A Hundred Ways to Love Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Ellie Wade

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.elliewade.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

  For Kylie, I love you, girl!

  You are such a beautiful person inside and out.

  I’m so grateful to call you a friend. Can’t wait to hug you in real life someday soon.

  Thanks for loving Leni. ♥

  contents

  prologue

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  epilogue

  epilogue

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  Other Titles by Ellie Wade

  prologue

  Leni

  Age Thirteen

  The mound of clay spins on the pottery wheel before me. My hands, the color of mud, rest atop the blurry blob as it turns. I blink hard and pull in a deep breath, willing the emotions that threaten to spill from my eyes to stay away. I won’t cry because of him. I’d never give him that satisfaction.

  Yet the truth is that my back aches tremendously. Every movement of my arm causes a shooting pain to run down my back, the worst of the agony centered on the area where it hit the corner of his mahogany desk. I’ve seen my father hit my mother before, but he’s never physically hurt me. I knew the second the words left my mouth, the moment his eyes widened with fury, that there would be severe consequences.

  “I don’t care that some jerk’s daughter is going to attend the summer camp. If you can’t make friends with that snob on your own, that’s your problem. I’m not going to suck up to his daughter, so he’ll be your friend. There’s nothing you can do to make me.”

  The entire encounter probably lasted a matter of seconds, but I saw it all in slow motion. His fists clenched at his sides, his knee bent up, rising toward his waist, before his hideous, overpriced alligator-skinned loafer shot toward my chest with a wrath I knew to fear. I didn’t feel the initial blow as it lifted my body off of the ground, propelling me through the air. The pain of the impact against his desk blinded me, stealing the air from my lungs.

  It wasn’t until I hit the ground and could breathe again that I truly felt the pain. I couldn’t have contained the agony if I’d wanted to. It broke out of me in sob-filled screams that mimicked a wounded animal, not me.

  But it was me.

  The cries of pain came from my quivering lips as tears rolled down my cheeks and onto the floor. When I was strong enough to stand, he was no longer in his office with me.

  I was alone, but I’m no stranger to solitude. Besides the three months each year I get to spend at my grandmother’s, I crave it.

  It’s always just me and my art, which I suppose is my own personal therapy. Living in this house with my parents is a nightmare. But, through my creative expression, I’m able to find a semblance of peace, enough to get me through the school year until I can see Mimi and my best friend, Liam, again.

  They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and I believe it. Growing up in this house with these people has been molding me into the fiercest woman to ever live. I will never be like my parents. I will never settle for less than I deserve. I will give up anything to make it. No cost is too great to stop me from breaking free.

  It sucks to wish your childhood away, but that’s the hand I’ve been dealt. Some have better childhoods than me; some have it worse. It is what it is. I can drown in the sorrow, or I can fight.

  I’ve been a fighter since the day I was born.

  My parents have tried to shape me into someone I’m not my entire life but with no success. As the years go by, their attempts grow, but so does my resolve. I’m as stubborn and strong-willed as they come, and perhaps that’s the reason I’m able to hold on to who I want to be and not change into the daughter they’d prefer.

  The daughter they wish they had would’ve gladly fluttered off to the equestrian camp to schmooze with the spoiled daughter of Dad’s business associate. But I’m going to Mimi’s. There’s not anything they can do to stop me from spending my summers at the farm of the only person who really loves me, where I get to hang out with my only real friend, Liam.

  I wince as my hands work the clay. It hurts my bruised muscles but not as much as not doing it would hurt my broken soul. The earthen material spins faster, smoothing out with my touch. Calm takes over as I think of nothing. Peace fills me as my hands create of their own accord.

  I smile when Mimi and Liam take hold of my thoughts. In just over two weeks, I’ll be there. I love everything about Mimi, but mainly, I’m grateful for her unconditional love. I enjoy every adventure that Liam and I share. Most of all, I’m thankful that he accepts me for me.

  In five fleeting years, I can leave this house for good. And I’ll never have to come back.

  I startle as the door to the spare room that I’ve turned into my art studio slams open with a loud thud.

  “All of it, gone.” My father’s gruff voice directs two men.

  It takes a moment for me to grasp the reality of what’s happening. I gasp. “No!” I shout at the strangers as they start tossing my finished canvases into large garbage bags. “Stop!” I scream, jumping up from the stool.

  My clay-covered hands pull at a canvas he’s attempting to throw out but to no avail. He snatches it from my grasp and continues his destruction.

  “What are you doing?” I yell at my father.

  He ignores me, his arms crossed over his chest with a smug smile present on his perfectly shaved face.

  “Stop this!” I scream as I watch all of my supplies being tossed away.

  My father turns to me and very calmly states, “Your actions have consequences, Eleanora. You’d be wise to remember that.”

  My mind races. “Fine. Just stop them, please,” I plead.

  He clears his throat. “I’ve indulged this little hobby of yours for too long as it is. It’s time you grow up some and learn some respect.”

  Tears blur my vision as I watch all my treasures being thrown out, incapable of stopping it. Hate festers beneath my skin, and I swear to myself that I will never speak to this man again once I’m out of this house.

  “I hate you,” I say under my breath.

  He doesn’t respond, but I know he heard me.

  Five more years.

  The men leave, bags in hand. I’m left standing in the one place here that made me happy. Everything I loved about it was just ripped from me.

  “You will be attending that camp this summer,” he snaps before turning and walking out.

  My knees buckle, and I fall onto the floor in a mass of tears. I try to be strong and not let my pa
rents dictate my happiness. I try to be fearless, but in this moment, I feel that I’m losing. A summer filled with no art, no Mimi’s, and a stay at Snobs R Us camp … I can’t. It will break me.

  I lie on the floor of the empty room until I can’t cry anymore. Staring at the ceiling, I feel sorry for myself for just a few minutes.

  Enough.

  I hold on to the table, using it to help me get up. By the time I’m standing, all the self-pity is replaced with determination. My father needs to realize that, when it comes to me, he’ll never win.

  My mom comes into the vacant room to tell me that it’s time for dinner.

  “I’m going to Mimi’s when school is out in two weeks,” I firmly tell her. “You’d better talk to Dad and make that happen because, if you don’t, everyone will know the type of person he really is. I’ve taken pictures of the bruises all over my back, and I will tell everyone what he did, including the authorities. I will send a letter to every person you know, making sure that they all know what being the daughter of Henry and Eleanora Turner is really like. I will not stop until I ruin his reputation. Do you understand?”

  My mother’s eyes are wide, a bewildered confusion evident on her face. She simply nods and leaves the room.

  I haven’t taken pictures of my back, but that’s not the point. There’s nothing that my parents value more than their reputation in their social circle. My mother never stands up to my father, but she’ll find a way to protect him from this.

  I know he’ll make the next five years a living hell for me, but as long as I have my summers with Mimi, I can get through anything.

  one

  Leni

  If my mother were here, she would tell me that my eyes were going to get stuck in the back of my head with the amount of eye-rolling that I was doing. Yet my mother wouldn’t be caught dead on a stinky Greyhound bus, so my eyes are free to roll at will.

  I lean back into my seat. My head rests against the questionable blue upholstered seat, and I try not to let my mind wander to all the germs that are surely embedded in each thread of the chair cover. I’ve never been a fan of public transportation despite the years I’ve used it.

  Holding my phone up, I continue to scroll through my Instagram feed. It makes me literally nauseous. Post after post of my friends in New York City, enjoying their Saturday night in “the greatest place on earth.” They all have appropriate hashtags to put emphasis on the pure amazingness of their lives.

  #blessed

  #bestlife

  #lucky

  #sohappy

  #pinchmeImustbedreaming

  #bestboyfriendever

  Seriously, Madison? Best boyfriend ever? Totally #stfu. I’m glad that silver Tiffany necklace that you just posted eighty-five pictures of erases the last year of Stewart screwing other skanks behind your back.

  “Ugh,” I grumble under my breath.

  Social media is killing America, and if not America, then my soul—at the very least. Facebook and Instagram posts are the fleeting moments of happiness in someone’s mediocre, if not completely lame-ass, day.

  Am I jealous?

  Hell yeah, I’m turning green from envy. I want to be #blessed in #nyc. But I’m a #loser on the way to #loserville to live with my grandma. How does one spell despair? That’s simple—T-E-X-A-S. I’m being a brat; I know it. Elkwood is actually a sweet little Texas town that holds the best memories from my otherwise depressing childhood.

  My summers spent with my grandmother, Mary Turner, whom I lovingly refer to as Mimi, are true highlights of my life. If it were a thing back then, every moment in Elkwood would have been social media–worthy.

  Just going back there now means that I’ve failed. Just as my father said I would.

  When I left Texas five years ago, I had no intention of going back.

  After high school, everything was falling into place. I had been accepted into Cooper Union, home to one of the most prestigious undergrad art programs in the nation. Major bonus points that the college of my dreams was located in the most magnificent city in the world—New York City. I was going to attend college, refine my art skills, graduate, and create beautiful pieces that people from all over the world would clamor to buy. I would most likely meet and marry another artist, and the two of us would spend the rest of our days doing what we loved.

  It was the dream.

  Yet it wasn’t my father’s.

  My father has always been a difficult man for me to connect with. The only thing bigger than his ego is his ambition. He had no desire to take over his father’s farm. The second he could, he left for Houston and began pursuing his political career. He’s always wanted to be a man of stature, of power. He’s now a Texas senator, and if he has his way, I’m sure he’ll run for president at some point.

  My mom is the polar opposite of my father. She has no need for personal glory. Her only ambition seems to be helping my father with his.

  I am the only child of Henry and Eleanora Turner, who have had my entire life planned out from the moment I was born. The only problem is that I’ve never been who they want me to be. I’m no debutant. When I refused to pursue a “respectable” degree, such as political science or business, my father cut me off. In fact, besides the few Christmas presents my mom sends me each year, I’ve received nothing from my parents since I left their home in Highland Park, Texas five years ago.

  Unfortunately, it seems a hundred twenty thousand dollars in student loan debt and an art degree leaves one with very few options. For the past year since graduating, I’ve been working my ass off. Despite having two jobs and three roommates in an apartment the size of my parents’ kitchen, I couldn’t make it in New York. I spent more on art supplies than I ever made in sales. I ended up giving away most of my pieces.

  Mimi sent me enough money to buy a one-way bus ticket to Elkwood. So, here I am, forced to sit on this bus for two days, with nothing more to do than think about my life and the mess that it is. I’ve lost my cool New York apartment, my group of hip and eclectic friends, my art, and the dream I had for my life. All my worldly possessions fit into one suitcase, and the sad part is, there’s room to spare. I can’t even stuff a suitcase.

  Pathetic.

  I’m left staring at other people’s lives on a phone that’s going to shut off at any minute since the bill hasn’t been paid in a couple of months.

  #lifeisgrand

  I want to cry.

  Despite my better judgment, I continue to scroll through social media until the battery on my phone dies. I throw the phone in my purse with a sigh.

  Pulling my knees up, I rest them against the seat in front of me and lean my head against the window. As far as the eye can see, there are fields of tan grass. I’m not sure where we are. I just hope the rest of this ride passes quickly.

  Sadly, New York was never meant to be. That’s my reality. Elkwood isn’t my end destination either, but I’m anxious to get there, so I can start figuring out a plan to get to where I’m supposed to be.

  A day of self-pity and insane jealousy catches up to me, and my eyelids become heavy. The soothing motion of the moving bus, the low rumble of its engine, and the exhaustion that pure heartbreak brings pull me into sleep. Right before slumber takes me, I see my sweet Mimi, and my heart smiles. In a world where I feel I’ve lost everything, I still have her unconditional love, and right now, that has to be enough.

  I bolt awake. Passengers are filing down the aisle of the bus, bags in hand. Looking out the window, I see the Elkwood bus station.

  We’re here!

  My past woes are momentarily forgotten as my excitement to see Mimi grows. I pull out my phone to call her, only to remember that it’s dead.

  Hmm.

  I try to recall where I left my charger. I’ll have to plug my phone in for a minute somewhere around the bus station, so I can call Mimi to come get me.

  I exit the bus and retrieve my single suitcase. After an extensive search through my purse and luggage for my charger, I
come up, hands empty. Darn, I’m sure it’s right where I left it—plugged into the wall back in my New York apartment.

  The sad thing is that I don’t even know her phone number by heart, or I would just ask to borrow someone’s phone. She’s number one on my speed dial, but that’s of little help with a dead phone. I don’t think a town as small as Elkwood has Uber or taxis—not that I have any money to pay for a ride anyway. I left when I literally had nothing.

  I start walking, pulling my suitcase behind me. Mimi’s farm is a few miles outside of town, I think. I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Yet it shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours to walk it.

  I hope.

  I’m so hungry that I could eat my hand, and I finished off my last granola bar on the bus. My mind drifts to dreams of Mimi’s homemade bread with real butter and jam.

  Oh, jam. Maybe she’ll have raspberry—my favorite.

  I moan, not caring who hears me because I would do anything for a piece of that bread right now.

  When’s the last time I ate bread? Wow, I don’t even know.

  Over the past five years, bread slowly got replaced with salad greens. PB & J sandwiches were replaced with sushi and mac and cheese with brown rice. Come to think of it, I don’t know how or why it happened. It just did. Comfort foods weren’t in style with the crowd I hung out with. I suppose that’s healthier, but now that I really think about it, it’s weird.

  Seriously, when was the last time I ate a piece of bread? This is going to bother me.

  My thoughts are pulled from the soft deliciousness of Mimi’s bread to the squeal of tires. I turn to the side to see headlights from a large truck barreling toward me, mere inches from my face.

  Well, crap.

  I didn’t think my life could get worse, but I underestimated the wrath of the universe. They say that, the moment before you die, your entire life flashes before your eyes. The split second before my death isn’t that way. As I close my eyes and brace for impact, my thoughts aren’t of my family, my joys, or my regrets. My focus is singular.