Our Alternate Ending Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books

  Connect with Katie

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books

  Connect with Katie

  Our Alternate Ending

  Copyright © 2018 Katie Fox.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  Editing: Kelly Hartigan, Xterra Web

  Proofreading: Schmidt’s Author Services

  Cover Design: Najla Qamber Designs

  Cover Photography: Sara Eirew

  Playlist

  Music was instrumental in inspiring this story, and each chapter has specific songs that relate to certain scenes. These can be found underneath the chapter headings.

  If you would like to listen to it as you read or after you have finished, please follow the link below to find a chronological list of songs.

  Listen now!

  Dedication

  To the man who gave me a chance and to those still fighting—never lose hope.

  I WAS GOING to be late, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Staring down at the cheap, knock-off Rolex strapped to my wrist, I watched as another minute passed by, the small hand reminding me time was clearly not on my side. Then again, it never was. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure it was on the side of anyone who lived in the big city. Everyone was pressed for one more second, eager to get where they needed to be.

  My wet blonde hair—which I hadn’t had a chance to blow dry or make presentable—blew carelessly in the wind, and my heels pounded across the pavement as I rounded the corner of 42nd Street, darting for the subway. The only sound louder than the early morning breeze whipping across my face and the bustle of the people on the sidewalks was my parents’ desperate voices, their fears and stresses from the day before echoing in my ears and making my feet move faster.

  God, I need this.

  For once in my life, I needed something to go right. Now more than ever, I was wishing my lucky stars would align.

  At the age of twenty-seven, I was traveling a path I had no idea how to get off, one I wasn’t even sure how I’d veered onto, much less which direction it was taking me. Today was supposed to change that. Today was supposed to be my something new—my lucky break, so to speak. Maybe my morning would’ve gone to plan if my alarm clock had gone off when it was supposed to or the pipes in my bathroom hadn’t decided to break, flooding my apartment with enough water to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Hell, I didn't even want to think about what kind of damage I'd be returning home to. It was just one more thing I didn't have the headspace or the extra cash to deal with.

  Taking the concrete steps two at a time, I pushed through the metal turnstile and bolted for the train, my leather briefcase in hand—a college graduation gift I’d received from my parents that served no other purpose but to make me look and feel professional. I managed to squeeze myself through the sliding doors at the last second, and as I grabbed ahold of the nearest handrail to steady myself, several sets of wandering eyes landed on me. My chest heaved from exertion, and a thin layer of perspiration covered my now heated and sticky skin.

  Great.

  Not only was I going to be late, but I was going to look like a sweaty pig upon my arrival.

  Nice, Elle. Real nice.

  At least I had remembered to apply some deodorant before I left. I mean, you have to be thankful for all mercies, no matter how small, right?

  Inhaling deeply and blowing the air out through pursed lips, I allowed my gaze to scan the packed train car, searching for an unoccupied seat. I desperately needed to rectify my hair situation and attempt to catch my breath before having to run the last leg of my journey. Noticing an empty seat farther down the car, I made my way toward it, the vibration of the train speeding along the rails humming beneath my heels.

  For a Monday morning, the subway was filled with the usual: people on their way to work, parents taking their children to school or daycare, and the elderly men and women with their grocery dollies who woke up at the crack of dawn to complete their weekly shopping. An unpleasant combination of stagnant air, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume wafted around me, and I held my breath as I squeezed past a man who smelled like he hadn't showered in days and a woman dressed in black fishnet stockings and a skintight, red leather dress that was clearly at war with itself when it came to covering her ass and her breasts. Smudged and faded, her bright red lipstick had all but worn off, and her hair was as wild and untamed as my own. Although I imagined hers was the result of something else entirely. Perhaps if the next hour didn’t pan out in my favor, I could join her on whatever street corner she’d spent all night working.

  I snorted.

  Seriously, Elle?

  Shaking my head and mentally rolling my eyes at myself and my unfair judgment of the woman, I rid the thought away and dropped myself onto the hard plastic seat. Living in the city was a world’s difference from my hometown of Rock Bay, Maine—a small coastal town with a population of less than five
hundred. It was a place where everybody knew everything about everyone and town gossip held its own section in the local newspaper. Well, not really, it was more like two little old ladies who sat at the corner of the pharmacy in the town square and made it their job to know everyone’s business.

  Sighing, I set my briefcase on my lap and popped the shiny gold locks, grabbing out the wristlet I’d tossed inside as I scrambled out of my apartment door that morning.

  Ten minutes.

  I had ten minutes to pull myself together and transform into the highly intellectual person I was capable of being. Sliding open the zipper, I dug around for the few bobby pins I usually kept tucked inside, and a jolt of panic rippled across my chest.

  No, no, no. Please no.

  I flipped the wallet upside down, shaking it of all its contents, and watched as everything—except for the bobby pins I needed—fell out.

  Okay. It’s fine. You can do this. You can totally pull off the drowned rat look.

  Grabbing out some tissues, I quickly spot dried my forehead and wiped the smeared lines of mascara from the corners of my eyes. There was no time to reapply my makeup. Not that I wore much on a regular basis, but special occasions called for it.

  “Interview today?”

  A deep, croaky voice coming from beside me stole my attention, and I gingerly turned my head to look at the older gentleman it belonged to. His frail hands rested atop a cane positioned between his legs, and his head was dipped, his eyes hidden beneath a plaid brown and yellow newsboy cap. He smelled of hand-rolled cigars, the kind my father would smoke on occasion.

  I sat up a little straighter, squaring my shoulders. “Yes, actually. And of course, I’m running late. Go figure, right?” Smiling halfheartedly, I resisted the urge to laugh or maybe even cry. I couldn’t be sure. Tears itched the back of my throat, but there was no way I was walking into this interview with red eyes and blotchy cheeks. Wet hair and runny makeup was bad enough.

  Tapping his thumb against his cane, the stranger shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Just flash that pretty smile of yours a couple times, and I’m sure you’ll have it in the bag.”

  This time I did laugh, albeit dryly. “If only it were that easy.”

  That so-called pretty smile had failed to work its magic with the last eight interviews I’d had; I certainly wasn’t holding out hope that it would suddenly yield a different result for this one. Not that I expected to land any position by flashing a superficial smile, but I felt obliged to humor the old man’s obvious attempt at flattery. The harsh reality was landing a career and being respected took more than looks: it required a degree and determination, both which I possessed, but graduating with honors from NYU had left me with nothing more than a mountain of debt and a worthless piece of paper otherwise known as a diploma. A roll of toilet paper held more value at the moment than my degree and that was a real kick in the teeth as far as my confidence was concerned.

  “Sell yourself.”

  My head snapped back, and my brows shot up my forehead. Did he really insinuate what I thought he had? I blinked in disbelief, my gaze traveling down the train car to the woman he had obviously mistaken me for.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sell yourself,” he repeated, flashing me a warm, kind smile. “An interview is simply a pitch to sell yourself. You’re one product amongst many, child. Convince the buyer you’re worth investing in. That’s all it takes.”

  “That’s all it takes, huh?” I licked my lips, studying him as I tried to make sense of his logic.

  He nodded. “That’s all it takes.”

  As the train slowed at my stop, I stood, smoothing my skirt down my stocking-clad thighs in preparation for my next sprint. I had five minutes left. I could do this. I could totally do this. The whooshing sound of the brakes filled my ears, and as the doors slid open, I turned and tossed the old man a small, appreciative wave. “Thank you.”

  He lifted his fingers from their resting position on his cane and winked. “Good luck.”

  Without wasting another second, I bolted through the doors, maneuvering myself around the bodies filing off the train car, and ran up the stairs. My heart thumped against my ribs as I ran down 57th Street, ignoring my need for a cup of coffee as I passed a busy food cart, and continued to make my way toward Broadway.

  Rounding the next street corner, I came to a halt and sighed in relief as the large glass building, which served as the primary headquarters for Caldwell Publishing, stood a half a block away. The urgency of my steps slowed as I worked to steady my breathing and regain my composure.

  I had one chance to get this right. One chance to make a lasting impression.

  Walking through the glass revolving doors, I glanced at the office directory overhead. Noting the floor number I was in search of, I continued to the elevators. The metal door slid open as soon as I reached it, and as I stepped across the threshold—feeling slightly less anxious knowing I was going to make it on time after all—the heel of my shoe fell into the track of the door.

  My eyes widened.

  You gotta be shitting me.

  I pulled on my leg, fear and another wave of panic sweeping across my face and down my spine as I attempted to free my shoe at the exact same time the door decided it wanted to close.

  Oh, come on.

  I tugged harder, losing my balance as my body flew forward, my hair flipping over my face and my briefcase serving as a cushion between myself and the railing of the elevator. The alarm in the elevator screamed out, and the lights flickered as though the damn thing was mechanically dying. I looked down at my heel, realizing the sucker snapped right the hell off.

  Frustration took hold.

  I inhaled deeply, the urge to lash out alive and real, but I bit my tongue and spun around, desperate to save myself from embarrassment. Rushing out of the elevator, I slipped into an empty stairwell, thankful no one else was around to witness the scene. The tears brewing in the back of my throat moved to my eyes, and I pinched them closed, willing the oncoming rise of emotion to subside.

  What am I doing here?

  I needed to walk myself back through the main lobby and take the first taxi I could find home. Nobody in their right mind would hire the hot mess that I clearly was, but I needed to try, didn't I? Wet hair and broken heel aside, I needed to at least sell myself like the old man had said and see if they were interested in what I had to offer.

  Deciding that was the only option since I had already come all this way, I took the steps two at a time until I reached the twenty-sixth floor. I reached the top—out of breath and legs feeling like Jell-O—and flung myself around the door, straight into an oncoming body.

  Hot, sticky liquid soaked through my shirt, trickling between my cleavage and down my stomach.

  “Oh…my…God. I am so sorry. Let me, um…” The female stranger took three long strides over to the nearest desk, grabbing a handful of tissues before thrusting them toward me, as if they were the answers to all my unsolved problems.

  Horrified, I glanced down at the brown coffee spot staining my white silk blouse, watching as it continued to spread into a large, misshapen pool.

  My shoulders sagged in defeat.

  That was it. I was done.

  As much as I wanted this job, I wasn't about to walk into this interview with only a quarter of my dignity. It wasn’t like I didn't have a job already—of course, I did—I wasn't completely useless. I just wanted this job. Landing a position at Caldwell Publishing held so much more opportunity. It paid more than the salary I received from the local library, and it was a foot in the door for what I really wanted to do: write.

  Twisting on my one fully intact heel, I hobbled the few steps back to the door. My hand landed on the push bar at the same time my name echoed down the corridor, holding a questioning ring.

  “Elle Callihan?”

  I closed my eyes, breathing in discreetly. The logical part of my brain warned me to ignore the call and leave, but my body rea
cted quicker than I could stop it. Swiveling around, I was met by a woman with short salt and pepper hair and skin as fair as porcelain. Her sudden gasp caused her chest to rise sharply, and there was no missing her quick assessment as her gaze raked over every inch of my disheveled appearance.

  How humiliating.

  She took a hesitant step forward, her fingertips coming up to rest on her thin lips. “Jesus, sweetheart. What happened to you? You look as if you've been dragged in by the bus.”

  I felt like I’d been dragged in by the bus. Embarrassed, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “I'm sorry. I know this is no way to arrive to an interview, and I can assure you this is not the impression I intended to make.”

  “Well, I would sure hope not.” Tilting her head to the side, she studied me with a careful eye. After a moment, a look of empathy crossed her face, and she placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, gesturing toward the metal chairs sitting along the wall covered in an array of book covers. “Mr. Caldwell is finishing up. Have a seat and I will come get you once he’s ready.” She turned to walk away, and all my insecurities poured out.

  “Thank you, but I can’t go through with this interview.”

  She stopped, glancing at me from over her shoulder. “You came here for a reason, did you not?”

  “Yes, but is it not possible to reschedule? I mean, look at me.” I swept my hands along my body, the large coffee stain on my shirt, and my broken heel.

  A soft chuckle floated from her chest before an almost sad smile tugged at her lips. “Time is something we do not have, I'm afraid. If you choose not to follow through with your interview this morning, unfortunately we won't be able to reschedule another. It is your choice, Ms. Callihan, but if you ask me, I think showing up in spite of the difficult morning you've obviously had displays real character. We admire such traits here at Caldwell Publishing.”

  There was a long pause of silence as her gaze lingered on me, and after I made no attempt to move, she smiled knowingly, turned, and carried on in the direction she was heading.

  TORTURE SOUNDED LIKE the ticking hand of a wall clock as another uneventful second of my life passed by. This was hell. Absolute hell. And I wasn't sure how much longer I could force myself to sit and inhale the overpowering smell of perfume soaking the air in my office.