Page 100 of Firethorne
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Damien said, leaning in to place a kiss on my head.
“Do you think anyone will believe it’s a true story?” I mused.
“Who cares?” Damien shrugged. “It’s our story. That’s all that matters.”
After everything that’d happened at Firethorne, and with my father, Damien had suggested I see a counsellor, and she had suggested that my idea, to write about what had happened to us, was a good one. That it’d be cathartic. And it was. It was a form of therapy to get it all down in a book, every thought and feeling, every wild and wicked thing, the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. And when I’d finished, I’d shown Damien.
He read it and told me I should publish it. I didn’t think it was good enough. I wasn’t convinced people would want to read a story like ours. But he had more faith in me than I had in myself, and he sent my manuscript off to various publishers, until one of them came back to us, eager to take it on.
Which brought us to today, the two of us, standing in our idyllic cottage in the middle of the countryside, holding copies of my first book,Firethorne. A book that would enter the world on Damien’s birthday, October thirtieth.
I thought that was a fitting touch, having the dates coincide, seeing as he was the inspiration behind the whole thing.
He’d encouraged me, been there when I felt like a failure, or when the dreaded imposter syndrome struck, and I questioned why I was even trying to become an author.
He believed in me, always.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he said as he flicked through the book. “Can I keep this copy?”
“You can have as many copies as you like.”
I laughed as he grabbed a pen and thrust it towards me.
“You need to sign it, then. I want my copy signed by the author. It could be worth a lot of money in the future. It’s a first edition.”
“It might be the only edition,” I replied, and he tutted at me.
“I know for a fact our shelves will be full of Maya Cole bestsellers in the future. This book is only the start. You’ve got more stories inside you still to be written.”
“I’m so glad you have faith in me,” I replied as I opened his copy and signed my name with the message, ‘Forever my muse. My love. My Damien.’
“I fucking love you,” Damien growled as he took the book off me and grinned at the message I’d written. “And this,” he went on, holding the book up. “Is the best birthday present I’ve ever had.”
“I love you, too,” I said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek and wrap my arms around his waist. “So fucking much.”
I closed my eyes, losing myself in the warmth of his body, the comforting smell of him, and the sound of his deep, velvety voice as he cleared his throat and started to read our story...
“I know we made the right decision,” my father said, smiling absent-mindedly as we sat in the dimly lit carriage of the night train. “Leaving that town and taking this job, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to us. It’ll be a fresh start. Just what we need.”
The End
