So Much More by Kim Holden
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 fool...
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.