An Ordinary Fairy Tale Read online

  An Ordinary Fairy Tale

  Copyright © 2016 by C.B. Stagg

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, dead or alive, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1539356769

  Cover designed Kassi Jean Designs

  Formatting by C. B. Stagg

  Edited by Jennifer Roberts-Hall

  Second edition edited by Christina Scambray

  IF you’re reading this, it means you’re about to give up hours of your precious time to read my first book, An Ordinary Fairy Tale, and for that, I thank you! Read on to watch my writing grow and improve!

  As an independently published author, the greatest gift you can give me is reading my book. The second greatest gift is reviewing the book on Amazon, B&N, or where ever you purchased it. Authors rely heavily on reviews to keep getting our books into the hands of readers like you. If you’re reading this on Kindle, just keep flipping to the very last page and you’ll have an opportunity to review the book right there while it’s fresh in your mind!

  Also, follow me on Amazon, Facebook, check out my Instagram, take a peek at my website. There are so many more stories I have to tell, so don’t miss out on a release!

  Yours, Charly Stagg

  http://www.cbstaggauthor.com

  @CBStaggAuthor

  Available Now:

  An Ordinary Fairy Tale (A Fairy Tale Life Book #1)

  If Wishes Were Horses (A Fairy Tale Life Book #2)

  Five Minutes to Midnight (A Fairy Tale Life Book #3)

  Scars Like Wings (A Fairy Tale Life Book #4)

  Coming Soon:

  Life on the Ground (A Fairy Tale Life Book #5)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Prologue-Vaughn

  2006

  “MOM, I’M HOME!” I yelled as I crashed through the back door, struggling to drag my luggage inside and out of the rain. The taxi driver smelled of dirty sweat and cigar smoke and was not so inclined to help me with my bags. So while he waited, meter running, I unloaded everything from the back of his cab. On my own. In the type of monsoon Texas summers were famous for.

  “Mom!” I tried again. “Where were you? I waited forever!”

  And I had. I only came home twice a year from my New Hampshire boarding school—for one month during the Christmas holidays, and another in summer. My mom usually met me at the airport, but on this occasion, I found myself camped out in baggage claim at DFW for three hours before finally giving up and catching a cab.

  Once inside the house my mom and I shared since my birth, it was clear something was off. Over the past ten years, I’d arrived home for break to the perfect illusion of domestic stability. It was a show, of course. My mother couldn’t care less if I came home to visit or what condition the house was in. But my arrival was always punctuated by a visit from Mr. Preston, and the show was for him. Well, it was actually for my father via Mr. Preston. And domestic tranquility, show or not, was the exact opposite of what I walked into today.

  I’d never actually met my father. I didn’t even know his name. All I knew was that he was a wealthy, older man. That, and that my mother had wasted her entire life waiting for a ‘happily ever after’ that would never come. I couldn’t say if the two were ever in love or if she was just infatuated and obsessed with him, but if I had to place a bet on which, I would choose the latter. Either way, they’d had a passionate affair until I screwed everything up. I was a pregnancy trap, only it had the opposite result. Instead of my birth uniting my parents in wedded bliss, it brought a restraining order and a financial payoff.

  That’s where Mr. Preston entered the picture. George Preston was an attorney employed by my father to keep tabs on my well being. Twice a year, Mr. Preston came to our home under the guise of benefactor. His job was to make sure my finances were being handled in an appropriate manner, though I suspected he was really there to make sure I was being handled properly. Whatever the case, I looked forward to seeing Mr. Preston a thousand times more than seeing my mother. On any given day, I never knew which version of my mom I would be coming home to, but on the days Mr. Preston visited, she was almost normal. Those were some of the best days of my life.

  “MOM!” I yelled again, aiming my voice up the dark stairs. Again, no response. Maybe she went out, though I knew that was unlikely. She rarely left her room, much less the house, plus her car was in the driveway, so she was definitely home.

  I pulled my sodden luggage through the kitchen, down the hallway and into my bedroom on the first floor. Falling onto my bed, I panted in exhaustion and relief. Travel always left me emotionally and mentally exhausted. I hated peopling almost as much as my mother did.

  Just as I was starting to recover from my frustrating afternoon, my phone vibrated in my pocket. ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” rang out, letting me know Mr. Preston was calling. I smiled at the anticipation of his familiar voice, his presence was always like aloe on a bad burn.

  “Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be here already? Mom left me at the airport—and get this. I had to take a taxi!” I talked a lot when I got excited.

  He started laughing almost as soon as I started talking. “Slow down, young lady, slow down.” His chuckle felt like home to me. “I’m on my way now. I tried to call your mother earlier, to remind her your flight was coming in, but she never answered. How did she seem when you got home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My words hung in the air and embarrassment washed over me. I’d been avoiding her, putting off what was sure to be the first of many awkward encounters between my mother and me over the next thirty days.

  “I haven’t seen her yet. I just got here.” I grunted as I hauled myself off of the bed to go to her room. The weight of seeing my mother was an albatross around my neck. “Hey, old man, I sure have missed you.” My statement was genuine. Mr. P was the only stability I’d known in my sixteen years of life.

  “I’ve missed you too, my girl.” He never hid his affection for me. I knew he meant it just as much as I did. “Now, run upstairs to find your mother, and I’ll have arrived by the time you come back down. I’m just turning onto your street.”

  We said goodbye as I tromped up the stairs and walked down the dark hallway toward my mom’s bedroom door. The house was silent, eerie almost, with nothing but the hum of the air conditioner to fill my ears. With a slight hesitation, I pushed her door open, holding my breath, in fear of what I might find.

  Stepping through the door, I spotted my mother cu
rled up on her side facing the opposite wall. Her bed was filthy, and it was clear by the smell that she hadn’t showered in a few days. “Hey, Mom,” I stage whispered, taking a few more delicate steps in her direction. I took great care in avoiding the clothes, papers and bottles scattered on the carpet. Still nothing. She was out. After turning her bedside lamp on, I leaned in to gently shake her body awake.

  The weight of my knee kneeling on her mattress jostled her, and I watched as my mom rolled toward me in slow motion. My heart thrummed in my ears, and the world fell away as my mind digested what I was seeing.

  This woman wasn’t my mother.

  It couldn’t be.

  My mother was vibrant and beautiful, while this woman was haggard and worn.

  My mother was curvy and strong, while this woman was skin and bones.

  My mother was alive and breathing, while this old, skeletal waif of a woman was not.

  This woman was not my mother.

  This woman was dead.

  1-Vaughn

  2011

  I WIPED MY PALMS on my shorts for the hundredth time as I willed myself to open the door and get out of the car. It’s just a soccer field. Filled with kids. And other strangers I don’t know. I shook my head, trying to remain focused on the task at hand. I knew the unorthodox requirements for the KINE class I’d signed up for would force me out of my comfort zone, but was I ready? The answer to that was yes. This girl was done letting anxiety rule her life.

  As I reached for the door handle of my silver Mustang, I worked on my controlled breathing. It was something my therapist had taught me to do when I felt my control slipping, and it usually worked.

  “You can do this,” I whispered under my breath, trying not to move my lips as I gave myself a quick, mini pep talk. All I needed was to be caught talking to myself and for someone to kick me out of the soccer park because they thought I was too crazy to coach little kids.

  It was a beautiful Texas fall day—the kind you wish you could replicate the other 364 days of the year. A warm breeze grazed my skin as soon as I got out of the car, carrying with it the scent of freshly cut grass and sunshine. The sports complex was a buzzing hive of activity under the almost setting sun. Kids of all sizes and shapes were all decked out in their uniforms, bounding through the grass, giggling, and playing. Their energy was infectious.

  I bounced on the balls of my feet as I took it all in. Despite my nerves, I was excited to meet my team. Children were my passion. I loved their innocence, oblivious to how relentless and cruel the world could be. With all those wishes and dreams packed into their tiny little bodies, the world was their playground. I envied that innocence. I was never able to live my life with such naivety, which often made me question my motives for becoming a teacher. Was it to change lives and to reach kids’ hearts before it was too late? Or was it to relive my youth, hoping to fulfill some subconscious need to be carefree?

  Really, though, the motivation behind my career choice was irrelevant. I was just beginning my senior year at Texas A&M University, and in nine short months I’d have my elementary education degree. I’d worked tirelessly on the singular goal of graduating from college, and now I was in the homestretch. As one of my last classes before student teaching, my degree plan required me to take a kinesiology class taught through the education department.

  Last week, my faculty mentor, advisor, and friend, Dr. Becky Hanson, recommended me as a guinea pig for a new course she’d created.

  “Can’t I just take aerobic walking?” The whiny edge in my voice was annoying, even to me, but seriously. Sports and I didn’t even speak the same language.

  “No, ma’am,” Becky clipped. “You cannot take aerobic walking… again.” Her long fingers paused, hovering over her keyboard as she gave me a pointed look. The woman’s facial expressions were a language of their own, and she spoke it well. In the three years I’d known her, I was pretty fluent in Becky’s face, and I was starting to think I was fighting a losing battle.

  “Look, this is ridiculous. I have never played a youth sport. Like, never ever. What is it about this… ” my eyes searched the paper in front of me for the precise course title, “about this Impact of Youth Sports course that calls out ‘Hey, Vaughn Jennings would be perfect for this class?’” I rolled my eyes at the end of that statement in disbelief. This was so not me.

  “I hate physical activity. You wanna know why? One, I’m a klutz. Two, the sun is not my friend!” I did a Vanna White impression, pointing out my fiery red mop of hair and the eight million freckles sprinkled across my skin like stars in the night sky to prove my point.

  “Three, I have big boobs, what my mom liked to refer to as ‘birthin’ hips,’ and my thighs rub together, for Pete’s sake.” I wasn’t built for athletics of any kind. Dance, maybe, but I couldn't even do that well.

  “And four,” I had to stop and think, I was on number four, right? “I don’t like to put myself in situations where balls can come flying at my face.” I paused when she snorted. “Sorry, that last statement sounded better in my head. The point is, I. Am not. Athletic.” My staccato was lost on my friend. “Like, for real, if you ever see me running, you better run too because someone is chasing me with a bloody knife. Do ya get it now?” My flailing hands landed on my hips, and I looked straight at her, eyebrows raised, searching for some sort of comprehension on her face.

  Becky just chuckled like I was a one-woman comedy act; only I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was dead serious—sort of.

  “Look,” she said, using her assertive teacher voice, something she was hoping would rub off on me. “This is my course. I will be your supervisor.” I still didn’t see what that had to do with anything. "Look, this city has a pressing need for more volunteer coaches in youth sports. Vaughn, I’m not asking you to go out there and play soccer. I just want you to coach soccer.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but she shut me down by holding one of her long, brown, well-manicured fingers in the air and I knew when her brows shot up to her hairline, attitude was coming. “Soccer… that’s the one where you use the football bat to get the birdie down the lane to knock down the pins, then run the bases to make a touchdown, right? Sure, I can coach that.”

  The eye roll following my less than mature sarcastic rant physically hurt my head. The whole situation was really pissing me off, but since my bad attitude wasn’t getting the desired result, I decided to try the pity angle.

  With a pathetic frown firmly in place, I opened my mouth but was instantly cut off. “And you can go ahead and save your breath, missy. I know you’re an introvert, I know large crowds freak you out, and I’m very aware of your ‘stranger danger’ mentality.” She rolled away from her computer screen and faced me, massaging her temples as she continued. “I am also well-acquainted with your social anxiety disorder, having witnessed panic attacks on more than one occasion. But girl,” Becky took a long, deep breath, “right now, I need you to not just hear my words, but actually listen to what I’m saying.”

  Her big brown eyes locked on to mine in a silent challenge. “You are not the same girl you were when you walked into my office three years ago. That girl was weak, fragile, and scared of her own shadow. But look at you now… you’ve worked hard and you’ve come so far. You are strong. You are smart. You are resilient, and you are becoming more and more independent every single day. So you are going to face your fears and coach this team, or you are going to fail this class. And what would that do to your ‘oh, so perfect’ GPA, hmm?” Crap.

  As much as I wanted to continue the argument, I knew I didn’t have a leg to stand on. Everything she said was truth. It really was time I put my big girl panties on and started handling life—instead of letting it handle me.

  Becky Hanson was an associate professor in the department of education and had been assigned as my faculty mentor my first day at Texas A&M University over three years ago. Not all incoming freshman got a faculty mentor, but I did because I was a ‘special circumstance’ st
udent. My life was like one bad Lifetime movie after another. Abandoned by father at birth, raised by crazy mother, sent to boarding school to escape said mother’s crazy influence, found crazy mother dead at sixteen, spent two years in foster care, and now suffers from extreme anxiety and other irrational fears. I mean, my next of kin listed on all paperwork is my attorney, George Preston. If that’s not pathetic, I don’t know what is! All that, paired with my curly red hair, and I could have been mistaken for Little Orphan Annie.

  Despite being only a few years older than me, Dr. Hanson stepped into the role of pseudo parent effortlessly. She had an air about her that made her feel much older. I knew her childhood had been anything but normal, so we connected on a different level. I’d never had any siblings, but I could imagine Becky would have been the perfect big sister. She was quick with a smile, and even quicker to call me out on my crap. Plus, from what I could tell, she had absolutely no social life, so she was always available if I needed her. Always.

  “Fine,” I mock pouted, raising my hands in surrender. My smirk confirmed what Becky already knew. I was resigned to taking her new class, but I wasn’t thrilled about it.

  “If you’re quite finished,” she joked, “I’ll tell you the good news.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, I grabbed a small bag of Peanut M&Ms from her desk, before slumping into the cozy leather chair in the corner of her office I’d always thought of as mine.

  “You can cool your anxiety driven jets. I’m setting you up to coach with my best friend and former college roommate, Casey, who’s coaching U8 soccer this season.” That got my attention. My social awkwardness and other fears made it incredibly difficult to make friends. The idea of spending time with another female, even one a few years older than I was, held a certain appeal. “And Casey’s experience will more than make up for your, um, inexperience. Plus the team practices Tuesdays and Thursdays, which works perfectly with your schedule.”