The Forever and The Now Read online

  The Forever and The Now

  K J

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Also by KJ

  A request

  Synopsis

  1. We Met

  2. We Flirted

  3. We Fell

  4. We Acknowledged

  5. We Discovered

  6. We Declared

  7. We Celebrated

  8. We Announced

  9. We Asked

  10. We Promised

  11. We Grew

  12. We Lost

  13. We Drifted

  14. We Detached

  15. We Counselled

  16. We Built

  17. We Cherished

  18. We Knew

  19. We Worried

  20. We Mourned

  About the Author

  The Forever and The Now © 2022 By KJ. All rights reserved.

  This electronic original is self-published.

  First edition: February 2022

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Cover: Em Schreiber

  Created with Vellum

  Acknowledgments

  A romance novel is supposed to end in a happily ever after. It’s an unspoken rule. Well, no actually, it’s a spoken rule. Many authors and readers speak passionately about this rule and because of this particular rule, ‘The Forever and The Now’ doesn’t qualify as a romance novel. It’s lesbian fiction but not romance.

  And yet…

  And yet, ‘The Forever and The Now’ is a love story. It is a story about being part of a relationship that is whole and big and tiny and deep and complex; a relationship that is so very simple because it is right here. In the now.

  And yet, ‘The Forever and The Now’ is a love story. It is a story about hope and the what-ifs and shared goals and the future and its intangibility. It’s a story about a wish because while the now is here, over there is even more. In the forever.

  ‘The Forever and The Now’ is about understanding the circle of love. The now supports the potential of the forever and the belief in the forever supports the now.

  It’s devastating when forever’s potential, its hope, is taken away. The carpet of wish, the rug of what-if, has been ripped out from under the feet of the one who is left behind.

  So ‘The Forever and The Now’ is a love story, but it’s not a romance. Because there are rules, you see.

  Em Shreiber, as always, has demonstrated her genius with an exquisite cover for ‘The Forever and The Now’. It is perfect for this story; the birds flying away. Birds of hope or perhaps a soul leaving? I loved it the first time I laid eyes on it, Em. Thank you so much. For your patience with my blathery DMs, my ‘oops I forgot the attachment’ emails, for my appendix salutations. Thank you for everything.

  My betas. Cheyenne, Selena, Conny, Maggie, Laura, Sophie, Neen, M. I’m sorry for giving you just one sentence as your heads-up for this book but I wanted to know about the story’s impact on your heart, about its ‘stickability’ after you’d read it. It was important. So thank you for trusting me. And thank you for your advice because I used every piece of it. Particularly the continuity errors! Good grief. Changing the name of a character halfway through. What was I thinking? So, thank you. You’re all amazing.

  Proofreading is a difficult job and one that I could never do. The need to remove yourself as a reader, become impartial to the emotion of the story. That is a skill. So, thank you Maggie. You are a genius at spotting all my ridiculous errors. There were so many. I’m sorry.

  For Roanne

  My forever and my now

  Also by KJ

  Coming Home

  Goldie Awards finalist

  LesFic Bard Awards finalist

  Kick Back

  Goldie Awards finalist

  An Unexpected Gift: Christmas in Australia: Five Short Stories

  Art of Magic

  Goldie Awards finalist (cover design)

  LesFic Bard Awards finalist (cover design)

  Lesfic Bard Awards winner (romance)

  Change of Plans

  Ignis

  A request

  I sincerely hope you enjoy reading ‘The Forever and The Now’. If you do, I would greatly appreciate a review on your favourite book website. Maybe a tweet. Or even a recommendation in your favourite Facebook sapphic fiction group. Reviews and recommendations are crucial for any author, and even just a line or two can make a huge difference. Thanks!

  Synopsis

  Bron McIntyre, forty-two, has it all together. Terrific job. Loving family. No desperate need for a girlfriend but would be interested if one came along. Bron McIntyre is Teflon.

  Kate Agostino, forty-eight, is not Teflon. Yes, she has a terrific job. But a loving family? Not really. And her personal life is rapidly disintegrating and turning into dust.

  When her orange smoothie explodes all over her business suit while she’s on her afternoon walk, Kate simply shakes her head in resignation.

  Bron, having witnessed the smoothie eruption, races to help, and suddenly her life takes an unexpected turn.

  Falling in love is like watching the grandest sunset on the calmest ocean where the tiniest ripples wear silver sparkles as their hats. Kate and Bron find that sunset on that ocean with those ripples of love, but what happens when you take that love for granted? What happens when your person disappears? The answers are hard to hear and Bron chooses not to listen.

  After a relationship break, a family intervention, and conversations that rip apart seams, Bron and Kate eventually find themselves, each other, and their now. And what they discover is that love is the large and the deliberate, and the simple and the small.

  So when tragedy strikes, they call on its strength because, when you think about it, love can live on in the forever, particularly if it lives courageously in the now.

  A beautifully poignant story about life, love and a loss so tragic that sometimes even the grandest sunset on the calmest ocean with the ripples wearing hats is too heartbreaking to bear.

  We Met

  January 28 in the first year of the now

  The stream near the campus wasn’t overly inspiring: rocks, weeds, standard stream stuff. It was kind of like a dirt road through the cane fields on a hot day. The water was the colour of the liquid that comes out of taps when they’re fed by old copper piping wrapped in verdigris, but then again it was Melbourne and the only place that showcased relatively clear water was the bay. This stream, my stream, was probably deep enough to drown in if you were so inclined.

  I jerked slightly and blinked. Well, that was all a bit dark. And wet. I rolled my head, my hair swishing about my ears—that’s annoying; must get it cut soon—and stretched out my long legs, today encased in denim and punctuated with red Chucks. The end of January was hot but I figured jeans could be worn all year round. Despite sweat because…January. The chunky men’s watch on my wrist and collared polo-shirt completed the outfit. My work had very friendly rules about dress standards.

  Then I levelled up on my relaxation and leaned back, arms stretched out across the top as if the wooden bench had regenerated and grown limbs.

  This routine of parking my bum on the bench each afternoon at the bridge over the stream in the city centre, watching the people expressing their happiness or displeasure at the world, and dogs and ducks marching all over their grass territory happily ignoring each other, helped clear my mind.

  Clearing minds was good and all but it left a beautifully empty space to be filled with random stuff, like drowning in the rocks and weeds. I rolled my eyes.

  The breath I took did clear my mind, enough to stare at the bridge. The wooden sleepers, smoothed by decades of shoes and bicycles, formed a gorgeous flat surface for the iron fretwork to frame, patting it into its rectangular shape, then cradling it underneath. Eons ago, the City Council had decided that cream was the colour du jour and so the city bridge was cream and there would be no argument about the decision. Although three years ago they did pass a law—could Councils pass laws?—that heritage green entry posts should be built at each end. It had been a good decision. Pretty, yet stately. I stared at my favourite structure. Wide enough that you could lean on the railing and not annoy pram-pushers, cyclists, or people waving their arms about while they argued with someone on the other end of their airpod microphones.

  Dropping my hands and reaching into the satchel leaning against my thigh, I pulled out a sketch pad and a 4B pencil. Teaching Art at the local primary school was fun and had been my goal all through uni, nineteen, no, twenty years ago, but enjoying my own creativity was, along with bench-sitting at the bridge, completely relaxing. Balancing my ankle on the knee of the other leg, I focused on the fretwork. I’d drawn it hundreds of times but there was something mesmerising about the swirls and curls. Like a metal mandala.

  After twenty minutes or so, I straightened, then stretched my fairly lithe frame, enjoying the tiny pop of vertebrae, which seemed relieved to return their forty-two-year-old bones to a more sensible position. My gaze was caught by a woman, probably my height—maybe not—wandering along the concrete path that ran in front on the grassed slope. Her long, dark, almost black, hair was caught up in a ponytail, which was convenient as her head was down, e
yes focused on her phone. Probably the reason she was walking so slowly. The dark grey business wear—skirt, shirt, low heels—was smart and fashionable and sexy, because, hello kryptonite. Her small handbag hung from her shoulder. The smoothie in her other hand, straw protruding through the top which covered a large clear plastic cup, was orange. Maybe orange juice? Brilliant Sherlock.

  The woman paused and smiled at something, and I clutched at my sketch book. My brain engaged in a second of indecision about consent, then after concluding that the woman would be fine about it, I outlined all her lines, her profile, her clothes, her stance, her shape. A very yummy shape. Oh, gees Bron. There’s sketching and then there’s ogling. Suddenly, I spotted a cyclist flying down the path obviously having used the small descent that runs down to the bridge to pick up speed. He was slaloming dangerously around pedestrians announcing his presence into their ears as he rocketed past.

  The next few seconds played out like a film. Almost in slow motion, three simultaneous events occurred: I frisbeed my pad and pencil onto the bench, the cyclist reached the woman’s right shoulder, and with exquisite timing, yelled, “Coming through!” And the woman, jerking her body to the left, squeezed the plastic cup in fright, causing the perfectly circular shape to immediately transform into an oval. The lid burst off, and the entire contents exploded, splattering across her skirt and shoes.

  I was up, quickly covering the short distance to the path.

  “Arsehole!”

  The woman’s mouth fell open, my expletive adding to her shock. I held up both hands.

  “Oh! Not you. The fuckwit on the bike,” I elaborated, then winced. “Shit. Swearing. Sorry.” I pointed to her shoes, my finger making a circular motion. “Crap. I’m sorry about your shoes and skirt.” I indicated to the cup still clutched in her hand, the remaining contents dripping off her fingers. “And your drink.” Which seemed to break the moment because the woman shook her head, and sighed.

  “Just terrific.”

  The joints in her jaw bounced about, and casually, in a tiny part of my brain that wasn’t focused on smoothies and idiot cyclists, I appreciated how lovely the woman was. Smooth voice—I knew this from just two words. Curvaceous. Aquiline nose. Dark eyes—I would have liked the opportunity to investigate the colour farther.

  I gestured inarticulately. “Um. Can I help? I mean, I’m good at yelling. And swearing.” Pointing to the shoes, which were being removed in frustration. “Not much good at doing anything about…” I looked up and yes, the colour of her eyes was a dark brown, the same dark brown as the rich chocolate in the kids’ Derwent pencil sets.

  “No. I’ll—thank you for swearing at Chaos Man and also offering to help.” She flicked her fingers, sending droplets of liquid onto the grass. I mashed my lips together. This moment was serious and needed serious seriousness, but Chaos Man? So adorable.

  “I’ve got a whole packet of tissues in my satchel if you want, and a water bottle, you know, for cleaning your…” Again I gestured vaguely. I’d be bloody useless as an aircraft marshal. “I could go get them?” Indicating to the bench where my bag sagged on the seat. The woman paused, holding her shoes and my gaze.

  “Thank you. I’ll come to the tissues. Lead the way.” She twitched her lips which could have meant ‘thanks’, or ‘my skin feels gross’ or ‘I’m humouring this person’.

  I grinned, then held up my hand. “Shove your shoes back on. There’s duck shit everywhere.” I wrinkled my brow in apology. “Shit. Swearing. Sorry.”

  The woman laughed as she bent down to replace her footwear, then she straightened, and glanced at her sticky fingers. “I’d normally shake your hand when introducing myself but since that’s out of the question, I’m.” She delivered a quick smile as she walked gingerly up the soft incline. “I’m Kate, bearer of damp clothing.”

  I fell into step beside her. “Bron, keeper of tissues.”

  Kate grinned, and because that smile was gorgeous and all-encompassing and I wanted to kneel in front of her, I couldn’t help returning it with interest. We arrived at the bench and Kate threw the cup into the nearby bin, then grimaced as she gingerly eased onto the seat while I fossicked about in my satchel, pulling out pencils, art pad, wallet, phone as if I was declaring my contraband through customs. Finally, my mega pack of tissues—given space in my bag due to their excellent ability to avoid charcoal smudging on sketches—appeared.

  “Here you go.” I handed over the box, my gaze landing on my water bottle which I presented as well.

  “Thank you. Are you?” She popped her phone into her small handbag and placed it on the ground beside her feet. Then she removed a shoe and wiped the inside with a damp tissue, pushing it deep into the toe. “An artist?”

  I mentally hummed in appreciation at the timbre of Kate’s voice and shuffled my gear along so I could sit on the other end of the bench. “No. Well, yes.” I shook my head. Blathering. “I’m an art teacher at Melbourne City Primary School. But I do draw and sketch.”

  After placing the somewhat dry piece of footwear beside her on the bench, Kate moved onto the other shoe. She glanced sideways and my lips curled into a smile. So pretty.

  “Teaching’s such a rewarding career.” Wipe. Smooth. Wipe again. Kate was asking a lot of questions which I was more than happy to answer because I figured she might have been distracting herself. “And with small children, too. Is it challenging to get them drawing well?” The shoe joined its partner and she began rescuing her skirt with a wet and dry tissue combination, which meant she didn’t catch the expression on my face. Normally I answered that question with sarcasm, swearing, and a significant amount of snark, but something told me to rein it in.

  I ran my hands in circles on the top of my thighs, then looked up. “It’s important that the kids know that their art is good no matter how they present the finished product. So.” Kate had paused in her skirt-salvaging and was focused on my face, my eyes, her hand suspended mid-clean. “I tell the kids that they always draw well because in art there are no wrong answers.”

  She nodded slowly. “That’s lovely, Bron.” Say my name again. Please say my name. Oh my God, I needed a girlfriend soon because I had instantly objectified then lusted after a woman I’d met all of fifteen minutes ago. Just pathetic.

  “Yeah. The other teachers hate me because I don’t have to do a huge amount of testing and assessment. The kids simply create folios.” I laughed in self-deprecation.

  Kate wadded up the tissues and flapped the hem of her skirt. “I’m sure people don’t hate you, Bron. You seem like a perfectly nice person.” She tilted her chin at the tissues and water bottle “And kind.” She passed across the now half-empty bottle across the art materials scattered on the slats.

  I held the bottle by its top and tapped the end on the palm of my other hand. “What’s your job if it’s okay to ask?” I wanted to ask permission. This woman was refined, despite the large damp patch across the lower half of her skirt, and I felt a bit gormless and rough around the edges sitting next to her. Kate reached up to tighten her ponytail, the action pulling the white shirt tight across her breasts. Which I didn’t notice. Nope.

  “I’m an accountant.” She smiled. “Testing, assessment, spreadsheets, and all that jazz are actually rather important. I think some days I’d rather your job though, except,” she lifted an eyebrow, “I’m artistically challenged.” Another smile was fired my way.