Hope Over Fear (Over #1) Read online

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  Hope Over Fear

  Copyright © 2014 by J.A. DeRouen

  Cover Design by Regina Wamba at Mae I Design and Photography

  Editing by Madison Seidler

  Formatting by JT Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants 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 owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Title Page

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “You Know Where I’m At” by Gavin DeGraw

  “Sober” by Kelly Clarkson

  I CAN’T STEADY the trembling of my hands. My insides shiver uncontrollably, and my heart hammers in my chest. A firing squad may be easier to face than what’s waiting for me behind my front door.

  Walking slowly, I rub my sweaty palms on the legs of my skinny jeans. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I try unsuccessfully to calm myself. “You can do this. He deserves an apology. You’ve made your bed, and now you must lay in it,” I whisper to myself.

  I skittishly jump as he knocks on the door again. Out of time, I swing the door open before I have a chance to change my mind and pretend no one’s home. I’m done acting like a coward.

  At first sight, Mason brings back old feelings that I have yet to deal with. His perfectly mussed blond hair and golden tan scream hot surfer boy. His navy blue shirt stretches tightly over his broad chest, and his worn blue jeans hang deliciously low on his hips. He still looks like my Mason, the beautiful man I’ve come to know and love.

  Until I reach his eyes. The deep chocolate brown eyes that used to look at me with such love, hope for the future, and admiration have vanished. They’ve been replaced with cold, almost black eyes. Upon closer examination, there is one emotion apparent behind his icy stare … pain. Pain that is of my doing. Pain for which I must atone.

  “Mason, thank you for stopping by. You look good,” I whisper, barely audible, even to myself.

  “Hey Sara. I’d really appreciate it if we could make this quick. I have somewhere to be. You wanted to see me about …” Mason prompts, almost robotically.

  I loathe myself for what we have become. This is the man who could finish my sentences; this is the man who I could have an entire conversation with and never utter a word. We were that couple.

  Mason and I had been best friends for two years before our romantic relationship began, and we enjoyed the comfort those years of friendship afforded us. Most people begin relationships letting the other person meet their “representative.” You know what I mean—the perfect version of you. The “I don’t fart, I don’t burp, I’ll have the salad” version of you. Mason and I were the real deal from the jump.

  Now, though, the ease and familiarity of our relationship has been reduced to uncomfortable murmurs and vacant eyes. I open the door wider and step aside to allow Mason entry, and he follows me into the living room. His familiar smell invades my senses as he brushes past. I have to swallow the lump in my throat at the memories it invokes. After sitting down on the sofa and protectively drawing a pillow into my stomach, my gaze shifts up to Mason shifting awkwardly across the room.

  “Please, sit down, Mase. I promise, I just want to talk.”

  He reluctantly strides over to the recliner and slumps into the seat. I have a speech all planned out in my head for this very conversation. I’ve recited it to myself hundreds of times over the past few months. Now that I have my chance to speak to Mason, my mind is completely blank.

  “Well, I really, uh, want to clear the air … I mean apologize …” I stammer, almost incoherently.

  Mason sighs loudly, grips the back of his neck, and shakes his head. “I really can’t imagine what could be left to say after what happened in Dallas. I don’t believe you left any room for confusion. Everything was crystal clear, Sara.”

  “I would give anything to change that day, to go back in time and make a different choice. I’d give anything to take away the pain I’ve caused you. You were the center of my life for so long. You were my rock for so many years. And I feel like my actions have thrown poison on everything about us that was good and right, and I’m so… sorry, Mason,” I plead, a sob escaping.

  Taking deep breaths, I try to steady myself. This is more difficult than I thought. I look into Mason’s eyes, and I’ll be damned if I don’t see sympathy radiating back at me. Guilt washes through my body as I register how kind and loving this man is. How dare I even ask for his forgiveness? I know I don’t deserve it, but I need it. To move forward with my life, his forgiveness is essential.

  Mason leans forward in the recliner, placing his elbows on his knees, giving me a searching glance. “Look, Sara, I was angry at you for a long time after Dallas. Fuck, angry doesn’t even seem to come close to describing how I felt. I raged. I hated. And then things slowly began to change. Circumstances … changed. With time, I was able to gain a new perspective. I was able to lay that hate to rest. To look forward to the future. I needed to free myself from our past. You need to free yourself of it, too, Sara. I can finally forgive you. I can’t promise to forget, but I can forgive.”

  After his words, Mason appears lighter … happier … free. I hope to feel the same someday, and I feel certain that today, this moment, is a positive step in that direction.

  As relief washes through me, I can’t stop the words from pouring out of me, “Mason, I can’t tell you how much that means to me. My mom, our friends, your family—they can think whatever they want about me. But I can’t bear the thought of you hating me. It paralyzes me. I want so much for you to be happy. You deserve to—”

  “Sara, please stop. I need to tell you something.”

  Mason pauses, seeming unsure how to continue. His eyes cast downward, then he slowly lifts his
gaze and meets my eyes. “I’ve been seeing someone. I hate to just blurt something like this out, but I thought it was important that you know …”

  I do my best to play the gracious ex-girlfriend and plaster a smile on my face. “That’s so great, Mason. I hope she realizes—”

  “I’m proposing to her this weekend. Please understand I’m not trying to hurt you, Sara. I’d rather you hear this from me. I feel like I owe you that,” Mason admits calmly.

  I can’t quiet the humming in my ears. I can’t still the shaking in my gut. I can’t rid myself of the nausea that is threatening to engulf me. Is he still talking? As I digest his declaration, I’m not even aware of his presence.

  You’ve got to get it together. This is what you want for him. This is what he deserves.

  “How long have you been dating her?” I ask, attempting to hide my hurt and stunned expression.

  Mason looks over at me with a goofy, lovesick smile on his face. “About six months. Her name is Natalie, and she works with me at the investment firm. We’ve been casual friends for a while now, but things just kind of progressed, and—”

  “You’ve only been dating her for six months, Mase? Don’t you think that’s a little soon to be talking about marriage?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

  Mason is wearing an incredulous expression, and realization settles in my stomach. Who the fuck do I think I am to ask him those questions?

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. It was totally out of line. You don’t owe me any explanation. I’m so sorry …” I can’t seem to stop with the stammering.

  “You’re right, I don’t owe you an explanation. But I’ll give you one anyway, just to alleviate any and all confusion,” Mason explains with a kind, but firm, expression on his face. “No, it’s not too soon. I knew within the first month of being with Natalie where we were headed. I didn’t have to convince her to love me. She just did. Do you know how fucking refreshing that was? To know that there’s someone in this world that adores me, to know that her day is better just because I’m part of it? Come to think of it, I guess you do know that feeling, don’t you, Sara?”

  “This is happening. I don’t want to waste another minute of my life not being her husband to appease other people’s ideas on appropriate timelines. I hope that clears up the confusion and ends that line of questioning.”

  Yep, I think I would like to take that firing squad right about now. His words cut right through me, because so much truth lies in them.

  “You’re right, Mason. I didn’t mean to question your decisions. I’m so happy for you. You deserve great things … you deserve everything. You love with your whole heart, and I hope she knows how lucky she is,” I say, quickly correcting my error in judgment. “So how are you going to propose? Wait, no, please don’t tell me. That’s not something I need or want to hear.”

  Mason gives me a sympathetic smile. He reaches over and gently squeezes my hand that is grasping my knee so tightly my knuckles are white.

  “Thanks, Sara. When it comes to Nat, I have to admit that I’m the lucky one.” Mason begins to shift uncomfortably. “Look, I really need to get going. She’s meeting me for dinner downtown …”

  “Of course, of course. I didn’t mean to keep you …”

  I look into Mason’s now gentle brown eyes, and he smiles at me, standing to leave. “No worries … you know you deserve great things, too, right?”

  The tears I have been fighting back are threatening to spill over, and I’m not sure how much more I can take. I nod and quietly walk Mason to the door, fighting for composure the entire way. I try my hardest to give Mason a winning smile. “Take care, Mason, and congratulations again …”

  “You, too, Sara,” Mason says as he crosses the threshold. He hesitates for a brief moment, then turns to face me, “And by the way, we were gonna play Hangman.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s how I planned to propose to you … you know, before. Games and puzzles were kind of our thing.” Mason smirks, completely oblivious to the pain I feel at that statement.

  “You know, no matter where we are or what we’re doing, you’ll always be my girl, Sara Marie Preston. You may not have turned out to be my forever, but you’re my girl just the same. Nothing changes that, okay?”

  “Mason,” I whisper, completely lost for words.

  Oh. My. God.

  And with those parting words, he turns and walks to his car. He walks out of my life. I slowly, gently, close my front door. I lock the chain. I lock the deadbolt. I lock the doorknob. Then I slide down the wall, into a heap and allow the tears to overtake me. I allow myself to drown.

  “New Day” by Green River Ordinance

  “Shake It Out” by Florence & the Machine

  Present Day

  I’VE DREADED AND anticipated this day in equal measure since the day I heard the news. I dread it because it definitely means it’s over. I anticipate it because it definitely means it’s over. The feeling is reminiscent of childhood when my mom would ominously say, “Go to your room, and I’ll come get you when I’m ready.” I knew what was coming. With every minute that passed as I sat on my bed waiting for my punishment, the tension would become greater. I wanted to scream, “Just do it already! I can’t take it anymore!” Yeah, that about sums up this fucking dichotomy of a day.

  I put on my workout clothes and pull my wavy, dark hair back into a tight ponytail. After slipping on my running shoes and grabbing my MP3 player, I walk out the door and breathe in the cold, crisp February air. Cold weather can be hard to come by in Louisiana, so I make it a point to enjoy it whenever I can. The suffocating summer heat and humidity will arrive soon enough—making you feel as if you’re trying to breathe underwater.

  My Saturday morning runs are about seven miles, and after a good stretch, I get started. I’ve lived most of my life with the, “I’m only running if someone is chasing me” mantra. I’m not entirely sure what initially motivated me to start. Maybe it was to feel like I was running away from the problems in my life. Or maybe it was a way to punish my body for the hurt that I’ve caused. However it began, over time it has become a release for me. Therapy comes in all different forms, right? The pounding of my feet on the pavement and the burning of my muscles is cathartic. I feel the tension that permanently resides in my muscles slowly leave my body as I tack on the miles. What started out as a punishing pace has become effortless and enjoyable. My distances have increased gradually over time, and I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.

  I’ve tried to take on running partners, but it never seems to work out. My best friend, Alex, calls me an antisocial runner. I don’t talk, I sure as hell don’t listen, and I’m definitely not waiting for anyone’s ass to catch up. Exercising shouldn’t be a popularity contest, but she claims I’m a heathen who needs to learn some runners’ etiquette. We agree to disagree.

  I have to run outside, the need to take in the scenery too great. Also, I have a strong aversion to feeling like a gerbil on a wheel. I purposefully take a slightly different route today, avoiding the downtown area. Downtown Providence is my favorite place to run; I love the cobblestone streets, the quaint bed and breakfasts, and the strolling tourists. But today, I detour to Northern Louisiana University’s campus. Mason and Natalie’s wedding and reception are being held downtown later this afternoon, and I know that early wedding preparations have probably started. Even I have my limits to the amount of punishment I’ll allow myself to endure.

  The farther I run, the freer I feel, and I relish in my good mood. I feel the weight of my decisions lifting; the guilt that plagues me slowly seeps out of my pores and leaves my body. By mile four, my head is held high, and my mouth is slowly turning upward—a near smile. Mason forgave me six months ago, but my feelings today aren’t about him. This is about me and how I’m finally ready to move forward. Mason is getting the happily ever after that he rightly deserves. And I’m getting the forgiveness from myself that I so desperately need.

/>   And, in this moment, I know that I’m going to be okay.

  As I turn into my driveway, I see my friend, Marlo, lounging on the steps of my front porch. Marlo lives three houses down from me in West Elm Subdivision, one of the oldest parts of town. Our neighborhood is mostly small, older craftsman style homes that have been recently renovated. That means our houses have beautiful wooden floors, a whole lot of character, and pretty steep rent. The steep rent discourages the college kids, and the home sizes discourage large families. So our neighborhood has become the hotbed for the young professionals in Providence, Louisiana.

  “And in first place, with a commanding lead, is Sara Preston, folks. In addition to her Olympic gold medal, she’ll also go into the Guinness Book of World Records for being the sweatiest bitch I know on this cold ass February morning. Let’s all give her a hand,” Marlo quips as she raises her hands for a golf clap.

  I’ve known Marlo since nursing school, and she is, without a doubt, the reigning queen of sarcasm and wit. Her chestnut curly hair and piercing green eyes fit her personality perfectly.

  “Why thank you, thank you very much. You know, you could always throw on some tennis shoes and come with me. Who knows, you may just steal that gold medal right out from under my nose …”

  “Girl, please. You may have given up the mantra, but I haven’t, and I don’t see anyone chasing my ass. I woke up a little early this morning, and I decided to walk over and see if you wanted to visit. Maybe drink some coffee, shoot the breeze … you know, whatever …” Marlo suggests, shrugging her shoulders and acting more than a little bit concerned and a whole lot suspicious.

  “Transparent much, Marlo? Seriously, I really appreciate the sentiment, but I’m fine. I’m good actually, and I’m going to be great very soon. I can just feel it, ya know?” I sit next to her on the steps and nudge her shoulder reassuringly.

  “I’m glad to hear it, Sara, but I just want you to know that it’s okay … if you’re not doing great, I mean. I’m here for you in whatever capacity you need. Voodoo dolls and needles? I’m your girl. Angry chick music and whiskey? Sign me up. A bonfire and old love letters? I’ve got the matches in my pocket. Now, if you’re planning on storming the church with ugly girl tears and demanding Natalie hand over your man, you’re on your own. That shit is just bad karma,” Marlo says as she leans back on her elbows.