Go Away, Darling - Alexis Anne

Part I

Author’s Note

After I wrote Come For Me, Darling I was hit with a very harsh round of depression. I tried to write through it, finishing a first draft of Go Away, Darling, only to realize it was pretty terrible. So I walked away from that manuscript.

It took me two years to pick it back up again and oh, man! There was a lot of work to do, but the foundation was fantastic. All I had to do was delete over half the book and edit out the elements of my own depression that somehow wound up in their story! Easy! (It was not easy.)

Leaving a story that’s part of a larger universe for two years meant that I had to reread books and do a lot of research on my own writing. I fully admit that I didn’t get everything perfect. All I ask is that you overlook anything that doesn’t line up exactly. I tried my hardest and I love the book we ended up with.

Go Away, Darling is sweet, a little bit funny, and a lot bit hopeful. Enjoy!

—Alexis

1

Excellent peripheral vision

Chris

The sun was starting to dip toward the horizon. At least I think it was. I had to admit that drinking a six-pack on a hot day of fishing was probably not my wisest decision, but it was my day off and damn it all, I wanted to.

There was a point in every baseball season when I reached my limit. Where I got so fucking sick of the daily games, road trips, and stress that I disappeared for my day off and got shitfaced drunk.

Today was that day. We were 137 games into the best season of my life. The Mantas were on track for a sweet position in the playoffs and everyone had started to say the “P” word. Pennant. I didn’t dare say it out loud, let alone the ones that came after that. Ballplayers dreamt their whole lives of playing in a World Series; I wasn’t about to curse myself now.

Besides, there was a reason I bought a beach house on a quiet island just far enough away from my Mantas teammates. I needed space. I needed home. My life was baseball but at the end of the day I craved settling down in the same place, putting down roots, living my life off the field as quietly as possible. Here I could fish. I was just one of many who enjoyed spending solitary time alone with their beer and their potential dinner. There was something immensely satisfying about catching your dinner. It called to my baser instincts.

Which was why I was all kinds of fired up and pissed off when I heard the quiet motor of another boat. Generally I was a friendly guy and most days I’d wave, maybe exchange a few words with my fellow fisherman, and get back to it. But not today. Today was Pissed-Off Day. I wanted—no needed—to brood alone, which required me to sober up enough to tell this interloper to leave as quickly as possible.

I was anchored up in a nice, quiet bay. It was one of those mangrove islands that wasn’t really an island so much as it was where a sandbar had collected enough sand to become a tiny spit of land, the mangroves colonized and it grew to a decent size, but no one was going to be setting foot on it, let alone living on it. It was mostly just a great place to fish and have some peace and quiet. Sometimes I found other fishermen, sometimes I found topless women sunbathing, sometimes I found both.

I was far enough away from Calusa Key that I couldn’t see it, but close enough that it was a quick sprint home whenever I sobered back up. The salt water and harsh sun had called to me all my life, demanding that one day I return to the sleepy island I called home so many years ago. With such a bright spotlight on me this year, it was time. I bought the house and felt a sense of relief that I had somewhere to escape to. The only problem was that those opportunities for escape were few and far between.

The mystery boat came around the northern tip of the island, the driver standing up behind the steering wheel. The blue bimini top was up for shade, so clearly the boater had been moving slowly around the area. He raised his hand in a wave.

I did not return