The book proposal, p.1
The Book Proposal, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2023 by KJ Micciche
Cover and internal design © 2023 by Sourcebooks
Cover illustrations by Farjana Yasmin
Internal design by Laura Boren/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Cataloging-in-Publication data on file with the Library of Congress.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Gracie
Part One. April Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Colin
Gracie
Part Two. May Colin
Gracie
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To the dancing man, who gave me Core Four.
Gracie
Some things never cease to amaze me. Like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. Or the way a good cup of coffee can take the chill out of an early autumn morning. Or how a sunset can paint the clouds like wildflowers, all fuchsia, lilac, and gold.
Or like how the smallest, most meaningless interaction can get into your head and start fucking with you.
Colin Yarmouth was not in my orbit in high school. We shared a zip code, but little else. He played varsity baseball and soccer and ran laps around the field during his free periods. The only place I ever ran was the girls’ bathroom after a surprise maxi pad leak on a white-jeans day. He had name-brand clothing from the actual store, whereas my wardrobe consisted of last season’s outlet picks saved for the following year and the occasional trip to Chinatown for knockoff shoes and designer fragrances bottled in six-inch aerosol cans. (Like Obsession by Calvin Klein? You’ll love Preoccupation by Smells by Joe!) He had girlfriends. Like, beautiful human girls he dated for a few weeks or a few months, ultimately trading up for the next conquest, leaving in his wake scores of used Kleenex to dry the tears of the forlorn. I, meanwhile, had Ronald. Ronald played exactly zero sports because—courtesy of his chronic asthma—he was better suited for the triangle in jazz band and after-school sessions in front of the television, vicariously working out his suppressed deviant inner life through the controller in Grand Theft Auto.
The first time I ever laid eyes on Colin Yarmouth was in freshman biology with Ms. Villani. He was seated in the front row over by the windows, where the sun could caress his stylish mushroom haircut. I sat in the back of the room near the fetal pig jars, which was probably for the best because the over-straightened, half-burnt bangs covering my forehead were not exactly what one would consider an A-game. I studied him longingly, noting his left-handedness and his royal-blue Bic pen. He wore a green fleece vest over a long-sleeved white thermal shirt, jeans from the Gap, and simple black Adidas Sambas on his feet, which he wrapped around the bottom of the legs of his chair-desk combo while he copied down the assignments from the blackboard.
I’ll never forget that day’s task: Pick a name out of a hat and spend five minutes getting to know your new lab partner. The people in the front two rows of the classroom got to pick the names. The small white slips of paper contained the first and last names of those of us seated in the back two rows.
Ms. Villani was awesome. She was reserved and sweet, and she must have known how nervous we were. (Here, I’m projecting my feelings onto the entire class of freshmen, but I think it’s a fair assumption.) She had one downfall though: her cursive handwriting was maybe not as neat as it could have been, so when Colin Yarmouth pulled the name, “Gracelanding,” I can understand how he might have thought it was a verb, like the act of going to Graceland.
He was the first one asked to read the name on his slip of paper aloud because of his elite placement in the front corner of the room.
“Gracelanding?” he asked, as if my existence was a question. “Like, Elvis?” he added.
Kids laughed, while I quietly died.
The nickname stuck. The teacher, unfortunately, did not. Poor Ms. Villani was struck by a school bus the following morning and spent the remainder of the year in traction with two broken legs. She was replaced by Mr. Bacharot, a surly older man who came out of retirement to cover her classes. He wore a lab coat every day and seated us in alphabetical order, explaining that whoever sat next to you in class would be your lab partner. Which was fine. Cindy Lee and I were a more appropriate match: both quiet, smart, and good at not blowing stuff up. Colin ended up with Alexis Yacolino, and by October, word on the street was they were getting to third base regularly.
He was my first real crush.
Ever the author, I wrote notes to him and slipped them into his locker in the hallway, signed, Your faithful secret admirer. As a freshman, he was recruited to play on varsity teams, so even the sophomore and junior girls noticed him. All that fall, I brought my notebook to the soccer field a half hour before games were scheduled to begin, and while the boys on the team changed into their uniforms right there on the field (alas, there was no locker room), I described on paper the things I could only imagine doing to him in person. Just a quick peek at his boxer shorts could send my imagination into overdrive. His hairless chest set my young heart ablaze.
In November, the soccer season ended, and thanks to Cindy Lee, I learned over a formaldehyde-soaked dead frog that Colin and Alexis were officially porking one another. I stopped writing the letters then. Rather, I stopped delivering them. All hope was lost of Colin and I deflowering one another, so I poured out my heart to my journal instead.
But just before Thanksgiving that year, a curious thing happened. I was eating lunch in the cafeteria, and I overheard the boys at the soccer table talking. Scoffing was more like it. The goalie, a thick-necked senior named Gus Nikolaides who always smelled like roasted lamb on account of his dad’s (hugely successful) gyro food truck business, was boisterously dramatizing my confidential thoughts, with the remainder of the team and many surrounding tables as a willing audience.
“‘If only you would have me,’” he read, in his best attempt at a female voice, “‘I would ravage your body with my lips and you would forever dream about the taste of my skin on your tongue as our souls merged, two into one.’”
Billy Gutierrez, a loudmouthed sophomore who rarely got any field time, howled, throwing his head back for effect. “Damn, son! If some chick wrote that shit to me, I would ride her all night long!”
“Don’t play yourself, Billy.” Gus laughed. “The only thing you know how to ride is the bench!”
“Oh!” a chorus of testosterone ejaculated on the lunch table.
My face grew beet red as I watched Gus paw the perfume-sprayed page with his sweaty sausage fingers. His booming voice commanded an audience, and he stood with one foot up on the bench of the cafeteria table, towering over his teammates. I fought back nausea as I continued listening to my deepest fantasies being blurted aloud for the whole cafeteria to hear.
“‘I want to feel the touch of your hard body up against me; the slow motion of your fingers as they adeptly unhook my bra,’” Gus went on. “Yo…she used a semicolon. Like for real? Whoever this admirer is got mad grammar skills!”
I glanced over. Colin looked decidedly uncomfortable, despite his outward laughter.
“I’m just sayin’ bro, you need to find out who wrote that shit,” Justin Gagliardo said, slapping Colin on the shoulder. “If someone wrote me notes like that, I’d definitely do her.”
I guess that’s how my letters ended up photocopied and circulated among the whole school, until the principal finally put an end to it a few days later. I mean, it makes sense. If the captain of the soccer team says to do something—like, locate a secret admirer by checking the handwriting of every girl in school, you know, like Cinderella and the glass slipper—you do it, I suppose.
Two things changed as a result of my private humiliation though. The first, of course, was my penmanship. I very intentionally began crafting extra small, neat letters, a stark contrast to the giant, loopy scrawl I’d been using in the notes.
Also, I discovered that I might have a future as a romance writer.
I started penning short stories and fan fiction about my favorite television shows, and by the time junior year rolled around, I chose Creative Writing as an elective. I went to Boston College and majored in English. And now, all these years later, here we are.
It never dawned on me that Colin Yarmouth was the impetus behind my entire life path. I mean, at least not until now.
PART ONE
April
Gracie
TO: Colin Yarmouth (cyarmouth@yarmouthaycockpc.com)
FROM: Grace Landing (gracie222@mail.com)
SUBJECT: yearbook
Hey Colin,
Long time no speak! How are you? Psych—I don’t really care. I just wanted to tell you thanks for totally fucking up my life in high school by giving me the nickname “Elvis.” I found your picture on your company’s website, and I wish you were fatter and balder, but for now I guess the fact that you’re mildly overweight and your hairline is receding will have to do. I would have contacted you on Facebook, but you don’t seem to have Facebook, which, like, how is that even possible?
Anywho, you suck and I hate you, but I also kind of miss you and remember the time you hit a grand slam at the game against Gompers that took us to the playoffs. That was so hot.
Have a nice life—or not—whatever.
Love always,
Elvis
Colin
Whoever started the La-Z-Boy company was a relaxation genius. I feel like it was probably a recently divorced, middle-aged dude who found himself furniture shopping solo, wandering through some overcrowded showroom looking like a deer in headlights, trying to make his way through the florals and the plaids to find something—anything!—that looked and felt appropriate for a bachelor pad. He probably sat on a dozen couches and realized that, for the first time in his life, he would be tasked with choosing this incredibly important piece of furniture based on the level of comfort experienced by his—and only his—ass cheeks.
And, with that realization, suddenly nothing in the entire store was good enough.
I’m sure this entrepreneurial guy labored over memory foams and reclining mechanisms until he discovered the perfect combination that, with scientific precision, could coax any man into a gentle sleep on a date-free Saturday evening in front of the television after 11:00 p.m.
Until the iPhone people came along and fucked it all up by making a wristwatch that vibrates when you get an email.
I rub my eyes and open them, squinting at the blue light emanating from my living room wall. I hate that I’m conditioned to read my emails as they come in. Even on weekends. I’ve been like this ever since I started working at the firm when my dad was still in charge. It’s his fault. He used to send me messages for no good reason, just to time how long it would take me to get back to him. “You’ve gotta be fast in a customer service industry, son,” he would say.
“We’re in estate planning,” I’d remind him. “We’re helping people plan for their death, Dad. Why rush it?”
Then he’d roll his eyes, make some noise expressing his exasperation with me, and leave my office.
And yet, despite my clever devil’s advocating and the fact that my father has since retired, I’m still waking up to check this message.
I try to focus in on the tiny text, but I can’t see it. I reach over onto the end table and grab my cell phone.
Is this some kind of joke?
Grace Landing? From high school?
I read the lines of her email on my phone three times. It’s not late, exactly, just two sketches into this week’s new episode of SNL.
Overweight? Is she crazy? I’m down to 13 percent body fat! What picture is she talking about?
And what’s this about a receding hairline? I’m thirty-one years old, for Christ’s sake! Sure, I sneak Rogaine into my hair regimen (it looks like product, for real—makes my hair look “styled”), but it’s not like I have a bald spot in the back or anything. I’d love to meet the ageless Superman she ended up with.
She’s drunk. I mean, right? She must be drunk. Grace Landing never struck me as the kind of girl who’d send alcohol-induced hate mail, but anything’s possible, I guess. I only knew her fifteen years ago. Maybe she’s different now. Maybe she’s a chronic boozer—she could be the kind of girl who keeps a box of wine in the fridge for all I know. Or maybe she’s a huge party girl who goes out clubbing every weekend. Either way, insulting a guy you haven’t spoken to in fifteen years on his work email makes drunk texting an ex look like child’s play.
She seemed pretty put together in high school, but people change, right?
Gracie
Ugh.
Hangovers, am I right?
I woke up in an empty bed. Or, I should say, a bed devoid of any other living being…although not actually empty. My sleeping companions last night included an almost-finished bottle of red wine (spoiler alert: my sheets are ruined), my kitchen scissors, my dead cell phone, fourteen pairs of thong underwear, all cut in half at the ass strap, and my high school yearbook.
It legit looks like a fucking crime scene.
But today is Sunday—the start of a new week! A new me! Screw Scott and the waify blond event planner he knocked up and left me for. Who cares if the professional pictures of their brand-new baby are posted all over Instagram with hashtags like #bestdayever and #welcometotheworld and #familyfirst. That was a poor excuse to get intoxicated last night, but I’m a forgiver, and so, I forgive myself. Now, I just need to get my body to forgive me too. Advil oughta do the trick. And maybe we’ll wash it down with a little—no. No. That was yesterday’s Gracie.
Today’s Gracie’s going out for a jog.
I squeeze my boobs into a sports bra and try not to notice the tiny bit of new back fat that spills over the straps, which reminds me of how Scott used to call me “Lil’ Chubs.” Ah, the good ol’ days. I could laugh it off back then because it’s not exactly like he was some prize, with his furry ass cheeks and the carpet full of chest hair he used to ask me to help him shave off on the reg. Also, he’d put a ring on it, so I thought we were down for the long haul—hence my discomfort with him knocking up our damn wedding planner who I paid top dollar to plan my happy ending.
Side note—spandex pants are the absolute worst. They must have been invented by Satan himself.
Sneakers? Check. Fitbit? Check. Phone’s dead, so gotta let that charge. Old school iPod for tunes? Check.
I leave my building—that’s right, I still live in my co-op in Brooklyn instead of the house we were supposed to buy on Long Island—turn the iPod on, and hit “shuffle.” What kind of pump-you-up music does the universe have in store for me? I wonder.
I look down at the screen when Hillsong United’s live version of “Lead Me to the Cross” comes blasting through my headphones.
That’s right. Now I remember—the iPod was a gift from a born-again guy I dated like a decade ago.
I shake my head. Dammit. The closest thing I’ll find to hip-hop or power pop on here would be that rap song about Jesus and the sheep. The slit in my stretch pants masquerading as a pocket becomes the iPod’s temporary new home. I’ll throw it back in my nightstand and save it for a future time in my life when I’m feeling particularly spiritual. Today, my church is the bagel store where I ditch my workout plan in favor of an everything bagel with lox and cream cheese, a giant slab of crumb cake, and a Snapple.
Ha! Maybe I am getting in touch with the big guy upstairs—after all, it’s a commandment not to work on Sunday. Message received! Instead, I head back home to watch Real Housewives of Somewhere in America and sink my teeth into this scrumptious breakfast.
