Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall)
Copyright © 2013 by Angelisa Stone
Interior design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This novel,
Can’t Go Home
, is a work of fiction, fabricated only in the author’s mind and heart. Names, characters, places, and events are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
This book is dedicated to my youngest son, “the middle child.” I know that you often feel overlooked or inferior, which breaks my heart. You inspired me to create Dre, the loving, sensitive, and charming character that he is. You have so many exceptional qualities that your dad and I couldn’t be more proud of. You bring us joy and laughter, happiness and fun, making each of our days brighter.
I have a wish for all the people who really want more out of their lives, but are too afraid to fulfill those dreams, those fantasies, and those goals.
Can’t Go Home
is for those people who are “living a lie,” because that’s what friends, family, and all of society expects of them. Our lives are buried with details and mundane tasks that hinder us from achieving our wildest dreams and from being true to ourselves. My wish is that we all end the days of being who everyone else wants us to be. Be proud of yourself. Take pride in your dreams—they’re yours and yours alone. That’s my shiny-penny wish for you.
Now go make your dreams come true.
This novel,
Can’t Go Home
, is a work of fiction, fabricated only in the author’s mind and heart. Names, characters, places, and events are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Her name is Kathryn Denise Howell. She used to go by “Katie” when she was in high school, even into college, but when she moved here, she became “Kathryn” to her new friends and co-workers. It’s amazing what you can learn from social networking and even just from random people on the streets. When I scrutinize her, she looks like a “Katie.” She has one of those angelic, “girl-next-door” faces, the kind that when you look at her, you just know that you’d never be able to lie to such an innocent and naïve face.
I understand why she’d choose to go by “Kathryn” now; it’s more mature, more professional, and demands respect. As for me, I already respect her; I respect the fuck out of her. She solidified my opinion of her the moment I heard her speak.
The problem is when I actually meet Kathryn and talk to her all I’m going to do is lie like crazy to her. Basically, I doubt anything I ever say to her will be the truth. The feel-good, glowy, little angel on my shoulder keeps whispering that I should most definitely stay away, should move on, should forget I ever heard her on the phone. I should walk away and do her a favor. A big fucking favor.
But, I can’t. The evil devil in my pants won’t let me. Kathryn got to me—and to him. She got to us bad. Despite my better judgment, Kathryn Howell will be mine, come Hell or high water. I know I sound like a creepy-ass stalker. I’m not a stalker in the “cut ‘em up and eat ‘em sense.” I’m a stalker in the “I know what want, and I’m going to get it” sense. Normally when I see a woman I want, she’s mine within in the night, sometimes within the hour. My life has been a series of wanting and then quite easily getting. But lately, what I want and what I have are two very dissimilar things, even very different from what I used to have. It’s all changing, and quite fucking frankly, that’s just fine by me.
Now the hard part: I have to meet her first. I also have to let go of my guilty conscience, because I’m going to hate lying to her. Well, I guess I must also renege on that promise to myself that I’m going to swear off women. I did swear off women—all women. How was I to know that I was going to overhear Kathryn Howell’s phone call, a phone call that put me over the edge and certainly made me want to know her? I decided that I’d scrap the “no women for Dre rule.” Let’s be honest. That rule sucks anyway.
My infatuation for her started nearly a month ago. Yes, it’s an infatuation, possible borderline obsession. Cue the flashback music; let the picture fade and get all blurry until we zoom in on an angry Kathryn Howell on her cell phone, putting someone, presumably her boss, right in his place.
The day in question was crazy hot, unbearably sweltering, which is usually the case in Charleston, South Carolina in mid-September. I was standing under the awning of a local tourist seafood joint when Kathryn parked her bright yellow Volkswagen Bug at the meter in front of me. Normally, a girl like her wouldn’t have caught my eye, but I was dying in the heat and too bored and tired to look away. Nice huh?
When Kathryn got out of her car, let’s be clear, I wasn’t knock-my-socks-off floored by her beauty or presence. I actually looked at her and thought, “It’s too hot to have that much hair.” Kathryn has long, dark, wavy hair that is thick as it is long. Nobody should have hair like that in the south. It probably adds about 10 degrees to the body temperature. And nobody wants that.
I don’t want it to seem like Kathryn isn’t beautiful, because she is. Kathryn just didn’t “look the part,” the part that I am normally drawn to and tend to sway toward. Most of the women I’ve dated could grace the cover of a
Victoria’s Secret
advertisement, a
Maxim
centerfold, or
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition. Typically, I like my women tall, lean, blonde, and a little on the “easy” side. Who doesn’t really? I sound like an ass, don’t I? I never claimed not to be, which is why I feel slightly guilty for honing in on Kathryn Howell, chartering places I have no business exploring in the first place.
When Kathryn circled around to the parking meter, she rummaged through her large, knockoff designer purse for change, pulling out a handful of coins. Immediately, I loved that she was walking around with a fake handbag. From where I come from, that was unheard of, grounds for societal ridicule and possible emotional torture.
