computer files next or printed files. I decide to check out her desktop. I browse several files in Microsoft Word, which seems to be the program she prefers. All the files I find are related to books she’s already written. I’m not too worried about those yet. I want to find any plans she had for the books yet to be written. Most of the files on her laptop are the same as the files on her desktop.
Maybe Verity was the type of author who hand-wrote her outlines. I turn my attention to the stacks of boxes on the back wall, near a closet. A thin layer of dust coats the tops of them. I go through several boxes, pulling out versions of manuscripts at various stages in the writing process, but they’re all versions of books in her series that she’s already written. Nothing hinting at what she planned to write next. I’m on the sixth box, rummaging through the contents, when I find something with an unfamiliar title. This one is called So Be It. I flip through the first few pages, hoping I’ll get lucky and find that it’s an outline for the seventh book in the series. Almost immediately, I can tell that it isn’t. This seems... personal. I flip back to the first page of chapter one and read the first line. I sometimes think back on the night I met Jeremy and wonder, had we not made eye contact, would my life still end the same? As soon as I see Jeremy’s name mentioned, I scan a little more of the page. It’s an autobiography. It’s not at all what I’m searching for. An autobiography isn’t what the publishers are paying me to turn in, so I should just move on. But I look over my shoulder to make sure the door is shut because I’m curious. Besides, reading some of this is research. I need to see how Verity’s mind works to understand her as a writer. That’s my excuse, anyway. I carry the manuscript to the couch, make myself comfortable, and begin reading.
So Be It by Verity Crawford Author’s note: The thing I abhor most about autobiographies are the counterfeit thoughts draped over every sentence. A writer should never have the audacity to write about themselves unless they’re willing to s eparate every layer of protection between the author’s soul and their book. The words should come directly from the center of the gut, tearing through flesh and bone as they break free. Ugly and honest and bloody and a little bit terrifying, but completely exposed. An autobiography encouraging the reader to like the author is not a true autobiography. No one is likable from the inside out. One should only walk away from an autobiography with, at best, an uncomfortable distaste for its author. I will deliver. What you read will taste so bad at times, you’ll want to spit it out, but you’ll swallow these words and they will become part of you, part of your gut, and you will hurt because of them. Yet... even with my generous warning... you’re going to continue to ingest my words, because here you are. Human. Curious. Carry on. “Find what you love and let it kill you.” - Charles Bukowski I sometimes think back on the night I met Jeremy and wonder, had we not made eye contact, would my life still end the same? Was it my destiny from the beginning to suffer such a tragic end? Or is my tragic end a result of poor choices rather than fate? Of course, I haven’t met a tragic end yet, or I wouldn’t be able to recount what led to it. Nevertheless, it’s coming. I can sense it, just as I sensed Chastin’s death. And just as I embraced her fate, I will embrace my own. I wouldn’t say I was lost before the night I met Jeremy, but I had certainly never been found until the moment he laid eyes on me from across the room. I’d had boyfriends before. One-night stands, even. But I’d never come close to imagining life with someone else until that moment. When I saw him, I pictured our first night together, our wedding, our honeymoon, our children. Until that moment, the idea of love had always felt very manufactured to me. A Hallmark ploy. A marketing scheme for greeting card companies. I had no interest in love. My only goal that night was to get drunk on free booze and find a rich investor to fuck. I was already halfway there, having downed three Moscow Mules. And judging by the look of Jeremy Crawford, I was going to leave that party an overachiever. He looked rich, and it was a charity event, after all. Poor people don’t show up to charity events unless they’re serving the rich. Present company not included. He was talking with a few other men, but every time he’d glance in my direction, I felt like we were the only two people in the room. Every now and then, he would smile at me. Of course he did. I had on my red dress that night, the one
I stole from Macy’s. Don’t judge me. I was a starving artist and it was ridiculously expensive. I intended to make up for the theft when I had the money. I’d donate to a charity or save a baby or something. The good thing about sins is they don’t have to be atoned for immediately, and that red dress was too perfect for me to pass up. It was a fuckable dress. The kind of dress a man can easily bypass when he wants between your legs. The mistake women make when they choose their clothes for events like the one I was at, is that they don’t think about them from the man’s perspective. A woman wants her breasts to look good, her figure to be hugged. Even if that means sacrificing comfort and wearing something impossible to remove. But when men look at dresses, they aren’t admiring the way it hugs the hips or the cinch at the waist or the fancy tie up the back. They’re sizing up how easy it will be to remove. Will he be able to slip his hand up her thigh when they’re seated next to each other at a table? Will he be able to fuck her in a car without the awkward mess of zippers and Spanx? Will he be able to fuck her in the bathroom without having to remove her clothes completely? The answers to my stolen red dress were yes, yes, and hell yes. I realized, with that dress on, there was no way he would be able to leave the party without approaching me. I chose to stop paying attention to him. It made me seem desperate. I was not the mouse, I was the cheese. I was going to stand there until he came to me. He did, eventually. I was standing at the bar, my back to him, when he put his hand on my shoulder and leaned forward, motioning for the bartender. Jeremy didn’t look at me in that moment. He simply k ept his hand on my shoulder, as if he were laying claim to me. When the bartender approached, I watched in fascination. Jeremy nudged his head toward me and said, “Make sure you only serve her water for the rest of the evening.” I hadn’t been expecting that. I turned, leaning an arm on the bar, and faced him. He dropped his hand from my shoulder, but not before his fingers grazed all the way down to my elbow. A flicker of electricity flashed through me, mixed with a surge of anger. “I’m perfectly capable of deciding when I’ve had enough to drink.” Jeremy smirked at me and even though I hated the arrogance behind that smirk, he was good-looking. “I’m sure you are.” “I’ve only had three drinks all evening.” “Good.” I stood up straight and called the bartender back over. “I’ll have another Moscow Mule, please.” The bartender glanced at me, then Jeremy. Then back at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ve been asked to serve you water.” I rolled my eyes. “I heard him ask you to serve me water, I’m standing right here. But I don’t know this man, and he doesn’t know me, and I’d like another Moscow Mule.” “She’ll take a water,” Jeremy said. I was definitely attracted to him, but his looks were quickly fading with that chauvinistic attitude. The bartender lifted his hands and said, “I don’t want to get in volved in whatever this is. If you want a drink, go order it from the bar over there.” He pointed to the bar across the room. I grabbed my purse, tipped my chin up in the air, and walked away. When I reached the other bar, I found a stool and waited for the bartender to finish with his customer. In that time, Jeremy appeared again, this time leaning his elbow across the bar.
“You didn’t even give me a chance to explain why I’d like you to have water.” I rolled my head in his direction. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I owed you my time.” He laughed, moving until his back was against the bar, and stared at me with a tilted head and a crooked smile. “I’ve been watching you since the moment I walked through the door. You’ve had three drinks in forty-five minutes, and if you ke ep going at that rate, I won’t feel comfortable asking you to leave with me. I’d much rather you make that choice while you’re sober.” His voice sounded like his throat was coated in honey. I held eye contact with him, wondering if it was an act. Could a man that good looking and presumably rich also be considerate? It felt more presumptuous than anything, but I was drawn in by his gall. The bartender approached with impeccable timing. “What can I get for you?” I straightened up, breaking eye contact with Jeremy. I turned and faced the bartender. “I’ll have a water.” “Make it two,” Jeremy said. And that was that. It’s been years since that night, and it’s difficult to recall every detail, but I do remember being drawn to him in those first few moments in a way I’d never been drawn to a man. I liked the sound of his voice. I liked his confidence. I liked his teeth, perfect and white. I liked the stubble on his jaw. It was the perfect length to scratch my thighs. Maybe even scar them if he stayed down there long enough. I liked that he wasn’t afraid to touch me while we talked, and every time he did, the graze of his fingers made my skin tingle. After we both finished our waters, Jeremy led me to the exit, his hand on my lower back, his fingers caressing my dress. We walked to his limousine, and he held the back door open for me as I climbed inside. He took the seat across from me rather than next to me. The car smelled like a bouquet, but I knew it was perfume. I quite liked it, despite knowing another woman had been in this limousine tonight. My eyes fell to a bottle of champagne that was half empty next to two wine glasses, one lined with red lipstick. Who is she? And why did he leave the party with me and not her? I didn’t care to ask those questions out loud, because he was leaving with me. That’s really all that mattered. We sat in silence for a minute or two, staring at each other with anticipation. He knew he had me in that moment, which is why he felt confident enough to reach forward and lift my leg, draping it across the seat next to him. He left his hand on my ankle, caressing it, watching as my chest began to rise and fall in response to his touch. “How old are you?” he asked. The question made me pause because he looked older than I was, maybe late twenties, early thirties. I didn’t want to scare him off with the truth, so I lied and said I was twenty-five. “You look younger.” He knew I was lying. I kicked off my shoe and ran my toes across the outside of his thigh. “Twenty-two.”
Jeremy laughed and said, “A liar, huh?” “I stretch truths where I see fit. I’m a writer.” His hand moved to my calf. “How old are you?” “Twenty-four,” he said with as much truth as I’d given him. “So... twenty-eight?” He smiled. “Twenty-seven.” His hand was on my knee at this point. I wanted it even higher. I wanted it on my thigh, between my legs, exploring me from the inside. I wanted him, but not here. I wanted to go with him, see where he lived, judge the comfort of his bed, smell his sheets, taste his skin. “Where’s your driver?” I asked. Jeremy glanced behind him, toward the front of the limousine. “I don’t know,” he r eplied, looking back at me. “This isn’t my limousine.” His expression was mischievous, and I couldn’t tell if he was lying. I narrowed my eyes, wondering if this man had really led me to a limousine that didn’t even belong to him. “Whose limousine is this?” Jeremy’s eyes had left mine and were focused on his hand. The one tracing circles over my knee. “I don’t know.” I expected my desire to wane at the realization that he may not be rich, but instead, his admission made me smile. “I’m an entry-level scrub,” he said. “I drove my car here. Honda Civic. Parked it myself because I’m too cheap to pay the ten bucks for valet.” I was surprised by how much I loved that he had brought me to a limo that wasn’t even his. He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t rich, yet I still wanted to fuck him. “I clean office buildings in the city,” I admitted. “I stole an invitation to this party out of a trash can. I’m not even supposed to be here.” He smiled, and I’ve never wanted to taste a grin like I wanted to taste the one that spread across his face. “Aren’t you resourceful?” he asked. His hand slipped behind my knee and he pulled me toward him. I slid across the seat and onto his lap because that’s what dresses like mine were for. I could feel him growing hard between my legs as he pressed a thumb against my bottom lip. I swiped my tongue across the pad of his thumb, and it made him sigh. Not groan. Not moan. He sighed, like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever felt. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Verity.” “Verity.” He said it twice. “Verity. That’s really pretty.” His eyes were on my mouth, and he was about to lean in and kiss me, but I pulled back. “What’s yours?” His eyes flickered back to mine. “Jeremy.” He said it fast, like it was a waste of his time, an inconvenient interruption to our kiss. As soon as the word left his mouth, his lips touched mine, and as soon as they touched mine, the interior light kicked on above our heads and we both froze, our lips grazing, our bodies suddenly stiff as someone climbed into the driver’s seat of the limousine. “Shit,” Jeremy whispered against my mouth. “What an untimely return.” He pushed me off of him and opened the door. He ushered me out of the car just as the driver realized someone else was in the car with him. “Hey!” he yelled into the backseat. Jeremy grabbed my hand and began to pull me after him, but I needed out of my shoes. I tugged on his arm, and he stopped as I slipped my shoes off my feet. The driver started heading in our direction. “Hey! What the hell were
you doing in my car?” Jeremy grabbed my shoes in one hand, and we ran down the street, laughing in the dark, out of breath when we finally reached his car. He hadn’t been lying about it. It was a Honda Civic, although it was a newer model, so that counted for something. He pushed me against the passenger door, dropped my shoes on the concrete, and then sw ept a hand into my hair. I looked over my shoulder at the car we were leaning against. “Is this really your car?” He smiled as he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his key fob. He unlocked the doors to prove it was his, which made me laugh. He stared down at me, our mouths thisclose, and I could swear he was already imagining what life with me would be like. You can’t look at someone the way he looked at me—with the entirety of his past—without also imagining the future. He closed his eyes and kissed me. The kiss was full of both desire and respect—two things a lot of men didn’t seem to know could go hand in hand. His fingers felt good in my hair, and his tongue felt good in my mouth. I felt good to him, too. I could feel how good I felt to him in the way he kissed me. We knew very little about each other in that moment, but it was almost better that way. Sharing a kiss that intimate with a stranger was like saying, “I don’t know you, but I believe I would like you if I did.” I liked that he believed he could like me. It almost made me believe I was likeable. When he pulled away from me, I wanted to go with him. I wanted my mouth to follow his, my fingers to stay wrapped around his. It was torture remaining in the passenger seat of his car as we drove. I was burning inside for him. He had lit a fire in me, and I was determined to make sure it didn’t go out. He fed me before he fucked me. Took me to a Steak ’n Shake, and we sat on the same side of the booth, eating French fries and sipping chocolate shakes between kisses. The restaurant was mostly empty, so we were in a quiet corner booth, far enough away that no one noticed when Jeremy’s hand slid up my thigh and disappeared between my legs. No one heard me when I moaned. No one cared when he pulled his hand away and whispered that he wasn’t going to give me an orgasm in a Steak ’n Shake. I wouldn’t have minded. “Take me to your bed, then,” I said. He did. His bed was in the middle of a studio apartment in Brooklyn. Jeremy wasn’t rich. He could barely afford the Steak ’n Shake he had bought me. But I didn’t care. I was on his bed, lying on my back, watching him undress, when I realized I was about to make love for the first time. I’d had sex before, but never with more than just my body. There was so much more of me invested in that moment than my body. My heart felt full—of what, I don’t know. But my heart had felt empty with the men who came before Jeremy. It was amazing how different sex felt when a person used more than their body. I in volved my heart and my gut and my mind and my hope. I fell in that moment. Not in love. I just... fell.
It was as if I’d been standing on the edge of a cliff my whole life, and finally, after meeting Jeremy, I felt confident enough to jump. Because—for the first time in my life—I felt confident that I wouldn’t land. I would ke ep flying. Looking back, I realize how crazy it is that I fell for him so fast. But it was only crazy because it never stopped. Had I woken up the next morning and slipped out of his apartment, it would have ended as a fun one-night stand, and I wouldn’t even be recalling any of this all these years later. But I didn’t leave the next morning, so it became more. With every day that passed, that first night with him was further validated. And that’s what love at first sight is. It isn’t really love at first sight until you’ve been with the person long enough for it to become love at first sight. We didn’t leave his apartment for three days. We ate Chinese takeout. We fucked. We ordered pizza. We fucked. We watched TV. We fucked. We both called in sick to work that Monday, and by Tuesday, I was obsessed. I was obsessed with his laugh, with his cock, with his mouth, with his skill, with his stories, with his hands, with his confidence, with his gentleness, with a new and intense need to please him. I needed to please him. I needed to be what made him smile, breathe, wake up in the mornings. And for a while, I was. He loved me more than he loved anything or anyone. I was his sole reason for living. Until he discovered the one thing that meant more to him than I did.