Remember Arizona: A Second Chance Romance (Country Love Collection)

  Remember Arizona (A Country Love Story)

  Published by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Copyright © 2020 Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, photocopying, or recording, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design:

  Cori Armstrong, MSH Marketing

  Formatting:

  Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design

  Editing:

  Ellie McLove, My Brother’s Editor

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit www.drrebeccasharp.com

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Ex To See

  The Country Love Collection

  Other Works by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Carlos?” My flats ticked across the concrete like the timer at a pedestrian crossing.

  Even though my voice echoed through the massive space, it was safe to say my boyfriend of one and a half years hadn’t heard me; our massive apartment in New Jersey, just over the bridge from Manhattan, was an artist’s dream.

  High ceilings. Open space. Lots of windows.

  Even now, after a year of living together, the faint attempts I’d made to redecorate were buried under Carlos’ canvases, paper pads, paints, pencils, boards—Dick Blick had vomited up art supplies like a bad drunk who didn’t know his limits. And every time Carlos used some of the things and created more space—more supplies showed up.

  I’d given up on my interior design aspirations, instead focusing on the thrill and happiness of being able to use my degree in curatorial studies. In retrospect, it was a very risky move to major in something that hardly had any prospects—as in it was less risky to walk through downtown Manhattan barefoot, and hope you didn’t make it home with a new strain of hepatitis.

  But I’d done it.

  I’d met Carlos while I was in my master’s program at Parsons in the city and we’d started dating. By the time I got out, his work was well known in the up-and-coming contemporary art world that my skills—and my connection to him—provided me an easy transition into my dream job.

  And that dream job was leaping from cloud nine to cloud ten next week when I hosted my first ever solo show—a three-week exhibition in Bisbee, Arizona.

  Ironically, it was also a step back. I hadn’t seen Bisbee since the day I’d left Arizona for college. There were a lot of things I left behind that day—a lot of things I hoped I wouldn’t find going back.

  “Carlos!” I called again. “Are you here?”

  There was some commotion up in the loft and I grimaced, worried I’d woken him from a nap.

  Carlos lived an artist’s life on an artist’s schedule. Eating. Sleeping. Painting. Everything was flexible. No deadlines. No times for certain things. No limits or boundaries.

  I tried my best to fit in with the fluidity that had attracted me to him—the carefree, inspirational spirit—but some days, it was a stretch for me. Still, I managed to keep my schedule and timetables quietly working in the background without too much disruption to what his ‘artist’s soul’ needed.

  Rounding the corner, I caught sight of a new painting spread over our dining table—though it hadn’t been used for eating in months.

  “Oh, Tally, there you are, doll.”

  My attention snapped up at Carlos’ lazy tenor, a half smile spread over his face as he clutched a sheet around his waist, paint smudged all over his chest, arms, and face—a not uncommon occurrence of late; his new pieces focused heavily on a movement-oriented stream of consciousness.

  He said he was becoming ‘one’ with the artwork.

  I thought he was becoming a mess, but I kept that to myself. I wasn’t an artist; I couldn’t judge his process, especially when it was selling so well.

  “Is this it? The new piece?” I pointed at the body-sized canvas on the table. The orange and red smudges crisscrossing the fabric matched the shades that stained his body like painted tattoos. “I love it.”

  His shoulders sagged like I’d insulted rather than encouraged him.

  “Oh, Tally.” Carlos shook his head, a lock of wavy black hair draping onto his forehead that he reached up and dragged back off his face. “You don’t get it, doll. You’re not supposed to love it.”

  “What…” I trailed off as he sauntered over to me, lost in a trance as he grabbed my hands. “Carlos!” I screeched, my fingers and palms submerged in the tray of black paint resting on the corner of the canvas.

  “You’re a part of the piece, Tally,” he rasped, his voice adopting the trance it always got when he was working—like he was both a part of but separate from reality, absorbing the emotions but only to transcribe them. “It’s called The Other Reality.”

  “What, Carlos?” I blustered, staring in horror at my hands. “I’m not—you’re the artist. This is your—”

  “Los?”

  I froze, my blood turning to ice in my veins at the familiar female voice.

  My head rose, feeling like a hundred-pound weight was strapped to my chin, and my gaze settled over Carlos’ shoulder to the half-naked woman casually propping one hand on her sheet-clad hip, the rest of her body covered in paint.

  The same paint as Carlos.

  “Kendall?”

  His blonde fellow artist looked at me innocently, like she couldn’t take any of the blame—because who could deny genius?

  I looked back to my boyfriend, no disguise or protest in his expression for what I was just realizing.

  He was cheating on me.

  Cheating. On. Me.

  Shock hit me like a tidal wave. And it kept crashing. And crashing. And crashing.

  The shackles of his grip on my wrists disappeared and I turned, reaching for the table—the canvas to steady myself. My palms smeared black handprints over the bright colors. I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I was ruining his work; he deserved it.

  “Is this for real?” I asked numbly, blinking and forcing my focus back to reality, locking the hurt into the little black box inside my chest. “With Kendall?”

  “This is good, Tally. Let it all out. Let me see what you’re feeling,” Carlos encouraged.

  My eyes sprung wide, rage finally ripping the steering wheel out of the hands of disbelief and taking control.

  “Are. You. Kidding. Me?” I could feel the heat of my breath as it flared my nostrils.

  I lunged for Carlos, ready to strangle his artistically-inclined neck, but he darted back, encouragin
g me, “That’s it. Get it all out.”

  “What is wrong with you?” I screeched, smearing my hands all over the canvas as I chased him around the table.

  I looked like a banshee. A paint-covered banshee.

  And I felt like an idiot.

  How many times had I written off all the ridiculous things Carlos did under the license of artistic genius?

  Now, I was the one left looking like a fool.

  I flipped over the pan of black paint, letting it spill over the canvas he and Kendall had been creating while I was out getting everything squared away for his exhibition.

  I blinked back tears, refusing to let him see my hurt through the veil of rage.

  “Are you kidding me?” Forgetting the mess on my hands, I streaked them through my short brown hair, before turning to glare at Carlos who’d finally stopped—but only to stare at what I’d done to his canvas.

  “Wonderful.”

  I bristled and, finally getting close enough, settled for shoving my hands against his chest rather than slapping one across his face.

  “How could you do this?”

  He blinked at me in confusion and then said with utter seriousness, “But, Tally, I told you weeks ago I was exploring a more fluid, more open style of art.”

  “But-but—” I sputtered. “Art isn’t our relationship, Carlos!”

  I balked. The words sounded familiar, but he hadn’t specified this. He said more open about us and art, and I just thought that meant we were finally transitioning into the next step of our relationship. The one that came with rings and promises of forever.

  “Art is everything.” He opened his arms wide.

  Air burst from my lungs in short, harsh rushes. Bitter laughs of disbelief. I, obviously, couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I stared down at my hands, paint-covered and shaking.

  “Just embrace it, Tally.” He reached for my shoulders and I jerked away.

  “Are you joking?” My stomach rolled. “I’m not… this isn’t what I signed up for.” My head whipped side to side. “I’m packing my things. We’re done.”

  I’d let the fact I was ending my first long-term relationship since—well, I’d just let the weight of the situation crash down on me later when I was out of here. And not covered in paint.

  “We should talk, Tally. You’re very upset, and it’s really throwing off the energy—”

  “Fuck the energy, Carlos! I’m not okay with this, and I’m not okay with you,” I charged, a thrill of self-righteous power racing down my spine. “We are done.”

  Turning, I stalked into the kitchen, blindly going to the sink and trying to scrub the black paint smearing over my hands and forearms from my skin like I could wipe away the fact he was cheating on me… and then tried to turn the betrayal into his next masterpiece.

  “Tally, don’t be like this, doll.” Carlos came up behind me. “This is just how the artist works. I can want both of you. Have both of you. It’s good for the art.”

  “No.” I whipped the towel off the handle, letting the water continue to run as I backed away. “No, you can only have one, Carlos, and you made your choice. I’m leaving, and that’s it.”

  I flung the towel at his chest, and he caught it, giving me a sad shake of his head.

  “If that’s what you want, doll.”

  The endearment now stung. Like nails on a chalkboard or salt in a wound.

  “Goodbye, Carlos.”

  I walked by him with my head held high, completely ignoring Kendall who continued to stand naked by the painting I’d just completely destroyed, mesmerized by it.

  “I take it you’re walking away from the exhibition then, too, Tally?” Carlos called after me. “I can find a replacement.”

  My steps skidded to a halt on the concrete floor.

  No.

  No. No. No.

  Slowly, I turned to face him, my body starting to shake.

  Replace me.

  He might’ve replaced me as his girlfriend, but he wouldn’t replace me at this. I’d worked too damn hard for too damn long to finally curate my own exhibition—an exhibition that was hosting artists from all over the country. An exhibition that garnered national recognition in the contemporary art world. An exhibition that was sure to launch my career into the orbit I’d been aiming for.

  And I’d be damned if I’d let the man who cheated on me replace me in my own career.

  Dragging in a deep breath of frustration, I informed him, “Absolutely not. That’s my baby. I’m not letting you take that from me, too.”

  His eyebrows perked up—like this was one step closer to being okay with his open relationship.

  Hah! He’d clearly been breathing too close to all that paint.

  “Wonderful, Tally.” He smiled. “I guess we will see you in Bisbee, then. In the meantime, think about what I’ve said.”

  I covered my mouth so I didn’t snort with disgust.

  The only minor setback with my exhibition was that Carlos was one of the showcased artists—a situation I’d have to figure out how to handle sometime over the next week.

  “Don’t get your hopes up.” My chin notched up. “See you in Arizona.”

  Five Days Later

  I stared at my phone, dialing and then deleting the number from the screen.

  Ugh. This was crazy.

  I was crazy.

  No. I wasn’t. I needed to do this.

  “Just call him!” Steph yelled through my closed door.

  After walking out of the loft I’d shared with Carlos, my most immediate problem was finding a place to stay for the short term. So, I called my best friend, Steph, from my master’s program and, after fifteen minutes of venting on the sidewalk in front of the Brooklyn loft, I took a deep breath, and Steph told me to get my ass over to her apartment in Midtown and stop making a scene.

  “Going!”

  “You literally don’t have all day!”

  I tossed a pillow at the door and ran a hand through my hair. I didn’t have all day. My flight was leaving in an hour; I’d be in Arizona by the afternoon. If I was going to do this, I needed to do it now.

  Grunting, I continued to stare at the number, letting my thumb hover over the call button.

  Sam Deschenes.

  My best friend. Former best friend.

  I didn’t want to do this. Calling in my favor, after all these years, was a risk in so many ways, but I didn’t have another choice. I couldn’t stomach three weeks stuck in small-town Bisbee, Arizona, with an entire exhibition of artists looking at me with pity. Like I was old news. While Carlos and Kendall continued to flaunt their artistic relationship in front of me—in front of everyone.

  I closed my eyes and memories from a decade ago hit me like they happened yesterday. Every touch stained my skin deeper than any tattoo. Every word played like a perfectly preserved track in my mind. And every feeling I’d had for him turned my body to fire.

  But it was his response to those feelings that turned my heart to ash.

  My body jerked and made me hit the call button. At least, that was the story I was sticking with.

  It was my fault. I saw it happening. I knew the lines I was letting my heart cross. But I didn’t stop because I thought he’d felt the same.

  I was wrong.

  And falling for my best friend had cost me a part of my heart I’d never get back.

  And now, I was about to ask him to pretend to be the one thing—the only thing—I’d ever wanted.

  “Hi. You’ve reached Sam. Leave a message after the beep, and I’ll get back to you.”

  My heart dropped into my stomach, hearing his voice again.

  “Hey, Sam. It’s Tally.” I paused. “It’s been a little bit since we’ve talked.” Okay, it had been a lot of bit. And birthday and holiday text messages lived on the fringe of the definition of the word talking.

  “I’m coming back to Bisbee for a work thing, and I need that favor.” I paused again like I expected him to pick up and re
ply.

  Like a yo-yo, my heart swung back up from my stomach to lodge in my throat. I tried to understand why. I didn’t still have feelings for him. Not after all this time. I couldn’t. It had to be nerves.

  Whatever close friendship we’d had when we were younger had disintegrated like a sand castle against a crashing wave. All that remained were coarse particles of superficial kindness and a feeling of distance that spanned farther than the ocean.

  “I fly in this afternoon. I guess I’ll just give you a call when I get back to Mee-Maws,” I blurted, chickening out on leaving any details in the message about needing a fake boyfriend.

  It was going to be okay.

  It wasn’t going to be weird. He’d never liked me like that. Too much time had passed for it to be weird. And he’d obviously been eager to forget my letter and confession ever existed, moving on from our friendship and changing the course of his life with the kind of abruptness that teenagers are apt to do.

  It will be fine, Tally.

  I just needed someone by my side—someone just for show. Someone to convince Carlos and the clique-y art community that I was over him, too.

  And Sam was the perfect plan.

  He’d known me better than anyone, and my heart wasn’t in any condition right now to put itself out there—especially for a man who’d already broken it.

  I let out a harsh laugh and shook my head, grabbing my bags and reaching for the door.

  There was absolutely zero risk I would make the mistake of falling for my best friend again.

  Eight Years Old

  “Let me come with you.”

  “No. You know I’ll get in trouble.”

  “Please, Sam, you can’t go without me!” I called after my neighbor, jogging to catch up with his long legs.

  He never used to be so tall. But between when he left for the school year and came back for summer, he’d grown like a tree, and I was trying to catch up. Except with hair. My hair was officially longer than his now, and I liked reminding him about it.

  “Oh, I can’t?” He laughed, the wind stealing a long strand of hair from underneath his Diamondback ball cap.