Into You Series: The Complete Collection

1. Grace

CHAPTER 1

GRACE

D oes love even exist beyond dogs?

In my case, definitely not.

I’ve heard that golden retrievers are one of the smartest breeds. If that fact is true, then maybe my dog Hank would have had the common sense to leave Joe earlier than I did.

Even now, mere feet away from me with his graying fur and wise old age, I bet he’s wondering if I’ll ever learn.

Hank walks over and plops himself beside me, lying his head inches from mine so I can scratch behind his ear.

I roll over on my stomach and reach out to swipe at the laptop laying inches from my fingertips. With a groan and all the strength I can muster, I curl my toes and push myself the one extra inch I need to snatch the computer, slide it in front of me, and pop it open.

Hank army crawls closer to me as I go straight for my email, whining as if he doesn’t think I should look at them either.

“I know I shouldn’t,” I say, reaching down to poke his nose. “But I’m a glutton for punishment.”

I open the inbox and find exactly what I thought I would find: Another email from Joe. Ten, to be exact. He’s deteriorated the formal structure of emails into that of a three-year-old. I can commend his effort, at least.

“Grace, answer my calls,” “I’m a huge douche,” and the coveted “I miss you.”

“Yep, definitely punished myself with that one,” I mutter with a half-hearted smile, reaching over and ruffling Hank’s ears until he wags his tail. The old boy leans over and lays his paw over my hand, adding a lick on my cheek for good measure. He doesn’t gloat about the fact that he was right because he’s a gentleman.

The worst thing about being in a relationship in your late twenties is the inevitable process of moving out once you and your once fabulous beau break up. It gets even trickier if you’ve bought a house together. My mom told me it was dumb to buy a house with your unwed significant other who refuses to propose, but I guess I am just that brand of stupid.

The custody battle between the ex and I for my loyal golden retriever wasn’t even a discussion. Hank was my high school graduation gift, and I’d throw Joe off a cliff before I’d give up Hank. Who wouldn’t want an excuse to throw their cheating ex-boyfriend off a cliff anyway?

But here I am now: A lonely twenty-seven-year-old woman lying on the floor of a mostly empty apartment. I’m waiting on my friend Ramona to arrive in a moving truck with some hand-me-down furniture to fill this place, but as of right now I only have a suitcase full of clothes, my old laptop, various art supplies shoved into a box, and my trusty dog, Hank.

I look at my watch and see that I have a little time to sketch, and there’s no time like the present to focus on something much more enjoyable. I whip out my trusty tablet and pen and begin sketching anything and everything. Lines, dots, swirls … What do they make? What do these lines tell me?

This line tells me Grace, be better, and this one says You’re talking to yourself again; stop it.

That is called an “aggressive line,” my former art professors would say.

I’m still getting back into the groove of it all, to be honest. Art, being single, the art of being single … I was in a relationship for the past two years. It was happy until he decided it wasn’t.

I firmly believe that a woman not being happy due to a man is just her telling the world that it has successfully beaten her down, and I will not have that.

I bite the end of my drawing pen, trying to brainstorm something new, something original. I sketch out a couple things—mostly drawings of my lazy dog—when I hear the squeak of wheels coming from a heavy vehicle outside. I get up, pace to the front door, and open it to find Ramona and her husband Wes hopping out from each side of the moving truck.

Ramona looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her shorts are mega-short, accentuating thighs muscled from years of running. She’s almost never caught dead without a crop top saying something pseudo-clever. Today’s winning outfit has a cow with text below saying: Moo-ve it or lose it. I have no doubt she made this vinyl printed shirt specifically for my moving day.

“There’s my sunshine!” she yells up at me, waving her hand around.

“My day did not breathe life until I saw you!” I call down, and she laughs.

Wes throws me a quick wave then comes up behind Ramona and picks her up by her waist, walking them to the back of the truck. She’s giggling the whole time.

They are so cute it would be almost sickening if I didn’t love them so much.

Wes is inarguably a very good-looking man: high cheekbones, brilliant green eyes, and toned arms covered in tattoo sleeves that could never be misconstrued as anything other than pieces of art.

Ramona and Wes met during our freshman year of college, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. They shared everything together: starting as undeclared majors, ending up going through the same psychology degree, and now owning a practice together with Ramona conducting behavioral therapy in children and Wes handling couples’ counseling. They’re a powerhouse couple if I’ve ever seen one, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t secretly jealous of their perfect little life.

I close Hank up in the kitchen so he can’t run off and then trot down to the parking lot.

“You didn’t take much from the old place?” Ramona asks, pulling me into a hug before I even finish stepping off the last stair.

“Nah,” I say, falling into her embrace. There’s nothing more reassuring than the hug of a close friend—especially one taller than you with larger breasts. They’re like pillows just waiting to provide comfort. “The furniture didn’t really mean much to me. But can I have the house itself back?”

“That isn’t how it works, love.”

“Yeah, I know. But I put my heart and soul into that house.”

“Well, even that beautiful house couldn’t save your relationship, I’m afraid.”

Ramona exhales, pulling away and scanning me up and down.

Wes pulls the handle of the truck down and releases it to reveal the cargo bed full of furniture and knickknacks. He lifts himself inside and calls down to me, “Sorry he’s a cheating asshole, Grace.”

I shrug. “Any surprises there?”

“No, not really,” Wes responds without skipping a beat. “He wore a flipped up collar. Who does that?”

“Joe,” Ramona and I chorus in response.

Ramona runs her hands through my thick red locks and cringes. “Geez, you look like you haven’t washed your hair in a week.”

“Rude.” I laugh, then run my own hands through the knotted mess, which halts my sense of humor. Yeah, okay, I might be teetering on the cusp of swamp monster … “I was gonna do it today.”

“That’s what we all say in breakups that hurt,” Ramona says.

“Hey, this doesn’t have to do with Joe!” I say, defensive the second I get a side-eye of pity from Wes. “I’m over him.”

I hear myself say the words and it’s like they echo back to me with a sadistic whisper of,‘ liesss .’

“It was a long time coming,” Ramona says with a reassuring head nod.

“It was!” I say as Wes grabs a box and hands it down to me. “I think.”

I should be over Joe. After months of not sleeping together—and the whole ‘talking with other women’ thing—the post-mortem of our relationship should have come and gone. But I haven’t stopped long enough to let myself think about it. I’ve been too focused on getting the heck out of that house as fast as I could before my soul ripped apart even more.

But I know my heart has been tricked successfully.

Lesson to all ladies: Love is a lie. Men will find some way to seek out other women. Let’s all just get dildos and call it a day.

“Screw him,” Ramona says then laughs. “Well, don’t, but …”

“I get your point.”

We spend the next few hours going up and down the staircases to my new second-floor apartment with everything from living room side tables to a decorative giraffe with wide eyes and makes me uncomfortable.

None of this is my stuff. Ramona and Wes are playing interior decorator for me.

“No,” I say, shoving the creepy giraffe into Ramona’s arms the second I pull it out the box. “Absolutely not. You take it back before I find it in the doorway of my bedroom at two in the morning.”

“Guess we won’t be using the camera we installed in there,” Wes jokes with a wink.

Ramona snaps her fingers. “So much work down the drain.”

I place down the container I’m carrying after I spot another spanking new box housing an unopened flat screen television.

“I thought you said these were only hand-me-downs,” I mumble.

Ramona and Wes wince, sharing a look.

“We just wanted you to feel at home after Joe kept all the other furniture,” Ramona says. “Plus, it was a deal! And how else are you supposed to properly wallow post-breakup without sitcoms?”

I don’t like feeling like a charity case, but they’re just trying to be nice.

Also, she’s right: Sitcoms are the cure all for breakups.

“I’ll take y’all out to some fancy restaurant,” I say, but I instantly regret it.

Given that my bank account statement nearly made me sob last week, I’m not sure that’s a great idea—even if my pride is bleeding.

They can see the hesitation, and I want to kick myself for my emotions showing on my face so easily. The last thing I want is for them to feel bad.

“Just pizza works for us,” Wes says, waving his hands around. “No need to bother with anything else!”

“I’ll at least order a really fancy takeout pizza,” I offer. “None of that commercial chain restaurant stuff. I’ll get real classy.”

“Perfect!” Ramona says with a hand clap. “Pineapples too, please!”

“Girl, you know it.”

We high five as Wes groans.

That no-good pineapple pizza-hating man.

“So, how are the interviews coming along?” he asks.

I groan. “On a scale of one to a natural disaster, it’s about a hurricane of a billion killer whales. There’s only been one so far, actually.”

The interview was for printing press operators, which I am definitely not . I’m not too worried, though. I’ve always picked myself up eventually.

Given a fight or flight situation, such as, oh I don’t know, my horrible unemployment dilemma, I like to think my redheaded tenacity has always guided me in the right direction. I am a fists-up, bring it on, baby! fighting kinda gal. When I settled for a simple customer service job—which eventually developed into a collections role—my days were filled with “Please pay your balance or else your account will be on hold” statements and lots of existential dread.

I decided after five years of that junk, all I really wanted was to pursue my true passion. I quit my collections job, instantly upgraded my resume, took some new designs I’ve been perfecting and some old paintings from college (conspicuously erasing the year I actually created them), and then sent out my portfolio to the world.

It was risky.

It was bold.

And I’ve been quickly depleting my savings in the process.

“Ian said they’re hiring over at his company,” Ramona says, placing a desk chair down. “A design position, actually. I think they just promoted someone and need a replacement.”

Ramona’s older brother Ian is just like her: Successful, incredibly in tune with health and working out (which, admittedly, I need to get better at), and a bit snarky. But, like, a lovable snarky jerk.

And he works at my dream company.

“Treasuries Inc. is hiring?!” I gawk, almost tripping over the threshold and knocking into Ramona. “Treasuries Inc. as in the marketing firm? The marketing firm we went to that mixer at? The one where they were all like, ‘Yeah, every Friday is Beer Friday because we’re super cool and hip?’ The place that won awards for their culture, and I’ll be damned if I don’t try my shot at it? That Treasuries Inc.?”

“Holy overload of information, Batman.” Wes laughs. “How much stalking have you done on that company?”

“Don’t even get her started,” Ramona says grinning with a good natured roll of her eyes.

“How are you just now telling me about this?” I’m almost offended this is the first I’m hearing about the opportunity. How could she! Withholding information from your best friend should be a federal crime!

“Get your panties out of a wad,” Ramona says. “I already told him you’re interested.”

A slow grin spreads across my face.

“Thank you, Ramona,” she says in a mocking voice. “You’re such a wonderful friend. Oh, no, you are , Grace. I’m happy to be of service.”

I bolt toward her and jump into her arms, legs wrapped tight around her waist. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“We got you covered,” she says. “Always and forever.”

My best friend is the bestest friend in the world.

Move over all other people, I got the best one.

My head is swimming with possibilities. A place with a future. A place where they give promotions. An actual design gig in some cool, trendy office with people who probably eat kale salads and do hot yoga. I’d kill to be one of those people.

Literally, murder someone.

Okay, not literally.

Well, maybe.

Regardless, I decide that the design position at Treasuries Inc. is totally, one hundred percent, mine.