“Tatum?”
I look up from my hands tangled together and at the reporter. “I’m sorry.” I nod. “What did you say?”
He laughs. “How hard is it, switching from nonfiction to something you were once quoted as calling ‘Mommy Porn’?”
“It’s not really as different as one would think,” I answer. “I suppose you pull from your real life; your feelings and emotions whenever you write.”
“You write what you know,” he states.
“I suppose that’s the truth in fiction as well as non-fiction.”
“So, your characters in Breathe Again, Annie and Jonathon, how do you connect with them?”
It was so much easier talking openly about my previous works after Gregory was gone. I didn’t worry about hurting him in anything I said. Angelo is alive and breathing; this novel is as much him as it is me.
“Annie’s loss drove her to do what she did. She lived her life as a nurse, helping save lives. She traveled because, making a home, when you don’t feel at home within yourself, is nearly impossible.”
“Are you at home here in New York City?”
The interview feels far too personal, but I know it comes from my connection to this book. It’s not just any story. It’s our story.
“I love the city. It’s nearly impossible to get lost in one’s head for too long, when you are surrounded by life and the constant activities.” I nod, fighting to continue. “I love this city. The energy reminds you of life—it has a heartbeat. The diversity shows you it’s okay to be you and difference is beautiful. The energy sweeps you up and keeps you moving. Each neighborhood is different and beautiful in its own way. The history and the reminder of history we see in the landmarks.”
Emotions overwhelm me because I do love this city and the energy, diversity, and history. Since Angelo, though, I don’t feel at home in it.
I shake my head and smile sadly. “The 9/11 memorial and the reminder of what we endured and overcame.”
“And Jonathon’s character? Was he inspired by the man you loved, Gregory?”
My heart grows heavy. I manage to shake my head. “My muse for Jonathon—”
“A girl never tells.” Melanie laughs. I look at her, and she smiles. “Isn’t that right?”
“No,” I answer and look back at the reporter. “I met a man in Detroit. He became my muse, and quickly, he became so much more.”
“Please tell us about this so much more,” he encourages.
“He wasn’t just a muse—”
“Tatum,” Melanie interrupts, quietly warning me.
I don’t care about the legalities. He didn’t, either; he signed away his rights. Rights I didn’t know she asked him to sign away. Since that day—the day I found out—I have been angry at her. When I found out she tried to bribe him, and he ripped up the check, I was angry at them both.
“I never believed in insta-love, but it only took two weeks to know that it was true. And the thing I was fighting was in fact what everyone wants to find—that person who makes up half of their heart. I was lucky enough to find it twice.”
“Lucky indeed. So, how are things between you and your Jonathon?”
I feel tears well in my eyes at the thought of the space between us now, and the fact that I know it’s done.
“Annie very much loves Jonathon. She’ll never stop,” I say, forcing a smile as tears threaten to fall.
“And Jonathon?” he asks.
Melanie is quick to answer, no doubt fearing what will come out of my mouth. “We mustn’t spoil the ending. Tatum’s readers will have to find out for themselves tomorrow, when the book is available worldwide.”
The reporter nods. “As always, thank you, Tatum, for stopping in to see us.”
“Thank you for having me,” I repeat, looking at the camera and praying that he is watching. “Thank you, Jonathon, for being so much more to me. Thank you for healing the part of me that died with him. And thank you for helping me learn how to Breathe Again.”
***
Walking out of the studio, Melanie grabs my hand. “I won’t let you go there again.”
“Go where?” I ask, not caring what she or anyone has to say.
“Gregory wouldn’t—”
“He’s gone, so is Angelo, Melanie. And look at me, I’m still here”—I throw my hand in the air, frustrated—“still breathing.”
Tears immediately fall from her eyes. “Thank God for that, Tatum.”
I nod. Saying what I want will only be mean, and I know she isn’t trying to hurt me. We have been through a lot together, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
“Let’s go get some breakfast,” she says, hugging me.
“Can we not?”
She steps back and looks at me.
“I’m honestly just tired.”
***
I wasn’t making up a story. It wasn’t fiction. I was exhausted. Totally exhausted and nothing seemed to make things better. And if things couldn’t get any worse, coffee was making me physically sick.