Meet Me Halfway
Lilian T. James
To the people whose wings were clipped, but who figured out how to make new ones, one feather at a time.
Author’s Note
Includes sexually explicit content, topics such as mental and emotional recovery from previous spousal abuse, stalking, alcoholism, sexual harassment, and assault.
Preface
It’s difficult to put into words what this story means to me. To be honest, it was difficult to put this story into words, period.
Madison’s exact story is fictional, but the aspects of it are very much real to many women who are single parents, had children young, and/or are rediscovering themselves after an abusive relationship.
I’ve been an avid romance reader my entire life. Even as a child, I was invested and in love with the “happily ever after” of fictional characters in movies and shows.
However, after I had my son, I began to notice a lack of parenting in romance novels. It isn’t surprising that many authors avoid the subject since a large portion of readers prefer romance to only have children in the epilogue or not at all.
But I’ve been a mother since I discovered I was pregnant at the age of 16, and I wanted to see it reflected in the books I read. I wanted young mothers. I wanted single mothers. I wanted to relate to the main character.
To be fair, those books do exist, they’re just harder to find and often portray motherhood as a characteristic of the woman, rather than the life-altering struggle it can be. The main characters own homes but only have one job, and never seem to worry about bills. They also often have college degrees, but there’s never any explanation as to how the character accomplished that as a single parent. Not to say all that isn’t possible; it is. It just wasn’t true for me.
In Meet Me Halfway, Madison works seven days a week, balancing three jobs, because that’s what I had to do to make ends meet. Madison takes night classes and is sleep deprived in order to obtain a degree because that’s what I had to do. Working over 60 hours a week, I didn’t have time to do college any other way. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
This is the brutal reality for young, single mothers—specifically the ones who have an absent partner. For most, their lives are not polished, not pretty, and far from perfect.
Fictional stories are just that, fiction. They don’t have to be realistic, and often aren’t. I love magical men with wings as much as the next fantasy reader, but representation is also important. I wanted to feel seen and connect to a main character, and one day I realized I was more than capable of writing it, myself.
Whether you’re married or not, whether you have children or not, anyone can read and enjoy Madison’s story. But for those of you who relate to her:
I wrote this book for you.
I wrote this book for me.
And I wrote it for every young mother who comes after us.
Madison
Garrett
Chapter One
I put my hand across his face, waving it up and down to block his eyesight in a last-second attempt to cause him to crash.
“You can’t! I won’t let you!” I screeched, but he ducked under my arm, determined to stay on the road. I snatched my hand back and clenched the object in my lap with both hands.
“No!” he yelled, “Stop!”
I ignored him, tightening my hold and focusing, swaying my body back and forth as if my movements might assist in his demise.
“You won’t always beat me, it’s time you learned what it’s like to suffer. I’m going to dance over your corpse!” I was so close. So damn close. Just once. All I needed was to come out on top once.
I was feeling good, high off the adrenaline of kicking ass when he hit me directly in the back, sending me spinning out of control and smashing into the wall.
And just like that, I was the loser all over again. Same outcome, different day.
“God dang, Jamie!” I yelled, dropping my controller, and throwing my hands up in defeat. “A red shell? Really? How long were you holding on to that?”
He crossed the finish line, laughing maniacally, the deep, foreboding sound of an evil mastermind. Or as close to it as his scrawny, prepubescent voice could get.
“I get my skills from my uncle. You’ll never beat me.” He set his controller down, smiling at me and pretending to crack his knuckles. I could practically smell the smugness emanating from his skin.
“Whatever, dude. I’ll get you next time.”
“You say that every time.”
“Yeah, but this time I mean it.”
We both giggled, wrapping the cords around our controllers, and setting them on top of the gaming system that sat on the floor next to our puny excuse for a television.
It was our ritual. Every night, on the nights I was home, we’d play three rounds of racing and whoever lost had to clean up the living room. “Whoever” always meaning me. I might as well legally change my name from Madison Hartland to Loser Neverwin. The kid was flipping ruthless.
“All right, bud, you know the drill, go brush and wash your face while I clean up.”
He immediately stood and shuffled in the direction of the hallway right behind our couch. His lack of complaint or eye roll instantly had my mom senses tingling.