Chapter One

How it all began.

The gas station: A necessity that never ceases to fry my minimum wage brain every time I look at the little price screen. As the number on the screen increases, I turn to the glove compartment inside my car and grab the bottle of aspirin. Popping two of the small pills into my mouth, I take a few dollars out of my purse, put them into my pocket, and set off in search of coffee and a donut.

            Entering the small gas station store, I’m greeted by the smile of the little old man that works there. I was good morning to him and make my way to the back of the store, towards the donut case. After selecting the one with the most sprinkles, I go to fill up my coffee cup.

            My name is Isabelle Statham, and I’m the American dream. I’m average height, average weight, and average talent. As soon as I finished high school, I packed my bag and left for Los Angeles, the land of creativity and hope, with the idea of making it as a bestselling author. Unfortunately, a few million other people had the same idea as me. Now, I’m working a minimum wage waitressing job just to pay the bills.

            My life had gone from hopeful and prosperous to gas station coffee and stale donuts. I’d go home and back to college if it wasn’t for my pride. As it stands now, I’m going to be living with a roommate in a shady apartment for the rest of my life. As miserable as that sounds, it’s still better than facing my parents and getting the “I told you so” lecture.

            Making my way to the register, I hold the donut in my mouth as I struggle to put the lid on my coffee. Smiling at the cashier, I set my coffee on the counter and fish out the money I had taken out of my car.

            “I’ll buy that for you, Miss,” a man’s voice spoke from behind me.

            With a swift motion, he put money and a city map on the counter and told me I could go. I told him how much I appreciated it, as I left out the door. Walking to my car, I see something that makes me stop dead in my tracks. Parked in front of the store was a black 1967 Chevy Impala, also known as my teenage dream car. The owner was nowhere to be found, so I decided a quick peek in the window and the tan leather seats wouldn’t hurt anyone. I let out a low whistle as I admired the spotless interior of the car.  

            “Can I help you?” A voice rang behind me.

            My heart pounded in my chest as I mumbled a quick apology to the man that bought my coffee. Turning around quickly, I started walking towards my car. Unfortunately, in my fit of embarrassment, I tripped over the curb and fell to the ground, sending my coffee and half eaten donut flying. My embarrassment was at an all-time high as I struggled to stand up. To my surprise, the man didn’t laugh at me. Instead, he offered his hand, which I gratefully took as he helped me stand up.

            “What I great way to start the day,” I said to myself.

            “Are you okay? Can I help you in any way?” The concern was evident in the man’s bright blue eyes.

            “You know what they say. Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat.”

            “Scott Fitzgerald. One of my favorite authors. I’m John, by the way.”

            “Isabelle, but everyone calls my Isy.”

            “Can I buy you another coffee? I didn’t mean to startle you.”

            “No, it’s fine. Thank you for the offer though.”

            I lied. I really wanted a new coffee. Looking at the pool of coffee around my feet made me want one even more. John must have noticed my lungful stare at the ground, because he grabbed my hand and smiled at me.

            “I insist, please.”

            “Alright.”

            I started walking back to the entrance of the gas station, but he stopped me and started laughing.

            “I wouldn’t mind a cup too. I know an actual coffee shop just down the street. You can just follow me in your car.”

            I did as I was told. Arriving at the coffee shop, we found a small table near the back of the store. John ordered two cups of coffee and a large blueberry muffin for the two of us. Glancing down at my watch, I saw that I still had an hour before work started. The two of us sat, enjoying each other’s polite company as we discussed our favorite books and writers. After the muffin had been eaten and the coffee cups were empty, we stood to leave. Glancing at my watch once more, I realized that work had started three hours ago.

            “Damnit,” I said and I began jogging to the parking lot, “I’m late for work.”

            “How late?”

            “Too late.”

            “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

            “No, it’s not. I should have been paying attention to the time. The only thing you can blame yourself for is being too good of a conversational partner.”

            He smiled for a moment, before returning to being concerned for me and for my job. After calling my boss, I apologized and was told that my shift was covered and to never let it happen again. Blowing out a sigh, I looked up at the sky and felt another headache coming on.

            “Where do you work?” John asked.

            “I’m a waitress.”

            It was his turn to be shocked. He stared at me for a moment before finally speaking again.

            “How is someone as intelligent as you working such a menial job?”

            I briefly explained how I moved to LA with hopes of writing and fame.

            “How old are you?” He asked.

            “Twenty-one.”

            “You’re fifteen years younger than I am, set you seem to have a better head on your shoulders than people even older than me.”

            For the first time, I noticed his slight English accent. It immediately distracted me.

            “I’m sorry, are you British?”

            He laughed again as I stood dazed and confused in front of him.

            “I was born and raised in London. I still spend most of my time there.”

            “Then why are you here now?”

            “I have a house down in Malibu that I stay at in the summer and winter. My mum and dad are both in fashion design, and I work for them. I go around and sell their products and manage their shows. It’s a family business. My gran started it when she was my age, then she had my father and shipped him off to all of the art schools she could afford. He met my mum at one of those schools, and they married shortly after. I’m the youngest of three children. My two older sisters will be taking over the design portion of the business when my parents pass.”

            “I never would have thought you sold ladies clothing for a living.”

            “I don’t mind it, actually. I get to travel a lot.”

            “But don’t you ever just want to settle down in one place and start a family of your own?”

            “Of course I do.”

He stood silent, looking out into the parking lot. I realized that I had over crossed my boundaries, but I didn’t feel bad about it. John was an incredibly kind hearted man, and I could tell that I hit home when I asked if he wanted a family of his own. After a few minutes of silence, I decided it was time for me to leave.

“I think it’s time for me to go. It was nice meeting you, John.”

I started walking to my car. The feeling of guilt intertwined with the silence of the parking lot. It was the middle of the afternoon and I was already wishing the day was over. Opening my car door, John’s hand found my shoulder. I turned to face him as he gave me a half-hearted smile, showing that he wasn’t mad at me.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said.