So Much More

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Early praise for So Much More

  Other Books By Kim Holden

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Get out of hell free card

  Everyone loves sheep

  The world I'm creating for me

  Third times a charm

  The housewarming mango

  Hope your day is as awesome as you are

  Disturbingly human

  It hurt like hell and we named him Kai

  Stretch marks are for life

  Forgotten and discarded, that pisses me off

  Scotch is for geriatric men

  Win. Motherfucking win.

  The turncoat

  We needed a hero

  Your knees are attractive; it’s a shame to bloody them

  Uneventful and normal, I want to be that guy

  Fuck the façade

  She usually saves the sigh

  You might need your own sign

  He’s not perfect anymore

  My body was busy deconstructing itself

  She’s kind of a bitch

  The unwelcome invader invites new obsessions

  Flypaper

  I’m the punchline

  Goddamn pathetic sponge

  All that’s left is we

  Botox, overcoats, and destiny

  Blackmail sounds so harsh

  A lovely shade of I will annihilate your soul

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph

  No one measures up to a saint

  Choking on thick smoke

  Sulking in the cesspool of villainy

  Shedding regret like snakeskin

  Sometimes a blessing is disguised as despair

  Compressed wood pulp and bad intention

  I never thought I had a type

  French onion dip and damage control compost

  The epicenter of hell

  Time yields results, even against the defiant

  Batman angels

  I want to tear my pages out and run away with them

  The calendar is now sacred

  Fool me twice, fuck you

  Miserably imperfect saccharin happiness

  I wouldn’t wipe my ass with your distorted perspective

  Baking a new pie

  Sick and tired of feeling the ugliness

  Where’s the fucking butter

  You used to be nice

  I always have a choice

  Pine-Sol gives me a headache

  You don’t get a medal for trying

  I see myself in you

  Nobody pisses on my rainbow

  I need to dream to sleep

  Parenthood isn’t genetic

  That’s a stunner to open with

  Were you sent straight from hell to destroy my life

  Good at keeping secrets

  You were my hope

  Sometimes, it isn’t that hard

  Life blooms in second chances

  Magic sounds delicious

  What an unbelievably beautiful circumstance to be in

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  So Much More Playlist

  Miranda's Motherfucking Monkey Bread

  About the Author

  Other Books By Kim Holden

  Published by Do Epic, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locale is entirely coincidental.

  So Much More Copyright © 2016

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-0-9911402-6-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  Cover photography by Andi Hando

  Cover design by Brandon Hando

  Editing by Amy Donnelly at Alchemy and Words and Monica Stockbridge

  Interior design by Amy Donnelly at Alchemy and Words

  Early praise for So Much More

  “The story has interwoven layers of emotion that you can’t help but feel deep in your heart as you read, and complex character development that can make you go from hating a character to hoping for their redemption in the breadth of just a few chapters. You’ll feel everything: love, hate, joy, anger, pain, healing… This book is intricately crafted and rich in detail; an emotionally intelligent story.” –Aestas Book Blog

  “I felt like I was inside Seamus and Miranda’s heads, hearing the things we never say out loud to a spouse.” –Renée Carlino, USA Today bestselling author

  “Kim intricately entwines words to create beautifully fragile, yet resilient, souls…each needing to be loved. And I love them all.” –Rebecca Donovan, USA Today bestselling author of The Breathing Series

  Other books by Kim Holden

  All of It

  Bright Side

  Gus

  Dedication

  B.,

  We.

  What an unbelievably beautiful circumstance to be in.

  You’ve always been my so much more.

  I love you.

  Mom,

  Brave.

  That’s you.

  For thirty-six years you’ve fought Multiple Sclerosis with badass grace.

  I love you.

  Prologue

  Love explained…or denied

  Ask one hundred people to explain love.

  And you’ll get one hundred different answers.

  Because love is like art, it’s subjective.

  Fluid.

  Ever-changing.

  Evolving.

  Case in point…

  Love isn’t real.

  It’s make believe, like Santa Claus or Vegas. All sparkle and fluff, until you look closely, and it’s just a sham under the guise of overinflated, wish-granting potential.

  Only fools believe in love.

  And I am no fool.

  Love is strange. It comes out of nowhere. There’s no logic to it. It’s not methodical. It’s not scientific. It’s pure emotion and passion. And emotion and passion can be dangerous because they fuel love…and hate.

  I’m now a reluctant connoisseur of both—an expert through immersion. I know them intimately.

  When I fell in love with Miranda, it was swift and blind. We were both young. She was smart, beautiful, witty, and elusive. Rumors surrounded her like a legend that’s repeated in hushed whispers for generations based on hearsay and speculation. People said she was cruel, I saw strong willed. People said she was aloof, I saw independent. People said she was cunning, I saw goal-oriented. For every warning I was given, I put on rose-colored glasses and looked at her through my own warped, but discriminating, perspective. That is perhaps my biggest flaw, as well as my saving grace; I tend to only see the best in people. I had visions of grandeur. I didn’t want to change her—I didn’t think she needed changing. She was the person I’d elevated to mythical status in my head, in my dreams.

  Here’s the thing about dreams, they’re smoke. They’re spun as thoughts until they become something we think we want. Something we think we need. That was Miranda. She was smoke. I thought I wanted her. I thought I needed her. Over time reality crept in and slowly dissected and disemboweled my dreams like a predator, leaving behind a rotting carcass.

  Reality can be a fierce bitch.

  So can Miranda.

  And I can be a fo
ol...

  who believes in dreams.

  And people.

  And love.

  There are a lot of things I’ve done without during my twenty-two years. You can’t miss what you never had, right? That holds true for everything in my life, except one. Love.

  I miss it, even though we’ve never met.

  It’s not something I’ve idealized into unobtainable perfection. Humans are messy and I’m sure love is too.

  I think love is instinct driven, with the heart ruling over mind. It can’t be defined. I’ll just know it when I feel it, because it will be so bone-jarringly beautiful.

  I want that someday, bone-jarringly beautiful.

  Get out of hell free card

  past

  “You’re such a bitch, Miranda,” my roommate says with disdain. It’s an insult.

  We’re in the middle of one of our weekly, petty arguments. Our arguments are never over anything of significance, they’re simply a product of our mutual dislike for each other. I roll my eyes, regretting that I have my back turned to her and she can’t see the full force of my loathing. “Like I haven’t heard that one before,” I retort, injecting the venom of the wasted eye roll into my words, as I turn to face her.

  She yanks the strap of her backpack over her shoulder in true pissy, self-righteous fashion and stomps to the door on her dainty, little feet that are better suited for a fairy than a human. Her petite, ethereal appeal is one of the things that irks me the most about her. The other is that deep down she’s just nice. Which automatically means we repel each other, like opposite sides of a magnet. “I don’t know what Seamus sees in you,” she mutters before slamming the front door behind her, eliminating my chance to reply.

  “Me either,” I whisper to an empty room. It’s a truth I don’t want anyone to hear.

  I’ve never been the type of girl who needed a man in her life. Men don’t complete me, romance is bullshit. They provide folly in my otherwise structured and strict world. I enjoy the occasional game of cat and mouse, at the conclusion of which I consume the mouse whole with sharpened teeth after toying with it until it’s dazed into a bent version of its once vibrant self. Men are such simple creatures. The pretty ones are my favorite, their egos so fun to crush into sparkly dust.

  Seamus is different though. I didn’t know it at first. When he pursued, I played coy and let him; it’s all part of the game. But then we went out a few times. And that’s when it happened.

  I was temporarily stunned.

  Bewitched.

  Seamus is one of those rare men who has no clue how good looking he is, how intelligent he is, how kind he is, how good he is. He just is. And oddly enough, I found that incredibly attractive. It’s what drew me in. He’s idealistic, selfless, and genuinely believes in the good in humanity. I didn’t know men like him existed outside of the goddamn Hallmark channel. It made me want to be like him—to be good. He’s the only person I’d ever met who made me yearn for some light in my black soul.

  Foolish, I know. That pipe dream was short lived.

  Thank God.

  I came to my senses and realized that idealism and goodness are a luxury afforded to few. And that kindness clashes with my life goals, every last one. You can’t claw your way to the top riding a wave of good intentions and hope for the best. Success is a science fueled by calculated action and hard work—it’s manufactured, everything part of a larger agenda. People are pawns. Morals only get in the way. Power isn’t granted to pussies.

  But here’s the thing I’ve learned about having Seamus in my life.

  I need him.

  I need to keep him close.

  He’s my get out of hell free card.

  My good karma card.

  My walking, talking goddamn repentance.

  Being in a relationship with him is like living in a confessional booth. I sin, he absolves. It all evens out. I’m innocent by association. And goddamn, is he nice to look at.

  I was raised by my grandmother. She didn’t have a lot of money; she was a lawyer who lived for pro bono work, passionately representing women who’d been wronged in some fashion or another. She shared her cases with me, and I learned early on that it’s a dog eat dog world, only the strong survive and thrive. She was vicious. My grandmother was the poster child for women’s rights and the original man-hater. She hammered into me at an early age that I could do anything a man could do…better. She was a brash, outspoken, unyielding, guiding force. The complete opposite of my doormat mother, a weak individual, compromised by vices and bad decisions that ended in her death when I was ten. She let others influence her and ultimately destroy her. I will not be my mother. I will be my grandmother. Nothing, and no one, will destroy me.

  My grandmother was someone people didn’t simply cower from. They submitted, willingly or not, they submitted—it never failed to awe me. The fact that she could inflict power over others so effortlessly, and without remorse, made her a goddess in my book. She chewed them up and spit them out. I grew up trying to emulate her; she was my role model. She pushed me in school—nothing short of excellence and perfection was accepted—and instilled a work ethic second to none. Hard work was my ticket to everything I wanted. That and a little subtle manipulation when necessary; another handy trick she taught me. She was the only person I craved approval from because she’s the only person I admired. She died two days before I received my acceptance letter to UCLA. She never got to see our dream come true—attending a prestigious university and a coveted degree for me.

  I took that as a big fuck you from the universe.

  And ever since, I take every chance to give it the middle finger in return.

  But for some reason Seamus is different.

  He feels like another fuck you. A cruel twist the universe is throwing at me to test my tough-as-nails resolve, which makes me love him and hate him at the same time.

  I want to cling to his soft heart, but I don’t want his softness to seep into my hard heart. Because softness will get me nowhere. And I have plans, big plans.

  Everyone loves sheep

  past

  “I bet you were the kid growing up who always had his name butchered by the teacher when they called role the first day of school?” I ask.

  He nods emphatically. “It still gets butchered, but yeah, let’s just say the ‘pronunciation of Seamus’ YouTube clip would’ve been helpful back then.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “You’re lying. There’s a YouTube clip?”

  He chuckles at my accusation. “Swear to God, search it. There’s a clip.”

  I make a mental note to do an internet search when I get home. “Seamus McIntyre is an Irish name.” I’m probing for history, lineage, with that statement.

  He smiles that smile of his. The one that’s effortlessly good-natured in intent. “It is.” The way he says it, I know he’s gone down this road of ancestral interrogation before, not unjustified because he’s a walking contradiction.

  “Shouldn’t you have red hair, green eyes, and pale skin? Instead of all of this.” My outstretched hand motions wildly, showcasing him to illustrate my point. “Your name is false advertising.” He’s the opposite of red hair, green eyes, and pale skin.

  He laughs before he says, “My dad’s family was from Ireland, a few generations back. My name was an attempt to reconnect to that, I guess. My mom was Hawaiian, born and raised. I look more like her, obviously.” The malice I hear in his voice when he speaks of his father flips upside down to reverence when he speaks of his mother. He’s opened up a bit to me about his past. His father was an asshole and has been out of the picture, by his choice, since Seamus turned eighteen. His mother, on the other hand, from Seamus’s stories, would’ve given Mother Teresa a run for her money. She died when he was a senior in high school.

  “Obviously,” I agree.

  He nods. “My middle name is Hawaiian, though. Aouli, it means blue sky.” Sentimentality, something I’m unfamiliar with, oozes from him. It’s fascina
ting, he’s an ongoing experiment. Questions and answers like this only add to the pro column. Yes, I’m mentally keeping track of pros and cons. I have plans for an extraordinary life. Seamus is unique in almost all areas, a priceless piece of beauty, and that fits well amongst the extraordinary I’m building. He’s a ‘look what I have and you don’t’ kind of specimen.

  We’ve been dating for months now. He’s the only man I’ve ever met who can hold my attention. And vice-versa, I’m clearly holding his. I usually get bored. They usually get intimidated. Blah. Blah. But with him, there’s an odd pull that I can’t walk away from. It’s as if the universe has administered a biting, backhanded slap to my face, warning me to open my eyes, while screaming, ‘It doesn’t get any better than the man in front of you! Don’t be a goddamn idiot!’ My life has been orchestrated in my mind for years. A strict timeline, complete with deadlines for success in all areas: career, most importantly, and the picture perfect façade that surrounds it.

  I’ve decided that Seamus needs to be a permanent fixture in my life. I need him to chase away the bad mojo I’m no doubt going to create. It’s not my conscience I’m worried about. I, like my grandmother before me, am not equipped with one; it’s my future façade. An enviable husband and a few spawn look good for well-rounded appearance’s sake, a wolf surrounded by cute, likable, soft little sheep. Everyone loves sheep.

  So, I’ve stopped taking my birth control pills.

  Seamus doesn’t know.

  We’ve talked about marriage. And children. I break out in hives while he looks so contented with the idea I would swear he was put on earth solely for the purpose of procreation and his loins carry only angelic seed.