Owning It

Book 4: It Girls

by Leah Marie Brown

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

The chance of a lifetime . . . or just another bad decision? Delaney Lavender Brooks needs to grow up. At least, according to her parents. After getting evicted from her apartment and wrecking her car, Laney is almost ready to trade in her paintbrushes and surrender to a more sensible 9-to-5 existence. Almost. Until she’s awarded an internship at a prestigious art gallery in Paris. What else can the free-spirited artist do but follow her dreams? Even if her latest attempt at chasing rainbows might cost her a real future . . . Once in the city of lights, Laney is almost undone by the glaring truth: maybe she isn’t sophisticated or talented enough to make it as an artist—or an independent woman, for that matter. And when she’s hotly pursued by a seductive Frenchman, she has to wonder if she’s about to be a fool for love, too. Soon Laney’s greatest challenge is not proving herself to her parents, but having the courage to live the life—and love—of her dreams . . . “Leah Marie Brown has a wily way of bringing her stories to life with sharp dialogue and drop-dead sexy characters.” —Cindy Miles, National Bestselling Author “When it comes to crafting clever, intelligent, wonderful escapist fiction with a heroine every woman wants to know, Leah Marie Brown is a new voice to watch. Prepare to fall in love!” —Renee Ryan, Daphne du Maurier Award-Winning Author

Release date: May 2, 2017

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 287

Sample

Laney’s Life Playlist

“Breath of Life” by Florence and the Machine

“Accident Prone” by Jawbreaker

“Criminal” by Fiona Apple

It’s time to relax your mind and ground your spirit. Close your eyes and rest your hands on your knees. Bring your awareness to the touch of your body on your chair. Take a few deep breaths. While you are breathing deeply, relax your shoulders, your arms, your stomach muscles, your leg muscles. Let go of all the tension in your body . . .

The driver in the car behind me beeps his horn. I take a deep breath, open my eyes, glance up at the green light, and put my foot on the gas pedal. My Mini Cooper shoots through the intersection. I am fifteen minutes late for my gig, and my chakras are totally out of whack.

Do you feel that sense of peaceful calmness?

“No,” I say, switching lanes.

No? Take another deep breath. Pretend you are looking at a control panel with dials and buttons. The control panel to your life. Reach out and turn the dial that controls your focus on the physical world. Turn it all the way down. Let everything just fade to black until you are left with only the ambient sound of your soul. Listen to your soul.

I pull to a stop at one of Boulder’s busiest intersections and close my eyes, determined to let my Positive Vibes! app guide me to a more balanced state of mind. Job application rejections. Eviction notices. Road ragers with horn-heavy hands. I let it all fade to black and tune into the sensei’s calm, modulated voice as she tries to lead me to a state of perfect Zen.

Now, imagine you are on top of a mountain. Look up at the sky. Do you see that single, wispy cloud floating above your head? That cloud represents your cares and worries. That cloud is blocking your journey to enlightenment. Take a deep breath and blow that cloud away.

With my eyes still closed, I inhale air through my nose deep into my lungs and release it in one explosive breath. In my mind’s eye, I see the cloud skitter across the sky and dissolve into the horizon. My limbs feel warm and heavy. My mind feels clearer. I haven’t yet entered satori, the deepest state of meditation, but I am approaching it.

Shift your focus to the ground under your feet. Do you notice how solid the earth feels? If not, push your feet down while imagining . . .

I go with the sensei’s words and push my feet against the ground, but instead of feeling solid earth and perfect stillness, I feel my gas pedal and a sickening lurch in my stomach as my Mini Cooper darts forward. Horns beep. Tires screech. I simultaneously open my eyes and slam my foot on the brake, but I am too late. I watch in perfect horror as the hood of my beloved Mini Cooper crumples like a starlight blue-and-white striped accordion. There’s a violent popping noise as my airbag bursts out of the steering wheel and slams me back against my seat, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

. . . you should feel a perfect sense of peace and the warmth that comes from the knowledge that everything is right and balanced in your universe.

I hear the sensei speaking, people outside shouting, a car door opening and slamming, but I am still on my theoretical mountain, blowing clouds across the sky with my breath. My thoughts are foggy, my limbs heavy, like when I enter a deep, deep state of meditative relaxation. It takes me a moment to process what has just happened.

Someone knocks on my window. Violent rap-rap-rapping.

I look over and find a middle-aged woman gesturing for me to roll my window down. I comply.

“What is wrong with you?” she screams. “Are you fucking crazy?”

Congratulations! Your chakras are perfectly balanced. You have entered a state of bliss . . .

I open the door and climb out of my wrecked car. A crowd of teenagers and college students have gathered on the nearby sidewalk, snapping pictures and digitally recording my tragedy for future upload to Vine and Instagram. I look at the street signs—Broadway Boulevard and Arapahoe Avenue—and realize I have crashed in front of Boulder High School, just down the street from the University of Colorado, my alma mater.

“You know you had a red light?” the other driver screams. “Right?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry?” Her voice is shrill, her eyes wide with a manic kind of fright.

I look at her minivan, its side caved in, four chubby, grubby little faces pressed against the rear passenger windows.

“You ran a red light and slammed into the side of my van. Are you a lunatic?”

I shake my head, and a searing pain stabs my neck.

“I get that this is a legit bummer deal, but—”

“Legit. Bummer. Deal,” she screams, emphasizing each word with a slightly cray-cray gesticulation. “This is more than a legit bummer deal, you pot-smoking freak . . .”

A police car pulls to a stop beside our wreckage, red and blue lights flashing. A tall, grim-faced cop gets out of the vehicle and approaches us.

“Is everyone okay?” he asks. “Is anyone injured?”

I shake my head again. This time, the searing pain in my neck travels up and over my skull, piercing the backs of my eyeballs. I close my eyes and press a hand to my face.

“Easy,” the officer grabs my arm. “I think you should sit down, miss.”

I let him lead me to the side of the road and am about to take a seat on the curb when I feel my knees buckle. Everything goes black.

“Youuuu killed Lunariaaaa!”

The sharp cry pierces the thick black veil separating me from consciousness. I try to open my eyes, but the bright mid-winter sunshine feels like a thousand pins pricking my eyeballs.

“Hush,” someone hisses.

“But what about Lunaria? Is she d-d-dead?”

I squint, peering at the world through tiny slits. It takes me a minute to make sense of the scene. The cop. The angry soccer mom. The gang of picture-snapping students. The chubby toddler with tear-streaked cheeks and two fingers stuck in her mouth.

I was listening to my Positive Vibes! app. I closed my eyes and then . . . Oh, Snap Crackle Pop! That’s right! I was in an accident.

“Who is Lunaria?” the soccer mom snaps.

The toddler pulls her wet fingers from her mouth and points them at me.

Why is that kid calling me Lunaria?

I am about to sit up when a bolt of pain travels up my spinal column, spins a donut in my skull, and races back down my spine.

“Don’t sit up,” the officer says, pressing his hand against my shoulder. “The ambulance is on the way.”

“I’m fine,” I mumble. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

I don’t need medical bills.

“Is there a reason you’re wearing that getup?”

It is only then I remember what I am wearing a unicorn costume, complete with lavender mane and spiraling silver horn. The unicorn’s head is on top of my head and has googly eyes that shake back and forth each time I move.

“I am Lunaria,” I whisper, smiling at the little girl. “And we met at . . . Jacob’s birthday party?”

The little girl shakes her head, and her curls spring up and down.

“Liam!” she says, sticking her fingers back in her mouth. “We met at Liam’s birfday party. You sang a song about a fwog named Fweddy.”

The soccer mom grabs her daughter’s hand, pulls her close, and stares at me through narrowed eyes, one brow lifted high in accusation. She’s looking at me like I am one of those perverts on To Catch a Predator, like she’s expecting Chris Hansen to stroll up and say, “Excuse me, ma’am, but did you know you were singing songs to minors?”

“I’m Lunaria the Unicorn,” I explain to the police officer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lunaria,” the officer says, his grim lips twitching at the corners. “Would you happen to have your license and registration?”

His question catches me off guard. I stare blankly at him.

“Or maybe an identification card issued by the Ministry of Mythical Creatures?”

The soccer mom snickers, and the students bust out laughing.

“I’m not a real unicorn.”

“You’re not?” he grins.

“No,” I say, sitting up, “I am an entertainer. I perform at children’s birthday parties as Lunaria the Unicorn. I sing silly songs, tell stories about life as a unicorn, and paint the children’s faces. If it’s a big gig, my best friend helps me.”

“Your best friend? Ariel the Mermaid?”

I roll my eyes. “Oberon, King of the Fairies.”

“I see,” the officer says in a somber tone, his expression inscrutable. “And is the unicorn business a lucrative one?”

“It isn’t exactly making me rich, but it helps pay the bills.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t trade my cuffs for a unicorn horn?”

Ha ha.

“I still think you should take that ride in the ambulance, but in the meantime, if you’re feeling well enough, maybe you could show me your license and registration?”

“Of course.”

I walk over to my car, broken shards of headlight glass crunching beneath the soles of my sparkly silver Vans, and open the passenger door. The Positive Vibes! app has looped and is playing the “Engage Your Senses” meditation.

Keep breathing deeply, slowly, and calmly. Inhaling serenity and strength. Blowing out negativity and nagging concerns . . .

I wholeheartedly believe in the restorative and regenerative benefits of meditation, but the irony of the situation is simply too great. A bubble of hysterical laughter begins making its way up my throat, and it takes all of my self-control not to burst out with a Camille Claudel cackle. (Camille was this crazy-talented French sculptor and graphic artist who was certifiable. An ex-boyfriend once told me her first breakdown occurred when she was found destroying one of her statues and laughing in a shrill, slightly demented way.)

I reach into my purse, retrieve my iPhone, and silence the sensei. Then I grab my license and registration and head back to the curb. I hand the documents to the police officer and sit back down on the curb. The policeman walks over to his cruiser, opens the door, slides inside, and begins typing on a dashboard-mounted keyboard.

I stare at the oily river streaming out from under my Mini Cooper and pooling on the icy pavement, and my head begins to throb; my stomach roils. The car was a graduation gift from my grandpa.

“You have a lot of dreams, baby,” he had said, handing me the keys. “I hope this little buggy will help you chase them.”

Gramps. My eyes well with tears as I think of the one person in my life who always encourages my dreams. He never judges me, never hits me with, “Now, Laney, isn’t it time you gave up your prepubescent diversions and acted like an adult?”

What will Gramps say when he finds out I totaled my little buggy?

Tears spill down my cheeks. I have grown accustomed to disappointing my parents. I have even grown accustomed to disappointing myself. But I don’t think I could grow accustomed to disappointing Gramps.

The police officer returns.

“I ran your license and am happy to report there are no warrants for Delaney Lavender Brooks or Lunaria Unicorn,” he says, squatting down beside me.

He hands back my license and registration.

“Thanks,” I sniffle.

“I know things seem bleak, but someday you will look back on this incident and laugh.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief.

“If it makes you feel any better”—he hands me the hankie, and I use it to wipe the snot dripping from my nose—“I am issuing you a traffic citation finding you liable for this accident, but I am not going to charge you with reckless driving, which could have resulted in imprisonment or the revocation of your license.”

“Thank you, officer.”

The ambulance finally arrives, and a gorge paramedic gets out.

“Seriously?”

“Excuse me?” the officer frowns.

I shake my head.

After everything I have been through in the last hour, the universe couldn’t have sent me a hairy, slightly mannish female paramedic? It had to send me a six-foot-three, tanned, muscular Henry Cavill lookalike.

Harsh!

The paramedic pierces me with his sexy, blue-eyed gaze but addresses the police officer.

“Did she lose consciousness?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Less than two minutes.”

Solo squats down in front of me and shines a flashlight in my right eye.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says, shifting the beam to my other eye. “My name is Dylan. I am an EMT, and I am going to take a look at you. What’s your name?”

My mind goes blank. My tongue freezes to the roof of my mouth. All I can do is stare at the dimple on his chin.

“Do you know your name?”

“Lunaria . . .” I look away, my cheeks flushing with heat. “I mean, Laney. Delaney Brooks. My friends call me Laney.”

“Okay, Laney,” he says, motioning for his partner. “Do you remember if you hit your head during the crash?”

I shake my head.

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t think I banged my head.”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“A little.”

But I am pretty sure my equilibrium would return if you would stop staring into my eyes with that baby-making gaze.

“Nauseous?”

I nod my head.

The other paramedic arrives, pushing a gurney.

“Possible C-spine injury,” Dylan says to his partner. “Let’s board and collar her.”

While Dylan peppers me with questions about my symptoms, medical history, and allergies, his partner tries to put a plastic brace around my neck.

“It won’t fit,” he says. “We need to get her costume off.”

“I am fine, really,” I cry, pushing the collar away. “I don’t need to be boarded and collared.”

My panic is legit. I would rather die of a massive brain hemorrhage than let Solo see what I am wearing beneath my costume: a pair of skimpy boy shorts and my Normal Is Boring tank, sans bra. (Have you ever worn a unicorn costume? Ten minutes of singing and dancing and you are covered in sweat.)

“Laney,” he says, putting his broad, tanned hand on my arm. “Everything is going to be okay. I promise. There’s a chance you obtained an injury to your spine during the accident. We need to put this collar around your neck to keep you from further injuring yourself. If we don’t, I could be in big trouble. You don’t want me to lose my job, do you?”

I look at the grayish flecks in his dark blue eyes, perfectly framed by thick, black eyelashes, and shake my head.

Before I even know what is happening, Dylan reaches around and unzips my costume. Cold air nips at my exposed skin. I don’t need to look down to know my nipples are as hard as headlights. Dylan pretends not to notice my erect nips as he wraps the arms of my costume around my waist. His partner velcros the brace around my neck and they help me onto the gurney. I hug the unicorn head, now resting on my stomach, as they load me onto the ambulance.

Dylan climbs in after me and is about to close the ambulance doors when the police officer appears. He is holding my Betsey Johnson kitschy panda-head purse. He hands it to me.

“Thank you,” I mumble. “This ridiculous scene would not have been complete without you handing me my furry panda purse.”

When did my life turn into a slapstick comedy? I feel as if I am starring in a Three Stooges movie. Except I am in this farce alone, and so far, nobody is laughing.

Laney’s Life Playlist

“Oops! . . . I Did It Again” by Britney Spears

“Smile” by Nat King Cole

“Here’s to Never Growing Up” by Avril Lavigne

Ninety minutes later, I am dressed in a hospital gown and lying on a gurney in a curtained ER alcove, my unicorn costume draped over me like a strange security blanket, when my parents arrive.

If you are playing a scene in your head wherein my mother rushes to my bedside, throws her arms around my neck, and wails, “Thank God you are alive, my darling daughter,” now would be a good time to push pause.

My parents aren’t those kinds of parents. They aren’t mushy-gushy affectionate. They aren’t hovering helicopter parents, ready to swoop in and rescue their only child from impending disaster. They aren’t lovey-dovey Lifetime movie parents baking endless trays of cookies and dispensing wisdom with a hug. They’re more like Sheldon and Amy from The Big Bang Theory, emotionally reserved, driven by logic, and blunt to the point of being tactless.

There is no conversational give and take with us. They talk (and talk) and I listen. My parents are prone to long-winded, one-sided conversations. They’re professors at the University of Colorado, so I suppose the lecturing thing is normal for them. Often, when they’re in the middle of one of their monologues, I imagine them standing behind a lectern in a classroom filled with expressionless automatons. I have to resist the temptation to make robotic movements with my arms while saying, “Does not compute. Does not compute.”

My father stands beside my bed, his hands clasped behind his back. My mother stands beside him.

“We came as soon as we got your message,” he says, his voice flat. “You said you were in an accident. Were you driving?”

“Yes.”

“Were you at fault?”

“Yes.”

“Was the other driver injured?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Is your car drivable?”

“No.” The tears that filled my eyes the second my parents stepped through the curtains into my ER space spill down my cheeks. “It’s totaled.”

My father reaches out and pats my shoulder two times. It’s the awkward, cold response one might expect from a pointy-eared Vulcan. I am waiting for him to furrow his brow, tilt his head, and say, “I find your constant display of emotions illogical and highly irritating.”

Please don’t get me wrong. I love my parents. They’re intelligent, worldly, sophisticated, hardworking, ambitious, and generous. They have instilled in me a hunger for knowledge and a burning desire to broaden my horizons beyond the narrow borders of Boulder, Colorado. But sometimes I just wish . . .

“Have you been paying your auto insurance premiums?” Mom asks.

. . . they would give me the cookie and the hug. I could really go for a snickerdoodle and a good squeeze.

I close my eyes, exhale, and flop back against the hard gurney.

“Oh, Laney,” my mom cries, “please, please tell me you didn’t let your policy lapse?”

“I’ve been paying my insurance premiums, Mom.”

She doesn’t say “Thank God” because she is an agnostic, but I can almost hear it in her sigh. “Thank God my unmotivated, unintelligent, unfocused daughter remembered to pay her insurance premium and didn’t spend it on ukulele strings, spiritual growth crystals, sunglasses, or records of obscure French artists.”

Can I help it if I dream about living in an Edith Piaf song? Who wouldn’t want to escape this technologically frantic, social media driven, uninspired, impersonal society to live in a place where roses bloom and angels sing from above? I would sacrifice my entire collection of vintage jewelry and sunglasses to live in Edith’s world, where everyday words magically turn into love songs. To be measured by the uniqueness of my soul, not my ability to fit in with the Fakebook crowd, that’s my idea of heaven.

Hot, fat tears squeeze between my closed eyelids and slide over my temples, soaking my hairline, pooling in my ears. My father shifts his weight from one foot to the other (my eyes are still closed, but I hear his Italian leather loafers squeak) and clears his throat.

“Laney, dear,” my mother says, perching herself on the edge of the gurney and resting her hand on my arm. “Obviously, it is terribly disappointing to learn you crashed the car your grandfather generously gifted you, but with steady employment with a legitimate company, it will be possible to extricate yourself from this unfortunate situation.”

In Chinese philosophy, yin and yang are words that describe how opposite or contrary forces are actually interconnected and thus working together. Light and dark. Fire and water. The yin of my personality is sweet, agreeable, eager to please, always seeking peace. Right now, the lesser yang is staging a coup—the infinitesimally small part of me that can be contrary, rebellious, churlish, and childish (though usually only to my parents). My yin is trying to keep my yang from speaking, but . . .

“So, I guess now would be a bad time to tell you that I’m being evicted?” I sit up and fix. . .