Wild Fragile Vines

By Vivien Dean

When his boss’s twenty-year-old son announced he wanted to be more than friends, Tim Kammerling told him no. He wasn’t ready to have a relationship with someone more than ten years younger than him. Devin knew he couldn’t stick around Napa and honor the status quo, however. He left town, and the two became long distance friends instead.

A lot can happen in eighteen years. Letters are sent. Calls get made.

Lives are changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Sep 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463824078

Vivien Dean

A firm believer that love doesn’t care about gender, four-time EPIC eBook Award winner Vivien Dean has been writing since 2006 in a wide variety of genres. She currently resides in California’s Bay Area with her British husband and two teenagers. For more information, visit viviendean.com.

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WILD FRAGILE VINES

VIVIEN DEAN

NEVER DOUBT BOOKS

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Vivien Dean

Revised Edition © 2017 by Vivien Dean

Cover Design © 2015 ByThunder LLC

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author or publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

First Edition, 2015, Amber Quill Press

Second Edition, 2017, Never Doubt Books

Published in the United States of America by

Never Doubt Books

[e-mail]

In the back of his sock drawer, behind a Ziploc bag of beer caps he can’t bring himself to throw away, sits an old Nike shoebox. Another thing he can’t throw away. He’s wrapped the edges and lid in duct tape three separate times, but several patches are already wearing soft and silvery-white. He tries not to touch it too often. That makes it worse. Thanks to a dying art, it’s easier than it used to be to resist the urge.

But he still does it. That box is just like the beer caps. A talisman of memories.

Sometimes, he has no choice but to pull it out. It has a purpose, after all. A smart man would leave it at that, but as soon as he sees that first envelope, the draw to read it—again—sinks its hooks into his heart and squeezes until he must succumb.

* * * *

January 17, 1997

Dear Tim,

Greetings from wet and wild Seattle! Well, not so wild. The only person I know here is Kristina, and I only see her in passing when she gets home from work. I’ve been going out at night to all the local places I can find that play live music, trying to meet new people, but she’s dead to the world by the time I get home.

The wet part is definitely true, though. I haven’t seen the sun once in the two weeks I’ve been here. I always thought all those stories were bogus, but nope, I was wrong. Kristina says it doesn’t count as rain, that a little drizzle never hurt anyone, but seriously, if I go outside and moisture comes out of the air and gets me wet, it’s rain. It makes me miss Napa even more than I already do. I’d come home in a second if it didn’t mean I’d see you every day. Of course, if you were to tell me you’d changed your mind about us, wild horses couldn’t keep me away.

I know that’s wishful thinking. You made it pretty clear nothing was going to happen. I still think you’re wrong, though, and the second you realize that, I am getting on a plane and coming home. I’m right about us. You’ll see.

I’m looking for work, but I still have enough money to be picky about where I apply. I’d rather find something in a music store or a studio or something like that, but the problem with coming to a place like Seattle for my music is that I’m not the only one looking for those jobs. Do me a favor, and don’t tell Dad or Pat that I’m still unemployed, okay? You know how much they hate that I’m doing this. At least when I dropped out, I was home so they could pretend they were getting their way. I’m waiting to write them until I’ve got some music news to share. Then it won’t matter that I don’t have what they think is a real job.

I’m not expecting us to become pen pals where you have to answer every letter I send you, but it’d be nice if you dropped me a line every once in a