Storm in a Teacup (43 page)

"Not in your room?" Another smile tells me this is supposed to be a joke, but I don't find it funny.

I point again.

"My things are already in there."
 

He better mean the spare room. As I reach the door to my bedroom, I see that he did. Three trunks — actual trunks — sit in a pile at the foot of the bed in the guest room.

Carrick's still sitting on the couch. I walk into the kitchen and turn my head to look at him.

"Let's get one thing straight. You are not Mason, and you are not my friend. He earned that title. Make any more jokes about sleeping in my bed, and I'll stab you while you're in yours."

Carrick raises his hands. "I surrender. I apologize."

I heft the bunny's cage off the kitchen table and carry it into my room. Carrick doesn't offer to help, which suits me perfectly. I want the screeching pain in my shoulder. I place it on my dresser, aware of Carrick's eyes on me. I slam the door to my bedroom and lock it. The cage clanks. I must have startled my new bunny.

"Sorry, bun-bun," I say. "I can't call you bun-bun." Unfortunately, I don't have a better idea yet. Naming the bunny can wait. He – she? – settles into her plastic cave to wash herself.
 

I sit down on my bed to watch her. I'll at least hear it if Carrick breaks the doorknob.
 

Building an army. A new shade in my house.

I crawl into my bed, which is now far too big. I swim under the sheets alone, and there's no warm hand to anchor me. The sheets are clean and smooth and smell of Mason. Reaching toward his pillow, I slide across the bed, past the middle and onto what was his side.
 

The sheets warm to the heat of my body. I pull Mason's pillow to me, and my fingers hit paper.

Heart skipping to a new rhythm, I unfold it and switch on the lamp.
 

It has one simple line. Two little sentences. Six words.
 

You taught me love. Thank you.

I hold it against my heart as if it can ward off the night.

Acknowledgements

This book is only in your hands because this year, when I was about to drown, the following people reached out and pulled me out of the water. Their kindness and support was humbling, gracious, and most importantly, deeply personal. 2014 was a year of great upheaval for every part of my life, and because of them, I was able to greet 2015 with hope.

Some names are omitted from this list at their owners' requests.
 

If you're reading this, please reach out to someone this week. Anyone. Show them a seemingly random act of kindness. Kindness has its own ripples.
 

Special thanks to:

Tara Kirby and Doug Rowland

Stacy Bennett-Hoyt

Amber West

Emma Urquhart
 

Andrew Reid

Natalie Luhrs

Kevin F. Solo

James Michaels

Lisa and Vincent Shambrook

Kristin McFarland and Drew Buschhorn
 

Joni Waldrup

JD Nevesytrof

Graham Milne

Megan Wahl

Nick Johns

M. Andrew Patterson

Myrinda Shafer

Larz Yerian

Gary Hay

Lucy Price

Jenny Hansen

Amanda Gardner

Bill and Kristine Parker

Angie Richmond

Laura and Tim Hughes

Kelly Roberts

Nikki and Michael McCormack

Meagen Voss

Jennifer Jensen

Tameri Etherton

Sara Foster

Elizabeth Anne Mitchell

Brian Taylor

Kathleen Ratican

Ginger Calem

Barbara Rau

Nancy Oelschlaeger
 

Third Act Theater

Nine Muse Press - Anna Meade

Katherine George

Danielle Smith

Matt Thurston

Christine Carmichael

Samantha and Chris Foster

Sarah Brand
 

Ellie Ann and Michael Soderstrom

Emma Meade

Dan Swensen

Charlotte Ashley

Simon Pillatt

Jim Matheson (The Joy of Change)

Jason Rust

Louise Wraight

Eleni Sakellis

Jean Booth

Michael Path

Cassandra Page

Mona Bliss

Brian O'Conor

Sherry Ramsey

Patricia Sands

Kimberly Ito

Tracy McCusker

Dom Richardson

About the Author

Emmie Mears was born in Austin, Texas, where the Lone Star state promptly spat her out at the tender age of three months. After a childhood spent mostly in Alaska, Oregon, and Montana, she became a proper vagabond and spent most of her time at university devising ways to leave the country. After successfully tramping through Scotland and Poland for a few years, the bungee cord that is her US Passport dragged her back over the pond, but her travels and studies left her with a BA in History and an unfortunately-not-recognized second major in Central European Studies. She speaks Polish, enough German to tell you her anteater is sick, about as much Spanish as a native two-year-old, and has a crush on Portuguese and Gaelic.

Except for an ill-fated space opera she attempted at age nine, most of Emmie's childhood was spent reading books instead of writing them. Growing up she yearned to see girls in books doing awesome things, and struggled to find stories in her beloved fantasy genre that showed female heroes saving people and hunting things. Mid-way through high school, she decided the best way to see those stories was to write them herself. She now scribbles her way through the fantasy genre, most loving to pen stories about flawed characters and gritty situations lightened with the occasional quirky humor.

Emmie now lives in her eighth US state, still yearning for a return to Scotland. She inhabits a cozy domicile outside DC with two intrepid kitties.

She spends most of her time causing problems and ruining worlds.
 

Emmie is also the editor and Grand Pooh-Bah of
Searching for SuperWomen
, a geek hub focused on furthering the conversation about the role of women in geekdom and loving awesome things in the process.

She may or may not secretly be a car.

You can connect with Emmie on
Twitter
,
Facebook
,
Instagram
,
Tumblr
, and her
website
, or check out her sexy-book writing alter ego
Eva Jamieson
.

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