My Story of Us Read online

  My Story of Us: Zach

  Story of Us Series Book #1

  Chris Brinkley

  www.smartypantsromance.com

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

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  Copyright © 2021 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Made in the United States of America

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  eBook Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-949202-61-8

  Contents

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  Part 7

  Part 8

  Part 9

  Part 10

  Part 11

  Part 12

  Part 13

  Part 14

  Part 15

  Part 16

  Part 17

  Part 18

  Part 19

  Part 20

  Part 21

  Part 20

  Part 21

  Part 22

  Part 23

  Part 24

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Been There Done That, Book #1 in the Leffersbee Series by Hope Ellis

  Also by Smartypants Romance

  Part 1

  January 1st

  I’ve never really written a diary or a journal before, but here we go. I am writing this for you. It’s the first day of the new year and when I woke up this morning, I wondered what it would be like to wake up next to you. Cheesy, right? But it’s true. We’ve only known each other for a few months, but somehow, I know. I know that when I see you, my day gets a little better. I know that when we talk, the minutes fly by. When we talked on the phone last week—when you were telling me about the work project you needed help with—I completely lost all concept of time. I was driving to my parents’ house and now, looking back, I can’t tell you anything about the drive. I don’t know if the sun was shining, if it was raining, if I drove through a monsoon, if I drove fast or slow, or stopped at any red lights. The only thing that had my attention was you. You had to go because you had to get back to work, and when we hung up, I looked at my phone and it said we talked for fifty-three minutes and twenty-two seconds. Can you believe that? Fifty-three minutes and twenty-two seconds. I don’t do anything for fifty-three minutes and twenty-two seconds—especially talk to someone on the phone. I have the attention span of a goldfish, and I hate being on the phone.

  I don’t even understand what you’re doing to me. I’m a different person when I’m talking to you or thinking about you. You make me see a side of myself that I didn’t know existed. Right now, I’m sitting at my table writing our story and I have named it, “My Story of Us.” I feel like I’m back in high school and have a serious crush. There is a football game on right now, but I have the TV off and I am writing about you. What is happening to me?!

  Here is what I don’t know: I don’t know what you think about me. I don’t know if you think about me when we are not together, or if I make your day a little brighter. When we hung up the phone last week, you could have said to yourself, “That was the longest fifty-three minutes and twenty-two seconds of my life! That guy won’t shut up.” You may think my hair is too short or wish I had a beard. You may like older men or younger men or guys with tattoos, or even girls with tattoos. Who knows? All I really know is how I feel towards you, and I can’t shake all the thoughts of you bouncing around in my head.

  So, I am going to write this journal thing, this story, this “My Story of Us.” And if there never is an “Us,” then I’ll throw it away. Nobody will ever know. I’ll be a guy who had a crush on a girl, put it into words, and then felt ridiculous and got rid of it. But if you already have feelings for me, or one day grow to care for me the way I care about you, then our story is in words. Written words last a long time. And if we last a long time, we will always have my foolish notion called “My Story of Us.”

  So, it’s January 1st and I like you. Everything about you. And soon, I am going to tell you, because I hope you like me too.

  Happy New Year.

  Part 2

  January 4th

  When you called me this morning to talk about the project we’re working on, the call was quick because you were at work and had a meeting soon. When we hung up, I already missed you. So, I sat down and wrote my list of new year’s resolutions.

  The first resolution is the most important one—at least, the one that I am most committed to. Before I tell you about them, I need to explain something. I read an article this morning that said about forty percent of the population sit down and make an actual list of goals and resolutions each year. Of that forty percent, over half quit following their plan in the month of January. The other half abandons ship by June. Sounds daunting, doesn’t it? But a few make it. Apparently, there is a trick—well, a strategy, because trick isn’t really a good word—that can increase your chance of success. The strategy is to tell someone. Tell someone what your goals are, and that alone will make you more accountable and more likely to stick with it.

  So guess what? I’m going to tell you. You are my accountability person, right here in our Story of Us. I’m not sure if this is what the writer of the article really meant, but why not? I think you’re the perfect candidate. The funny part is that if you ever read this, it’ll be in the future, and you’ll know I stuck to my resolutions. Especially the first one, because it’s about you.

  My first resolution is to win you over. To win your heart. Did I tell you I like you? A lot.

  My second resolution is to be a better me. Because if I win you over, you deserve the best me I can be. And I think the best me I can be is a pretty good guy.

  The second resolution—to be a better me—has a lot of subcategories. I won’t bore you with the details, but I know where my strengths are and my weaknesses lie, and I know how to do what I need to do. I just need to actually do it. I want to do that for you. You deserve it, because you deserve the best in everything. Including me.

  The third resolution is to turn down the volume. I’m not talking metaphorically here—I mean literally. Earbuds, television, radio. Look, my dad could be sitting on a cloud and not hear the thunder during a rainstorm. I want to be able to hear as I grow older. How could I enjoy our fifty-three-minute and twenty-two second phone conversations if I can’t hear anything? The other day, an older guy at work told me he loved the new TV his wife had gotten him for Christmas. I asked, “What kind is it?” and he replied, “It’s 12:15. Are you hungry too?” I don’t want to be that guy.

  So back to resolution number one: win your heart. I’m not exactly sure how to do that right now, but I’ll figure it out. I will. Columbus figured out how to sail the ocean blue. Ben Franklin figured out electricity. I can do this. I know I can.

  Part 3

  January 7th

  We see thousands and thousands of people in our lifetimes. Most people are strangers, people we will never know. In cars, stores, in the spaces we live and move in. In pictures, on billboards, on television. Occasionally, if we are lucky, we see someone who pulls us in, sparks our interest. Our story would not be complete without me describing the impact you had on me the first t
ime I saw you.

  The summer right before I graduated from college, my grandmother asked me what I was going to do after I earned my degree. I hated that question because I didn’t know. I’d changed majors three times but kept advancing the cause, going to class and making the grades. At the time, I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t visualize being out of school and in the real world as a true adult.

  I answered my grandmother with the truth because I knew she wouldn’t judge me. I told her I had no clue. Then, after an awkward silence, I took a shot at making her laugh by saying I’d probably take a nap after graduation, maybe order pizza. My dad would have said, “You better figure it out, son.” Or, “You’ve been in school for four years and you still don’t know?”

  I braced myself for a similar response, but my grandmother sensed my uneasiness with the question. She smiled a little and said I had my entire life to figure it out. Then she said, “I normally don’t give advice, but if I’ve learned anything in this life, it is this: follow your curiosity. Curiosity is an inner guide to purpose and passion. Explore what makes you wide-eyed and eager to learn more. Explore what keeps you up at night with unanswered questions. Pay attention to your curiosity. Let it be your guide.”

  I’ll never forget her advice. “Let curiosity be your guide.” Those words led me to my career and were as important as any words I ever heard in college. Those words are also why I‘m writing this in my notebook right now. It’s what I felt in the meeting the day my world brushed against yours. Curiosity.

  I’d arrived at the meeting very early. I like to be prepared. I knew I would be making my presentation to three people, including you. You were the only person I hadn’t yet met and I knew almost nothing about you beyond your name. I’d repeated it several times on the drive over because I always make it a point to call people by their names.

  I had my back to the door when you walked into the room. I felt you before I saw you; I felt the energy in room change. I turned around, ready to welcome everyone, and you were the first person I saw. My balance shifted, both literally and figuratively. Something inside me wanted to reach out to you in that moment. Walk toward you, introduce myself only to you. I brushed off the instinct and looked away, collecting my thoughts for the meeting. I gathered my focus, said hello to the group, and formally introduced myself. I was suddenly nervous, which surprised me because I don’t get nervous when I’m prepared. My voice sounded different in my own head when the words tumbled out of my mouth. I was prepared for the meeting, but I was not prepared for you. I was not prepared to look into your eyes and talk to you. Your presence shook me in the best way.

  I made it through the meeting, but I wasn’t really focused. I couldn’t keep my thoughts centered. Admittedly, I am not a good multitasker, and I was completely distracted by you. When you spoke, I noticed everything. The way your eyes expressed your ideas. The way you rested your hands on the desk. Your timid smile. The way you looked away from me and then back at me when I was talking. It was a bit unsettling, but in a good way. I knew I liked it, but I didn’t fully understand it. It had never happened to me before.

  I now know what was happening that day. I was curious. About you. I wanted to know more. And not in some weird or creepy way. I just simply wanted to know more about you. Who were you? What books did you read? Who was your best friend? What kept you awake at night? What made you smile? What made you cry? What made you, you? And why were you having this effect on me?

  My grandmother was correct. Pay attention to your curiosity. It is the inner guide to your purpose. And you, from the moment you walked into the room that day, made me a very curious person.

  I wanted to know the answer to the question of you.

  Part 4

  January 12th

  Hey there! It’s been a while. I haven’t written in my notebook for over a week, but—and this is big—I have spent more time with you. I’ve seen you three times in the last week. We met once about the project, had a quick get-together at the coffee shop downtown, and we had lunch. I can’t believe we ordered the same thing. You probably think I ordered what you ordered just to impress you, just to make you think we are a lot alike, but I didn’t. That’s what I always order when I eat there, down to the exact specifications. I thought, “I can’t order that now, or she’ll think I’m trying to impress her or imitate her, and that will creep her out,” and for about a half-second, I talked myself into ordering something else. Then I just went with it and told the waiter I wanted the same thing. I’m not sure what you were really thinking, but you laughed and we talked about it. I think it’s awesome that we like the same foods. If this all works out and we’re still hanging out when we’re old and can’t eat as much, we can split meals. We’ll save money—and calories.

  I love our conversations. You say things that make me think, make me want to think. I hope you realize how very smart you are. When you were describing your hometown to me, I could see it. When you described the people in your life, I wanted to meet them. And I want you to meet my friends and family too. So, that got me thinking this morning.

  There are some people you meet in life, and the more you get to know them, the more you like them. There is a guy I met last year when he joined the company and we began working together. His name is Kevin. His office is across from mine. He was nice, polite, and seemed like a good guy, but I still kept my distance because a lot of people have worked in that office and I assumed he would work there for a few months and then move on like the rest. At first, we would just say, “Good morning,” or, “How’s it going?” or whatever—the superficial chitchat that coworkers engage in every day. Then one day he asked me if I could look over his portfolio and give him some feedback because he respected my work and my opinion. So I did. And we talked and collaborated and became great friends. Now I trust his opinion and he trusts mine. Completely. Anytime I’m beginning a project, I lay out the groundwork, then get him to check it out. It just works. His insight helps me a great deal. He’s like you—he’s smart, and he makes me think. He helps me to see things and go in directions I would have never gone on my own. He makes my projects better.

  And here’s what I’m starting to think about you. You make “me” better. You make me see things differently. And just like Kevin makes me better at work—more creative and successful—you, my dear, make me better at being me. Collaborating with you in life would make life better. Ugh! The word “collaborate” is not a very romantic word, is it? I hope you get what I mean. I should probably stop while I’m ahead here. I’ll sum this up by saying that I loved spending time with you this week. Every second. And I want to do it a lot more.

  Part 5

  January 27th

  Today was a big day. Circle this date in the official Story of Us. We kissed. I think that means you like me too. Scratch that! I know you like me too. You told me so.

  Kissing. That’s a big step. Since I’m the official historian of our story, or at least this diary, I will chronologically lay out the beautiful and stirring chain of events that led to this epic moment between us. I texted you. Suggested lunch. You texted back and said, “I don’t think I can swing it. Crazy day.” Then after I’d eaten lunch, you texted me again and said, “I have decided that the one thing I need the most on a crazy day is lunch with you.” I’ll be honest, I was flattered. I decided I’d meet you for lunch even though I had already eaten. I didn’t tell you I’d eaten because then you wouldn’t have wanted to go. But trust me, it was the right decision. I’m glad we went to lunch. I got to experience your sweet lips.

  I got to the restaurant and sat there waiting for you for a long time. I watched an older gentleman to my left drink three cups of decaf coffee and read the business section of the newspaper. I listened to the lady at the table in front of me tell the person she was with that her daughter was moving back in with them and how this would either be a great decision or go horribly wrong because there is a fine line between being a supportive parent and being an enabler. (I ag
ree with that.) And I watched a server handle money at one table and then refill a glass at another table while holding the glass around the rim where your mouth goes and—well, you know what a germaphobe I can be. Enough said.

  So anyway, you got there, and you were so frazzled. I knew the moment I saw you that you were truly having a crazy day. Then it just got crazier. They messed up your order. You realized you left your phone in the car. There was a bratty kid in the back of the restaurant with his dad, who was definitely an enabler and will not only let the bratty kid move back in with him when the bratty kid is an adult but will also give him a new luxury car and full access to his bank account. They frazzled me too, and I was not the one having an already crazy day.

  Then, as we were leaving the restaurant and walking to our cars, it began to rain—like, bottom-falling-out-of-the-sky, it’s raining-cats-and-dogs-and-giraffes-and-elephants kind of rain. January rain is not fun. We got in your car because it was closer than mine, and you apologized because you had just helped a friend move and your car was crammed with boxes and papers and clothes and stuff. As we sat in your car and you continued to apologize about the scattered debris, I watched the rain drip from your hair and saw the chaotic mix of frustration and resignation in your eyes. I wanted to hold you, hug you, comfort you. But we were soaked, and car hugs never really work anyway. So I grabbed your hand mid-word of your fourteenth apology and said, “It’s okay.” Then I kissed you.