Release Day Buzz: HE + SHE By Michelle Warren @MMichelleWarren @ashleywilcox55 #ACSTours #Giveaway

HE + SHE
By Michelle Warren
Release Day: June 2014

Book Description:

HE is trying to piece together his broken life.

SHE is running away from her wedding day.

TOGETHER, their world is a beautiful lie.

APART, their world is a perfect mess.

He + She is a free-spirited romance about soul-awakening second chances, heartbreak, and hopeful beginnings.

Excerpt:
She ~ Chapter 4

When I slide into the driver's seat of the restored Italian Fiat convertible, I smile. One hand grips the steering wheel while the other slides the key in the ignition. I turn the car on and realize it's been far too long since I was alone and driving myself anywhere. Feeling the car rumble beneath me is my second victory. The first was having the courage to leave.

I look over each shoulder and back out of the parking spot. When I put the car in drive and jam my foot down on the accelerator, I promise myself one thing: This is my new beginning and I won't look into my past with hate any longer, only try to remember the happiness I found there, so I can find it again. It's a stretch of optimism, but in this new place I'm feeling hopeful.

Recklessly, I merge onto Interstate 101, driving north with the convertible top down. After twenty minutes, the boxy skyline of San Francisco appears from the undulating hills that make the city famous. It's as beautiful as I've dreamed about, and as lovely as every photo I've ever seen.

In a last-minute decision met with honking horns and swerving cars, I dart off the highway exit and merge into the chaos of downtown. I didn't expect to want to find a place in the city; I was thinking a road trip was in order. But now that I'm here, I can't resist the idea of seeing San Francisco up close. I cruise and cross many city streets before I see an orange-and-yellow retro neon sign for a hotel opposite the Chinatown Gate, and I quickly maneuver through heavy traffic to pull into the valet lane.

A boy opens my door and says, "Welcome to the Briton Hotel." Despite my appearance, when I halfway expect him to ask me to leave, he hands me a valet ticket instead.

The doorman greets me with a wave, and a manager meets me inside. "Checking in today, miss?" No one pays any attention to the way I look. It's a relief because though I wasn't self-conscious when I started this journey, I have been ever since we landed.

"Yes," I say with a nod.

I follow the manager to the counter, where he asks, "May I have the name on the reservation?"

"I don't have a reservation."

"No problem, we do have a few rooms left. How many nights will you be staying with us, and how many in your party?"

I shuffle my feet uncomfortably for a moment. "Just me." I pause at the realization that I'm alone, traveling for the first time and without Bren. I feel myself going to that dark place, just thinking about it. We dreamed about coming to San Francisco-it was one of the top travel destinations on our list-and now that I'm finally here, it's under the worst circumstances.

The man clears his throat, and I erase the picture of Bren's handsome face from my head and respond, trying to take control of my emotions. "I'd like a king bed, non smoking, with a view, for three nights, please."

"We have just the room."

"Perfect." I place my credit card and ID on the counter.

"Great." He takes the card and continues checking me in. "There's a pool on the roof, and we serve complimentary cookies in the lobby at five every evening. We also have complimentary bicycles." He gestures to a pair of beach cruisers sitting by the front door. "Your room is 616." He hands me the room key card.

"May we help you with your luggage?" he asks.

I accept the hotel key and my credit card, then step backward. "No thanks, I left all my baggage behind." He gives me a curious look, but I leave before he can question this and quickly jump into the elevator.

On the sixth floor, my room is large. The top half of the room's walls are wallpapered with pages from famous novels. The lower half is painted a muted apple green. Immediately I walk to the windows and open the blinds, checking my view of the Chinatown Gate. I turn to the bed with a brightly lacquered yellow headboard, and collapse on the mattress.

At home in Baltimore, it would be after dinnertime. And if things had played out the way they were supposed to today, I'd be married by now, eating Chesapeake stuffed chicken at my glittering reception at the Belvedere Hotel, drinking bubbling champagne and break-dancing with the one I love to bad wedding reception music that glorifies chickens.

But here it's barely one o'clock, and all I can focus on is the emptiness in my soul. Depression, anger, regret, guilt-any combination of words you choose to describe my life adds up to the endless tragedy that is now my reality. My stomach rumbles, and I cross my arms over my chest and turn on my side, squeezing my body into a fetal position, crying quiet tears into my pillow.

There are so many things running through my head, a jumbled mess that pushes me farther away from reality. Feeling the shakes rise up through my body like a wave ready to consume me, I quickly reach for my purse, unzip it, and dump the contents on the bed in front of my face. I don't focus on the mess I've just created; it's impossible with the clear rust-colored pill bottle rolling in my direction. It's my necessary bottle of evil. I hate that I am chained to it, but everything inside it will save me. It contains a cocktail of pills to cure my anxiety, insomnia, and other things that led me here. I swipe up the bottle and sit up, unscrew the top like a junkie, and race to the bathroom for a glass of water. By the time I get there, I'm a jittery mess, aching for the release the pills bring.

Somehow the white pills can make all the pain go away, which is an impressive feat considering the size of my problems compared to the size of the pill. Barely able to stand, I swallow one, shut my eyes, and step away from the sink until my back hits the wall. When I open them again, the bathroom mirror reflects my image-a fragmented, stressed-out mess of a girl in a shredded wedding dress who can't get her crap together. She's hit rock bottom, and all she desperately wants to do is climb out of this hole and be happy again.

I make my way back to the bed, crawl under the covers, and cry until the drug kicks in. When it does, I fall asleep for the first time in days.

I awake a few hours later, feeling better than expected. Popping the white pill doesn't make the bad go away, it just makes me not care about what's happened. In theory, it's a great thing until you want to feel again, which I do, and not just the pain. I love the medications for what they do, but hate them for what they steal from me. I know I should be taking them regularly, but I don't want to anymore. More than anything, I want to free myself from them and everything they represent.

Looking to my nightstand, I find a plate of chocolates.

Were they here before? Does it matter? Hunger pangs hit me again, and I lift the plate and settle it on my stomach. ENJOY THESE COMPLIMENTARY SWEETS. SIGNED, THE BRITON. I read the card sitting next to them and then throw it aside.

I take a bite of the first piece of chocolate. When my stomach twists painfully, I realize I can't remember the last time I've eaten. It hasn't mattered until now. I'll give myself ten minutes to lie here and relax, because the next thing I have to do on this adventure is to find a way out of this funk and some new clothes.

When I leave my hotel, I don't head straight for the department stores. Instead, I cross the street, walking through the Chinatown Gate. It's more enticing and mysterious, and when I enter the neighborhood, I'm visually overloaded by the pagoda architecture, the foreign signage, and the festive red lanterns that weave overhead from one side of the road to the other.

I zigzag in and out of several shops, buying useless imported goodies: a pair of satin embroidered slippers, beaded bracelets, a change purse, and a large pack of Twizzlers. Any other time, I wouldn't have allowed myself these things because I was doing the right thing, being responsible and saving for my future.

Fuck the future. The only thing these two years have taught me is to live in the moment. You can't plan for the future. You can't plan anything with life conspiring against you every day. You can only live one minute at a time.

One shop sells what I deem as real clothing, and I try on two pairs of jeans, several T-shirts boasting their love or loss of their heart in San Francisco, along with several other necessities. I try each item on, then hand the mangled wedding dress to the Chinese shop owner from around the makeshift dressing room curtain, and ask her to trash it. I never want to see that thing again.

She complies without comment, then meets me at the cash register. There, I can't resist a pack of women's days-of-the-week underpants and some mini-size travel toiletries. Everything I buy fits into a backpack that I pull from another display.

Once I've paid, I leave the shop and wander across the city. After a long stroll, I make it to the beach to see the Golden Gate Bridge. It's what I've walked all this way for, maybe even what I've traveled all this way for. Who knows why I ended up in San Fran, of all places, but I'm here for some reason. Maybe I'll find what I need to pick up the shattered pieces of my life and mind, and move on.

It's late in the day, and I seat myself on a jagged concrete block to eat a round of sourdough bread I picked up in a cute bakery along the way. With the sun blazing golden in the distance, turning the bridge into a caramel-colored silhouette, the water lapping over the rocks, and seagulls gliding with the breeze that rustles my hair, I feel hope. Real hope. I just have to remember that everything that's gone so wrong is inside the stagnant bubble I currently live in. Outside, beyond the clear iridescent orb, the rest of the world makes sense. People are happy, laughing, and in love. I can hope that one day I will have those things, too. As long as I just focus on each moment and what really matters, I know that life can be beautiful again.

About The Author:

Michelle Warren didn't travel the road to writer immediately. She spent over a decade as professional Illustrator and designer. Her artistic creativity combined with her love of science fiction, paranormal and fantasy led her to write her first YA novel, Wander Dust. Michelle loves reading and traveling to places that inspire her to create. She resides in downtown Chicago.