Give Me You Read online

  As we leave the ceremony, Skylar, Christian, and I decide to walk to the restaurant since it’s right around the corner and the weather is nice.

  “I was mostly still. So I get dessert, right?” Christian asks me with hopeful hazel eyes.

  We all laugh as I muss his curly hair. “Yeah, cutie. As long as you share with me.”

  “Cool,” he says as his dad takes the hand I’m not holding.

  “We can get married whenever you’re ready, sweetheart,” Skylar tells me over Christian’s head as we approach the Italian restaurant. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Or I have some time off around Christmas if that works for you.”

  I grin and nod as the mention of Christmas sends our son off on a tangent about his ever-growing Christmas list.

  “I know it’s not the fairytale,” my future husband says just loud enough for me to hear. “But I love you more than you could ever know and I promise to show you every day how grateful I am to have you in my life.”

  I glance over at the table full of our family that Christian has already rushed off to join.

  Not that long ago I was a broken girl with no future sitting alone on a bench waiting for a bus that changed my life. And now here I am surrounded by love and more joy than I ever could’ve imagined. Somehow I know Fallon is smiling down on us from a place where she is free from the darkness.

  No prince rescued me. I rescued myself. Though I did find two very charming and handsome fellas along the way. But I love our story because it’s ours.

  I haven’t told him yet, because I don’t want to steal his proposal thunder, but in about seven months, there will be another addition to our family. I’ll tell him tonight when we’re alone in bed. Then we can come up with a fun way to tell our son he’s going to be a big brother. I grin just thinking about it.

  I tug Skylar backward before he joins everyone at the table. “Sky…”

  “Yeah, babe?”

  I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him closer because he’s mine and I can. “Best fairytale ever.”

  Read other books by Caisey Quinn

  Dear Skylar,

  I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter this way. Maybe in fourth grade when we were learning penmanship.

  Anyways, you’re probably wondering why I’m writing this to you now. I tried to reach you a few years ago, but I couldn’t and I understand why you don’t want to hear from me. You deserve happiness and love and someone who can appreciate the many gifts you have to offer in ways that I never could. I hope you worked things out with your redhead. I’ve never seen you so worked up over someone—not even me—so I guess it must be the real deal.

  First, I wanted to say thank you. You tried harder than anyone to see the good in me when I couldn’t see it in myself. No matter how much I hurt you or rejected your efforts at helping me, you were always there for me. So many times I wished I could’ve been different, wished I could’ve just been normal. I like to think we would’ve gotten engaged in college, married soon after, and had a houseful of gorgeous children—because let’s face it, we are both pretty damn attractive.

  When I was a kid, I used to play this game called “When I’m a mom.” Whatever was happening to me, whether my parents had left me with a stranger or if I was grounded or just completely ignored, I’d make myself these promises. Kind of like a do and don’t list. The most important ones were:

  When I’m a mom, I won’t ever leave my child with anyone who might hurt them.

  I won’t ever ignore them when they’re sad or lonely.

  I won’t ever make them eat dinner before dessert or send them to bed hungry.

  I won’t ever make them cry.

  And the dos.

  I will always say I love you.

  I will always kiss them goodnight.

  I will always let them get cotton candy at the fair.

  I will always listen to what they have to say. Even if it makes me sad.

  You’re the only person who knows the half of what my childhood was like, and you’re the one person who needs to know that it was so much worse than I ever told you. My dad’s business partner, Allen Densmore, he’s dead now, may his soul burn in Hell, began molesting me when I was eight years old. My parents would leave me with him and his awful hag of a wife when they’d go out of town. When I told his wife what he’d done, snuck into my room and hurt me, she slapped me in the face.

  When he didn’t stop, I told my dad, whose exact words were “Allen wouldn’t do something like that. You must’ve had a bad dream.” I’ll never know if my dad truly didn’t believe me or if he just valued his business more than my well-being.

  The first time I ran away from home I was ten and it was because they were sending me to the Densmore’s house for the weekend. I threatened to kill myself if they did and my mom put me in the hospital where I stayed for weeks.

  When I got older, I tried to tell her everything. How some of the babysitters locked me in closets or my room so they could have boys over. How some of them would leave me home alone to go to parties and how scared I was. I even tried to tell her about dad’s partner, and why I kept threatening suicide every time he was mentioned, but by then, I’d acted out so much she didn’t trust a word out of my mouth.

  My parents existed in a perfect bubble and when my pain became like a giant needle threatening to burst that bubble, they’d send me away.

  For years, I barely spoke to anyone. Until you. Because as cocky and obnoxious as you could be, I knew from the first time I met you that you had a good heart. You had this light, one I knew no longer existed in me, if it ever even had. I tried to stay close to you in hopes it would rub off or something—that I’d figure out how to be fun and happy by imitating you and one day I’d be able to let the pain of my past go.

  I tried. And sometimes it worked. For a while. But it always came back—when I was alone for too long or not busy. Little things would trigger the memories and I learned that alcohol and pills could numb them away, temporarily at least. I’m not making excuses. It doesn’t make it right, but at the time, it was the only thing that helped.

  I got sober three years ago because I had to.

  We have a son. His name is Christian. Christian Andrew. He has your middle name because I wanted him to have something of yours. I pray he also has your inner light, your smile, your tenacity, and your infectious laugh.

  I don’t get to see him much. I struggled to stay sober after he was born and my mom was given custody. I keep trying to get it together so that I can get him away from them before they ruin him the way they ruined me. But I’m slipping, Skylar. I keep slipping. Back into the darkness. I’m so tired all of the time. Too tired to work, too tired to remember what day it is, too tired to fight the memories of things I can’t change.

  I need one last favor. It’s a big one, but I swear I will never ask you for anything again.

  I want you to be the one to raise our son.

  Don’t let them ruin him. Please. Fight for him, Skylar. Love him and want him and be good to him. You have a good heart. I know you can be the father he deserves. They aren’t meant to be parents. They don’t know how.

  They aren’t bad people, my parents, but they aren’t nurturing or kind or understanding. They are specific brand of selfish and they will probably try to keep our son like a possession. Please don’t let them.

  I can’t be the mother he deserves just as I couldn’t be the girlfriend you deserved. But the two of you, you could be there for each other.

  I hope you are well and that you’ll think about my request. I’ve included a picture of Christian, it’s the only one I have. It’s gotten me through some really difficult times. I don’t want to mess up your life or your career, but he needs you.

  I’m in Milan for another week but then I’ll be in New York and then back to LA. Maybe we can meet for coffee or something to talk if you’re in town.

  I hope to hear from you soon.

  All My Love,

  Fallon
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  Elastic Heart – Sia

  Mayday - Cam

  Free - Broods

  Peter Pan – Kelsea Ballerini

  Titanium – David Guetta feat. Sia

  Scars to Your Beautiful – Alessia Cara

  Try – Pink

  Red High Heels – Kellie Pickler

  Gasoline – Halsey

  Make You Miss Me (acoustic version) – Sam Hunt

  Hands to Myself – Selena Gomez

  Close – Nick Jonas & Tove Lo

  T-Shirt – Thomas Rhett

  Love the Way You Lie – Skylar Grey

  Till Dawn (Here Comes the Sun) – The Weeknd

  Clean – Taylor Swift

  Why Do I Feel – Dierks Bentley

  Just Over – Luke Bryan

  Don’t Need Nobody – Ellie Goulding

  Lost Boy – Ruth B

  Die A Happy Man - Thomas Rhett

  Next to Me – Emeli Sandé

  Keep Me Still was Layla and Landen’s story and I knew how it played out before I even typed the first word. What I didn’t plan for was the amount of love readers had for Skylar and Corin. People wanted to know what happened between them those times they went off alone to give Layla and Landen their privacy. As time when on, I realized I wanted to know too.

  But Corin was stubborn. Private and guarded. And she didn’t want her story told. So it took a while to get it out of her.

  When she finally started talking to me steadily in my head, I was worried about publishing Give Me You. Her story isn’t pretty, isn’t linear, and isn’t quite as clear-cut and relatable as readers might prefer.

  In other words, it’s not the fairytale as she is fond of reminding you. But I like to think we all have our own version of what makes up a happy ending. Maybe we raise other people’s children, or have unplanned pregnancies, or have to battle depression after a miscarriage. Point being, while the specifics of our triumphs and tragedies may be different, we all get our hearts shattered to hell and back along the way in one way or another. Maybe we suffer through soul-staining experiences and heartbreaking disappointments, but in the end, life is a gift and a beautiful one. Corin realized that and as I told her story, so did I.

  I would be remiss not to mention Fallon. She is a complex young woman who many would’ve have easily painted as the villain. It’s a tempting road to take, but as I got to know her, I realized there was so much more to her than a pretty face. She was born from my years of teaching in wealthy school districts where I had students who talked more about time spent with nannies than parents. Please don’t misunderstand, I don’t mean to generalize or stereotype and it was only a handful of children who lived like that, but they made an impression on me.

  One in particular who I suspected but was unable to prove was frequently left in care that was less than ideal while her parents were out of town for either work or leisure. Two years after I left teaching, I learned that she’d committed suicide due to an unplanned pregnancy. I won’t name her because she was a minor and her family would probably not appreciate that very much, but for all the girls trapped in the darkness, I pray you find the light. That the right teacher or trusted adult is able to help you find it. I will never forget my “Fallon” and I will always wish I could’ve done more to help her.

  In some ways, Fallon is a version of Corin that Corin could’ve become under different circumstances. I never intended for them to be similar, and yet, Corin pointed out to me that they were.

  And finally, if you are a close reader who has done the diligent duty of placing Keep Me Still and Give Me You side by side to compare the parts where they overlap, you may have questions. Certain scenes are skipped—either glossed over or ignored completely and here’s why: While specific events might have been pertinent to Landen and Layla, they simply weren’t that life changing to Skylar and Corin. Since this is Skylar and Corin’s story, they got to call the shots about what was vital and what got left out.

  I hope you enjoyed Give Me You and that you will check out my other books! Keep reading for a sneak peek at my next indie project, a suspense-filled southern romance that takes place deep in the Mississippi Delta coming this fall.

  For regular updates on my releases, sign up for my newsletter here.

  Coming September 2016

  729

  “I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret,

  between the shadow and the soul.”

  -Pablo Neruda

  PROLOGUE

  Blood isn’t really red. Not like you see in the movies anyway. Not crayon red, or lipstick red, or whore’s panties red as the nun’s at school would say.

  Blood is so dark it’s nearly black.

  It’s thick and thin all at the same time. Slippery. Messy.

  And it stains.

  When you’re covered in it, really covered in it, it looks more like oil than anything else.

  That’s what stands out in my memory. Not the fear, not the paralyzing realization that the people I loved were dead. Not even the screams.

  It’s the blood I remember.

  I dream of it, dream I’m trying not to make a single sound as my bare feet slide through the warm wetness on my way out of the house.

  My dreams are so vivid I wake up covered in damp sweat and my trembling hands still check. No matter how many times I have the same exact nightmare, I still have to check each and every single time to make sure that it’s sweat I’m covered in.

  It’s been ten years. Ten years of the same silent scream-filled dreams. And I still have to check.

  It’s clear, thin perspiration every time.

  Until it isn’t.

  1

  “Miss Carson has no recollection of the events, Your Honor.” His dialect is local, so my last name comes out more like ‘Kaa-Sun.’ The man speaking is dressed in a nice suit, a sign that he is likely wealthy. I know from the novels in my room that you can tell such as that about a person by looking at what they wear.

  I glance down at my own hospital issue gunmetal gray top and pants. They are thin and slightly rough. As if they were made from a type of paper. Non-descript. Like me.

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Dawes, this is a competency hearing. Not a murder trial.” My gaze drifts over to the man with the thicker southern drawl sitting behind the tall wooden structure. There’s a framed picture behind him with an American flag and an eagle on it. The frame is gold. A color I find garish and am not fond of. In front of him is a woman in a plain white shirt with buttons and a navy blue skirt. She clicks steadily on a machine. “If she can’t speak on her own behalf, and there’s no one here to speak for her, then I—”

  “I can speak for her, Your Honor.” I look over at the woman who has spoken. My lips curve into a smile when I recognize her.

  Aleatha Rose. She’s been my favorite nurse for as long as I can remember.

  The man behind the structure motions with his hand and she steps forward.

  “State your name for the court,” the man says.

  “Aleatha Rose Goodwin, Your Honor.” Her tiny dark-skinned hands grip the wooden gate she stands behind. My attention is focused on the steady tremble of them. Years of focusing on details, of forcing my mind to concentrate on minute things so that the dark looming memories that shadow my every thought don’t take over, has taught me to pay attention to little details.

  “And how long have you known Miss Carson, Mrs. Goodwin?”

  Her hands grip the gate tighter as she responds.

  “Ten years, Your Honor. I was on duty the night they brought her in.”

  “You’re an employee at the institution, I assume?”

  Her hands begin to steady until finally they are still. “It’s a private hospital, Your Honor. And yes, I’m an RN.”

  The man standing in the middle of the room in the suit speaks up before anyone says anything else. “Mrs. Goodwin has been a registered nurse for fifteen years and her husband is a Colonel in the United States Army, Your Honor.”
r />   A gentle quiver begins to rattle around inside of me. I twitch in my seat to stifle it. The tingling begins in my stomach and rises to my throat. It takes me a minute to realize that the impulse to laugh is threatening to overtake me in this quiet room full of stern and somber people. Not because anything happening around me is particularly funny. Only because it is making me strangely uncomfortable that everyone refers to the man as Your Honor. What does one do to be regarded in such a way?

  Surely that cannot be his name. What an odd name that would be.

  The man in the suit came to see me yesterday. He explained that I would be appearing before a judge, which I suppose is exactly what I’m doing. But he never said they’d be calling the judge Your Honor. I wish he had warned me so that I could’ve been prepared for this.

  “Can you tell us about the night they brought her in? What her mental state appeared to be?”

  Aleatha Rose swallows and nods. “Y-yes, Your Honor.” She pauses and turns her face to where I sit. I mean to smile at her but I’m not sure that I do. The corners of her mouth lift but there is sadness in her eyes. “She was eight years old. Small for her age. She had been checked for wounds and was still covered in dried blood. We bathed her and tried to get her to eat.”

  “And did she?”

  “N-no sir, she did not. It was eleven days before we were able to get her to eat anything substantial.”

  My eyes have made their way back to Aleatha Rose’s tiny hands. They’re trembling again.

  Her uneasiness is contagious. My entire life I’ve carefully measured everything I do. Everything I think and feel. Most of the time it seems I’m even making sure my heartbeats are careful. Not too fast. Not too loud.

  Same goes for my breathing. Measured. Careful. And as close to silent as I can manage.