Swear on This Life: A Novel

Throwing the book down on the floor of the living room, I let out a frustrated, painful sigh.

Cara was watching me from the other couch, her eyes as wide as sand dollars. “What? What is it?”

“It’s not true. That’s not how it happened.” I stood up and paced, frantically twirling my hair into a tight knot.

Cara remained silent, watching me as I tried to untangle the mess in my head. Jase had written my life story from my perspective, and up until now, it had been mostly accurate, with a little bit of fictional flair. But he had taken some serious liberties with this last chapter.

Because Jase was the one who’d actually turned us in.

I turned on my heel to face Cara, wild with anger. “Do you think all this critical attention is deserved? I mean, this isn’t some great literary novel. It’s just a straightforward book about two kids. It doesn’t make sense that it would be a bestseller.”

Cara shrugged, her eyes sympathetic. “Is this what’s really bothering you, Emi?”

I stared at her. I was angry and jealous of his success, but underlying all of that was a deep and endless hurt, which felt fresher than ever now that I was reading Jase’s book. But I couldn’t focus on that now. I couldn’t wrap my heart and mind around why he turned us in all those years ago. So I focused on the jealousy, like a bitter writing instructor who couldn’t write herself out of a cardboard box.

“Cyndi and Sharon are coming over, and I just want to forget all about this, okay? I don’t want to think about him or that book ever again.”

“I think you’re being irrational, Emi,” Cara said in a soothing voice.

“No, I’m not.” I walked toward her, braced her shoulders, and tried my best to compose myself. “I spent years in therapy trying to work through, or at least forget, everything that happened. I just can’t read it anymore. Please understand.”

“There’re, like, ten more chapters, Em. I think you should give it a chance. I think it’ll be healing for you.”

“She’s Em, Cara. I’m Emi. We’re not the same person. I appreciate you trying so hard, but no, I’m not going to give it a chance. He did his thing, and now I’m doing mine. End of the real story, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Okay,” she said unconvincingly. I gave her a hug. “You should still go to the book event. He deserves readers who love and support him. He’s a fucking bestselling published author, after all. But please don’t mention me to him.”

She nodded. “I would never.”

I went back to my room and crawled under the sheets.

SOMETIME IN THE early afternoon, I woke to a pounding headache and mild nausea. I looked at the clock. It was three. My apartment was eerily quiet, and I remembered that Cara was at the bookstore, waiting in line to see Jase so she could congratulate him on basically telling the entire world the horrors of our childhood and then making me look like the bad guy.

I moped around for twenty minutes until I couldn’t take it anymore; I had to text her.

Me: R U there?

Cara: Yes, there’s a line around the building

Me: Ur kidding me?

Cara: Lots of giddy women

Me: That fucker.

Cara: glad 2 c ur mood has changed

Me: Where is it?

Cara: Ur coming?

Me: Don’t know yet. Where?

Cara: Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore

Me: K

Cara: I’ll save you a spot

Me: No, get ur book signed

I stared into my closet for what felt like hours. Finally, I said fuck it and went with jeans, a high-necked sweater, and tennis shoes. I put the most minimal amount of makeup on, just a touch of lip gloss and mascara, and then flat-ironed my hair. I still felt like I was trying too hard, so I slicked my hair back into a ponytail, grabbed my keys, and ran out the door.

Right after grad school, Cyndi and Sharon had bought me an old Honda. Even though they had plenty of money for something nicer, they refused to let me drive around in a rich-kid car, especially since they never made me get a job while I was in school. I felt like I had paid my dues, but I appreciated their efforts and didn’t really care about cars anyway.

I sped down the freeway with shaking hands. My mind was spinning. What would I say to him? How would he look?

When I pulled into the parking lot, my mouth fell onto the floor of my Honda. Cara wasn’t exaggerating. The line was literally wrapped around the building, and it was mostly women.

I joined the end of the line, and within minutes a woman came over and told me I had just made it. I was the last person that Mr. Colby would have time for before the store closed. I texted Cara.

Me: Where are u?

Cara: Inside. U here? U wanna come inside? I can say I was saving ur spot?

Me: No. Can you see him?

Cara: Yes.

Me: And?

Cara: He’s gorgeous, Emi. Nice suit.

Me: He’s wearing a suit?

Cara: Wearing it well, my friend. He looks like a model. He has perfect hair and he’s charming the panties off these women. Can I please flirt with him?

Me: I’m leaving

Cara: NO!!!!!! I was kidding. You have to see him

When I got inside, there was a large bookshelf obscuring my view of where Jase was set up. I stood on my tippy toes to try and get a better view, but all I could see was the top of his head. I didn’t see Cara in the crowd, but she texted me later to say she was waiting in the parking lot.

Me: Did he sign your book?

Cara: Yes

Me: What else did he say? What did he write in it?

Cara: He was really polite. He just said thanks for reading and for coming out and then he asked what my favorite part was.

Me: What did you say?

Cara: I said the ending

Me: Wait, how does it end?

Cara: You’ll have to read it

Me: I still have a ways to go until I’m at the front of the line. You don’t have to wait for me. I’ll meet you at home.

Cara: You sure? You won’t need moral support?

Me: I’m fine.

Cara: K. See you at home.

When the line moved past the bookshelves, I could finally see the table where Jase was sitting, but his head was down as he signed books. Every once in a while, he would look up to the person he was talking to and smile or shake hands. When he stood to take a picture, he looked taller than I remembered. There wasn’t much of the boy I used to know in him anymore. He carried his broad shoulders confidently, and he smiled a lot. He seemed charming and friendly. It was too bad I wanted to beat up his beautiful face.

With my head down, I continued to move with the line until the last woman in front of me was standing at his table. I kept my distance and looked at the shelf to my right until I heard him say to the lady, “It’s so nice to meet you—thank you for coming.”

When I looked up, he was standing, staring right at me, but his face gave nothing away. I took three hesitant steps toward him until we were standing directly across from each other. A beautiful woman dressed in stilettos and a pencil skirt stood behind him, just off to his left. She was staring at me the same way . . . impassive.

He blinked. I blinked. There was silence.

“Jason,” I finally said.

“Emiline,” he said.

Screw you and your smooth voice.

The woman behind him sauntered up to the table. “Did you want to buy a book, sweetie, and have Mr. Colby sign it for you?”

Without taking his eyes off me, he responded, “I’ve got this. Can you give me a minute, Andrea?”

She shook her head and then walked away. I couldn’t find my voice. He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels. His lips were flat, his expression inscrutable, but his eyes were probing mine for something, some clue, some tell.

“Why?” I said.

He grinned.

What the hell? “Don’t smile at me,” I quipped.

He jerked his head back and scowled. Did he not understand why I would be angry?

“Why . . .” I repeated, but couldn’t find the right words to continue.

“Why, what?” Now he looked confused.

“Why on earth did you lie?” I said finally.

Something happened in his eyes, and then his expression went back to that same inscrutable look. “It’s a work of fiction, Emiline. Did you not read the disclaimer on the copyright page?” He looked past me toward the door, indifferent, like he wanted to leave.

Don’t cry, Emiline. It’s not your fault he grew up to be an asshole.

“What did you do to us?” My voice broke. “What have you done?”

“Did you read the book?”

“I read enough.”

“Why didn’t you finish it? That’s not like you.”

“You don’t know me anymore, Jason.” He winced. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in twelve years,” I said.

Andrea called out to Jase as she walked by. “You’ve got about five minutes, Jay. We have an interview to get to.”

“Who is that woman?” I asked.

“My agent.”

“Oh, your agent? I see. So you’re a big shot now?”

He just shook his head. I still couldn’t read his expression. “This isn’t how I expected . . .”

“Expected what?” I shot back.

There were another several moments of awkward silence. I wanted to peel my skin off, leave it on the floor, and run away. Yet Jase didn’t seem the least bit ruffled, and aside from that moment of confusion, he just remained cold and impassive. I looked him up and down, standing in front of an endcap dedicated to his successful book, perfectly composed in his glorious beauty, with his chiseled jaw and perfectly mussed-up, golden-brown hair.

I made a frustrated sound. “Ugh.”

He frowned. “What’s wrong, Emiline?”

“Stop saying my name.” I balled my hands into fists. “I can’t . . . I’m just . . . I’m frustrated. I came here to chew you out and you’re just standing there like . . . ugh.”

He chuckled and uncrossed his arms. “Standing here like what? Chew me out if you have to. Go ahead.”

“You’re just . . . dammit . . . Why are you so good-looking?” The last part came out like a cry. I wanted to punch the smirk off his face.

“Well, you’re beautiful. So there.” I froze. “Then again, you always were.”

“Oh, don’t charm me with your wordy magic.”

For a moment, a real smile, not some shit-eating grin, came to his lips. And just like that, in an instant, we were fifteen again.

I held my hand up. “I’m done here. You’re free to go to your interview.”

I started to turn and walk away, but he grabbed my arm and spun me around. “You didn’t come here to tell me I’m good-looking.”

That was the damn truth. But as I stood in front of him, I couldn’t find the words to say what I wanted to say: Where have you been? What was your life like? Did you miss me? Did I mean as much to you as you meant to me? Why’d you turn us in? I couldn’t find the courage to make myself vulnerable like that. Not when he had everything I wanted.

“I came here because you lied in the book.”

“Call it artistic license. Anyway, I think you should finish it.”

“You painted a really nice picture of yourself, didn’t you?” My hand was in my hair, twirling it into a massive knot. I could see that he noticed the childhood habit, but I didn’t want him to feel like he still knew me. I pulled my hand down and blinked.

“I can tell you still haven’t worked through everything,” he said. “Why didn’t you finish the book?”

“I was mad that you lied.”

“Emiline, those details don’t matter. I had my reasons for changing it.”

“But so much of the rest of it is true. Why change something so crucial?”

“Like I said, I had my reasons.”

He was so much more intimidating than I remembered. “Are we gonna talk about what happened, Jase, or just keep beating around the bush?”

He looked behind me when the door jingled. “Em, you had to have known I was gonna write this book someday.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I didn’t.”

“I told you I would find you, didn’t I?”

Synapses were misfiring in my brain left and right. This is how he was going to find me? What did he mean?

Still looking behind me, he said, “Do you know that guy?”

I turned to see Trevor leaning against the door with his hands buried in his pockets. Shit. “Um, yeah. He’s my boyfriend.”

Jase didn’t miss a beat. “Do you want to introduce us?”

“Not really.”

He threw his hand up and waved Trevor over. “Hey, man. Come on over.”

With my back to Trevor, I whispered to Jase, “I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”

“Does that mean you’re gonna sleep with me first?” he whispered back. “Not a bad way to go.”

I was a nervous, fumbling idiot.

Once Trevor got to the table, I awkwardly introduced them. “Jase, this is Trevor. You might recognize him. He was the star quarterback at Berkeley.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jase said as the two men pleasantly shook hands. “I’m not much of a sports guy, but I remember hearing your name when Cal won the championship a few years back.”

Oh Jesus Lord, now he’s trying to charm Trevor too?

Gorgeous Agent Andrea walked up and looped her arm through Jase’s. They clearly had more than a working relationship. Damn them. “Interview. Remember, Jay?”

He pulled her arm out of his and put some distance between them. “Right, the interview. Well, Emiline, it was nice seeing you. Thank you for coming. Trevor, it was nice to meet you as well.” They shook hands. “I have to run.” He turned and faced me. “Em . . .” he said, looking right into my eyes and smiling. I felt my knees go weak. “I’m really sorry I can’t stay longer and fulfill your desire to berate me in public. Maybe we can do this again some other time.” He chuckled and then walked away.

Asshole. I was seeing red.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Why did you write it from my point of view?”

He continued walking but called back, “It’s just a book!” But I knew it wasn’t. Jase was always deliberate. He took the long view of everything, even at the age of eight.

I started to hear a beeping sound in my mind, like a bomb was about to explode. How could I let him walk away without getting the answers I wanted? The beeping was getting faster and faster as I walked out of the bookstore toward my car.

“I have to get out of here. I swear to god my heart is going to explode,” I said as Trevor trailed behind me.

“You’re like this in every situation. Ticking time bomb, Emi. Calm down—nothing happened.”

When I reached the driver’s-side door, I turned around and leaned against it. “Why are you here, Trevor?”

“Cara texted me. She told me what was going on, so I came over. I came here to support you. But once again, you don’t appreciate it.”

I didn’t know whether to be moved or irritated. “I don’t need rescuing.”

“You’re clearly very upset,” he said.

“Of course I’m upset! That guy in there wrote a book about my awful, terrible, traumatic childhood, which he must know I can’t bear to relive, and he didn’t even ask me for permission! He hasn’t even tried to talk to me in twelve years! And he won! He published a whole novel before I’ve even figured out how to write a decent short story that my own boyfriend would like. I can’t handle any of this.”

Trevor looked thoughtful for once. “Do you have feelings for him? Is that why all of this is getting to you? What do you want, Emi? Do you want to be with that guy in there?”

I took three deep, cleansing breaths, and then I knew. I knew there was no point in hiding the truth any longer. Not from myself, and not from Trevor. As much as we’d been struggling lately, he didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve it.

“I do. I’m sorry, but I do. I have feelings for him, feelings that run so strong and so deep. Until this fucking novel came along, I’d kept them buried, and I thought they’d stay buried forever. And I’m scared, I’m really fucking scared. I’m afraid of what will happen. I’m afraid because I just saw my first love for the first time in over a decade, and he just stood there with complete indifference. And I’m scared because you’re standing here in front of me, and I’m being honest with you in a way that will definitely destroy our relationship. And I’m scared because I feel like my heart is going to blow up into a million pieces inside of my chest.”

Trevor squared his jaw, and I could see the muscles in his face flexing. A born athlete like Trevor really only comes to life when there’s a challenge. Up until that point, he had moseyed through our relationship like he was warming up for a game with some jumping jacks. But now he realized he was already in the fourth quarter, there were mere seconds left on the clock, and he was down by three. Would he run the ball and try to get in field goal range? Or would he throw a Hail Mary and try to win it all right here?

“Marry me and forget him,” he said with no trace of emotion.

I actually laughed. Hail Mary it is. “This is a strange moment to propose, don’t you think?”

“It’s actually not. This is real life, Emi, not some fantasy. This isn’t a novel.”

I wanted to say that novels weren’t always fantasies. The book Jase had written certainly wasn’t.

“I know this is real life, Trevor. I’m the most realistic person you will ever meet. But if you think any woman would be happy with a proposal like this, clearly made in desperation, then you’re crazy. It’s been seven years. We’ve never even talked about moving in together.”

He threw his hands up. “Is that my fault or yours?”

“I don’t want to play the blame game with you.” The truth was, it was both of our faults. We weren’t right for each other. We were both just going through the motions.

“Do I need to get down on one knee to show you I’m serious? Is that what you’re saying?” He rolled his eyes.

I was ready to end the conversation. “Please don’t. I have to go, Trevor. I don’t feel well. I need to go home and recover from this crazy day.”

“Fine.” He bent and kissed me on the cheek. “Will you just please meet me for dinner tonight?”

I huffed, and he shook his head. “Don’t do that, Emi. Just meet me for dinner. Let’s talk when we’ve calmed down.”

“Okay,” I said after another long, deep breath. He kissed me again on the shoulder, got into his truck, and drove off, peeling onto the street in the process.

I got into my car and started the engine when a knock on my window startled me. It was the girl who worked at the checkout counter of the bookstore, motioning for me to roll down my window.

“Christ, lady, you scared the crap out of me,” I said.

“Sorry. I just wanted to catch you before you left. J. Colby asked me to give this to you.” She handed me a note.

“Thank you.” I took it, rolled up the window, and unfolded the piece of paper.

We need to talk . . . alone. Meet me on the terrace at George’s at ten tonight.

A wave of nausea hit me, and I rested my head on the steering wheel. Tears ran steadily down my cheeks as I tried desperately to regain some control. The smell of a leftover Big Mac on my passenger seat—the forgotten remains of my stress-eating binge from my drive over here—was making everything worse. My skin felt oilier than usual.

I heaved once, jumped out of the car, ran to a small patch of grass near the parking lot entrance, and purged the entire contents of my stomach in one stream of vomit. I put my hands on my knees and tried to catch my breath.

The woman who had given me the note came running over. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I choked out.

She put her hand on my back. “Let me get you some water.”

I looked up at her with tears in my eyes. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay, sweetie.” She ran off and came back moments later.

I had gone back to lean against my Honda. “Is he still in there?” I said as she approached me with a bottle of water.

“No. He went out the back.”

“Of course he did,” I said, under my breath.

She leaned against the car next to me. “I’m Beth, by the way.” She had bright pink hair and a T-shirt with matching pink bows on it that said BOOKWORM.

“I like your shirt. I’m Emiline. I’d shake your hand, but I have McDonald’s vomit on mine.”

We both laughed and it made everything better for a moment. “So that must have been quite a note he left you. If I got a note from J. Colby, I’d be freaking out too.”

“It’s just a receipt,” I lied.

“Oh,” she said, laughing.

“You a big fan?” I asked.

“Probably his number one fan. He’s so talented and gorgeous and sweet.”

I quirked an eyebrow at her. “You know the book isn’t totally true.”

“Of course. Why would I think it was? It’s a novel.”

“I thought maybe you thought he was Jax.”

“It did cross my mind in the beginning. I just think it’s amazing how well he can write from a girl’s perspective. He’s so tuned in to women, you know?”

I sighed. “I guess. I’m gonna go, Beth.”

“Okay, well, I hope you feel better.”

“Thank you.” She smiled and walked back toward the store. “Seriously, thank you!” I called out to her.

“No problem,” she yelled back.

I got into my car and unfolded the paper again.

It wasn’t a request, and he obviously knew where I lived. George’s was within walking distance of my house. I wanted answers, but I wasn’t sure he deserved a chance to explain himself.

On the drive home, my mind went back to that last night in Ohio.

When the police had come up to us near the creek, I didn’t yell out so they could find us. I’d run. I’d run until the bottoms of my bare feet were bleeding. I would have run all the way to fucking Mexico with no shoes on for Jase. He had been the one who had eventually given up.

We had spent that night huddled together in a cornfield, shivering, until he had finally said, “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. We can. We can do anything together, remember?” I had argued.

I had convinced him to walk a few more miles with me. By the time dawn had arrived, Jase was carrying me on his back. We had found a main road and a convenience store, and he had told me to hide by the Dumpsters while he went in to get us food and to see if they sold at least some cheap plastic flip-flops. I had known he’d only had a few dollars. I had known it was the end. But I had followed his lead anyway.

The police had found me hiding where Jase had told me to wait. My feet had been raw and bloody, and I had been shaking as they led me to the police car. Jase was in the back of a different police cruiser, and when I had walked by, he mouthed the words I’m sorry and then started to cry. I had known he had turned us in. I had tried to fight my way out of the cop’s hands and run to him and bang on his window and sob so he could see how badly he was hurting me.

As they had pulled me along, I’d screamed, “How could you do this to us?” He had just dropped his head and cried even harder.

That was the last time I saw him. And then I was shipped off to live with Cyndi and Sharon.

All of the therapy I’d had, all the talking about my problems, had somehow minimized the love Jase and I had experienced to a childhood crush—something more manageable for me to deal with. I was so heartbroken after he turned us in, but reframing our relationship allowed me to move on from the nightmare of being neglected by my mother, my father, and then, finally, by Jase.

But reliving what we had gone through within the pages of his book brought everything back . . . both good and bad. And I was feeling it all again. My heart was growing right alongside the pain, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. It’s impossible to really hate someone if you don’t love them at least a little.

I ripped up Jason’s note and threw it on the floor of my car.