You Never Forget Your First

By John Locke

Both Jenna and Fallon—best friends since childhood—married handsome, successful men. Publicly, the two couples get along famously. But beneath the happy façade, both women know shocking secrets about each other’s husbands they’ve never revealed.

After being involved in a late-night auto accident, Jenna refuses to file a police report or go to the hospital for treatment because she knows the police will never believe her extensive injuries were caused by a relatively minor fender bender. Nor can she tell anyone, not even Fallon, what really happened, or why. At least, not yet. But come Saturday, all hell’s going to break loose.

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR "YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST"

“A cautionary tale for those who always grew up wanting to marry Prince Charming.”

“Everyone knows Owen French is the smartest, most ruthless guy in town. As it turns out, he’s not even the smartest, most ruthless person in his own house!”

“Jenna French has never been able to forget her first. Now, after years of mistakes and regrets, with her marriage in shambles, she hopes for a second chance to make things right. But—lest anyone forget—this novel was written by John Locke, not Walt Disney!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Locke
• Release date: Mar 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781937656331

John Locke

John Locke kommt 1632 im englischen Wrington zur Welt. Nach dem Besuch der Westminster School in London studiert Locke bis 1658 in Oxford. Zwischen 1660 und 1664 lehrt er dort Philosophie, Rhetorik und alte Sprachen. Sein enzyklopädisches Wissen und seine Studien in Erkenntnistheorie, Naturwissenschaften und Medizin bringen ihm früh die Mitgliedschaft in der Royal Society ein. Als Sekretär und Leibarzt des Earl of Shaftesbury ist Locke in Folge der politischen Machtkämpfe in England gezwungen, ins holländische Exil zu fliehen. Erst 1689 kehrt er nach England zurück und widmet sich auf seinem Landgut seinen Studien. Im selben Jahr erscheint anonym Ein Brief über Toleranz, der die ausschließliche Aufgabe des Staates im Schutz von Leben, Besitz und Freiheit seiner Bürger bestimmt. Die hier formulierten Ideen finden in der amerikanischen Unabhängigkeitserklärung ihren politischen Widerhall. Lockes Hauptwerk, der Versuch über den menschlichen Verstand, erscheint erst 1690 vollständig, wird aber vermutlich bereit 20 Jahre früher begonnen. Es begründet die Erkenntnistheorie als neuzeitliche Form des Philosophierens, die besonders in der französischen Aufklärung nachwirkt. Locke lehnt darin Descartes' Vorstellung von den eingeborenen Ideen ab und vertritt einen konsequenten Empirismus. Aus der theoretischen Einsicht in die Begrenztheit der Erkenntnisfähigkeit ergibt sich für Locke die Forderung, daß sich weder ein Staatssouverän noch eine Glaubensgemeinschaft im Besitz der allein gültigen Wahrheit wähnen darf. Der mündige Bürger, der in der Lage ist, kritisch selbst zu entscheiden, wird konsequenterweise zum pädagogischen Ziel Lockes. John Locke stirbt 1704 als europäische Berühmtheit auf seinem Landsitz in Oates.

Book preview

1.

Jenna French

Monday, 11:35 p.m.

I’M HOME.

I should probably be in a hospital, but that would require telling the police what really happened. And I’m not prepared to do that yet.

Take this, my husband Owen says, handing me a small tablet.

What is it?

Percocet.

I hesitate.

It’s okay, Owen says. You’ve had it before.

I know I’ve had it before; it completely obliterated my pain. But it also gave me mood swings and a headache. What I’m trying to remember, did it also fog my brain? I can’t afford to reveal things I wouldn’t otherwise say.

I’ll take it later. Can you set it on the nightstand?

Owen sighs. You were in a car wreck, Jenna. Your injuries are way beyond bandages. You need stitches and an MRI. I’ll ask you one more time to let me take you to the hospital. He pauses. Please.

I know my husband doesn’t want to spend what’s left of the night sitting in the E.R., and neither do I. I’ll be fine, Owen. I just need to get through the night. If I were bleeding profusely, or coughing up blood, I’d go. But you know how it is, we’d be stuck all night in the ER waiting for them to treat people with worse injuries. When they finally get to me, it’ll be some intern or first year resident stitching my face. No thanks. Tomorrow, I’ll get my plastic surgeon to stitch me up pretty.

Owen cocks his head. "When did you ever have plastic surgery?"

Owen knows the answer to this. After all, he pays the bills. One minute he pretends to be concerned about my injuries. The next, he wants to argue his opinion about women getting treatments. Why pick this time to have this argument while I’m bleeding and hurt? That’s Owen being Owen. Since he’s waiting for an answer, I prop it up so he can hit it out of the park.

We’ve discussed this, I say. Plastic surgeons do other things besides implants.

Like what?

Botox, collagen injections, microdermabrasion . . .

Owen shakes his head. "Oh yeah. Those guys. Damn right, we discussed it and I said you don’t need those treatments. You’re only thirty-five, for Christ’s sake!"

Says the male in the room.

You’re obviously not doing it for me, because I’ve never complained about your looks.

I glance at his face wondering if this is about to erupt into a thing. God, I hope not. "I am doing this for you, Owen. Plastic surgeons make micro stitches that heal without leaving scars."

"I’m not talking about this situation, Jenna, I’m talking about Botox. You don’t need some gay titty doctor injecting poison into your face."

Part of me wants to point out that Dr. Carson’s sexual preference has nothing to do with his job or this conversation. But the rational part of me knows my husband isn’t gonna change his Neanderthal worldview for me or anyone else. If you’re that set against it, fine, I say. No more Botox.

See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? There’s gotta be a special place in hell for so-called doctors that earn their living by making beautiful women feel ugly.

Thank you.

For what?

Calling me beautiful. If you did.

What’s his name again? Dr. Quack?

He can’t help himself. It’s not enough to win his argument, he has to keep it going. Does he really expect me to answer? Owen knows full well I’ve been seeing Dr. Carson for years. If I tell him that, will he go back to pretending he gives a shit that I’m hurt? Probably not. He’s chosen to defend this particular hill tonight, come what may. But that doesn’t mean I have to play along.

Yes, Owen, you’re exactly right. His name is Dr. Quack. I can either see him or his partner, Craig Ellis. Both are excellent.

He says, What if the cattle line’s so long that you can’t get an appointment?

"Bad as I look tonight, the bruising and swelling will only get worse. By the time I enter their lobby tomorrow, my face will be my appointment."

Take the Percocet. You need to stay ahead of the pain.

I will if you’ll stop hovering and go to bed.

"I’m not leaving your side. I’d bet my last dollar you’ve got a concussion. Are you forgetting what happened to your dad?"

Leave it to Owen to find a way to make me feel even worse. I give him a withering look. My dad was murdered. This is different.

Not really, he says.

I hold my tongue, thinking, yes, you bastard. It really is different.

My dad was a professional gambler who never won a poker tournament in his life, but always placed in the top ten. But that’s not why he died. He died because he was a dead-ringer for Bruce Springsteen.

It happened on May 27, 2000, when The Boss played his first ever Vegas concert at the Garden Arena, in the MGM Grand Hotel, where my dad happened to be staying in an elegant penthouse suite. That night, after the concert, Dad was walking through the casino when a 46-year-old married woman named Doris Swegman stepped in front of him and gushed about how she had flown all the way from Springfield, Illinois to see him that night, and he was spectacular.

Dad must have considered Doris fuckworthy, because instead of correcting her, he invited her to his suite, where they promptly had sex before falling asleep in each other’s arms. An hour later, Doris pulled a gun out of her purse and gave him a near-fatal pistol-whipping. Then, completely naked, covered in blood, she ran to the elevator, made her way to the lobby, and shouted to all who would listen that she killed Bruce Springsteen and would forever be famous.

The point Owen was trying to make is this: the coroner said if my dad had been taken to a hospital that night, he might have survived the attack. But of course, the hotel staff knew Bruce Springsteen wasn’t injured in their hotel, and so they contacted the police, who took Doris to the nearest hospital for a mental evaluation. Sometime during the night, my dad died.

If I say nothing long enough Owen will realize he crossed the line in bringing up my dad’s death on the night I could have died. Maybe he’ll even go back to pretending he’s worried about me.

Right on cue, Owen says, I’m just concerned, is all.

I appreciate that, I say, but you’ve already gone above and beyond. You cleaned me up, stopped the bleeding, and—

You’re still bleeding, Jenna.

Barely. My point is, I’m gonna be up all night whether you’re here or not. You need your sleep. You’ve got work tomorrow.

He says, "I’ve already decided to call in sick.

Owen’s lying through his teeth. He doesn’t need to call in sick. He owns his company. But if I play along maybe he’ll stop bothering me.

Calling in sick is totally unnecessary.

Your car’s wrecked, he says. Who’s going to drive you to Dr. Carson?

See? I told you he knows Dr. Carson’s name! I’ll get Fallon to take me.

"Fallon’s not your husband. I am."

If I need a hospital, you’re my guy. But if I’m sitting in a plastic surgeon’s lobby for what could be hours, the time will pass a lot faster if I’m gossiping with Fallon. The best way you can help me is to sleep in the guest bedroom tonight and go to work tomorrow.

Mercifully, he says, Will you at least take the pain pill?

Yes. After you go to bed.

Fine. Under protest. But promise you’ll wake me if you get worse.

I promise.

I’ll check on you first thing tomorrow morning. If you’re worse, we’re going to the hospital. Understood?

Yes.

He turns to leave.

Owen?

He looks at me over his shoulder.

Thanks for not being pissed about the car.

Of course. I’m just glad you’re safe.

He blows me a kiss, tells me he loves me, and leaves the room.

My husband’s not always this nice. In fact, far from it. He’s currently basking in the afterglow of illicit sex and the relief of not having been caught in the act. Not that it was a close call, since his girlfriend left the house an hour ago, about the same time the airbag in my car exploded into my face and chest.

Owen is unaware I know about his extramarital affair. Affairs, I should say, since he’s seeing at least three different women. So no, I don’t want him in my bed tonight. It’s bad enough I’ll have to smell his girlfriend’s scent on my sheets.

I’m not suggesting that Owen lacks good qualities. For example, he’s a self-made man. Brilliant. Wealthy. Good looking. But he’s also a sexist, controlling narcissist. It’s partly a generational issue (he’s 52), partly a status issue (he’s wealthy), and partly a personality disorder (he’s rude in general, and moody as hell).

I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m a trophy wife.

I’m not.

If I were two clicks prettier, I’d be a trophy wife.

Then again, if I were two clicks prettier, he’d never allow me to leave the house.

Here’s what you need to know about Owen: he gets his way. Always. Had he demanded I go to the hospital, that would have been the end of it. And he would have been miserable, and he would have made me miserable. Within an hour he’d be bullying the nurses and staff and acting like a complete jerk. Afterward, I’d have to hear about it over and over. He’d be angry about the service, the treatment, the staff, the other patients, the cost . . . and by the time we got back home, he’d be furious about the damage to my car.

He was 100% bluffing about taking me to the hospital tonight and to Dr. Carson’s office tomorrow. His attentive concern was classic Owen, wanting to give the appearance of being a good husband.

Now, with Owen asleep upstairs, and me, lying in bed with more pain than Percocet can dull, I open my laptop and check to see if Google Search has sent any updates on Billy Lynch. They haven’t, but nor did I expect to get any, since Billy lives a quiet life 802 miles away in rural Connecticut and isn’t particularly active on social media.

I don’t check every day.

Not every single day.

But I do check often, because Billy was my first, and you know what they say:

You never forget your first.

2.

Tuesday, 9:00 a.m.

EARLIER, SHE SCREAMED. Now, my best friend Fallon sits across from me in the kitchen, a cup of coffee poised at her lips. She’s dressed to impress: Gillian silk blouse, black Armani skirt, Manolo heels. Her hair—French Roast on the color chart—is pulled into a Bangstyle ponytail.

That’s quite an outfit! I laugh, then wince from the pain.

"I don’t know how you can even see out of those swollen eyes, Fallon says. Are you sure you weren’t mugged? You should be in the hospital."

I’m fine.

"You’re not fine, Jenna! You nearly passed out when I hugged you just now. Lift your shirt up. I want to see your ribs."

I already checked. There’s nothing to see. Not yet at least. I’m just sore.

Are you peeing blood?

Nope.

Falon sips her coffee, then places the cup on the table and says, Tell me again what happened last night.

I roll my eyes.

She says, You were all alone in your office, working late—

Like I do several times a month as you well know—

You finished up around ten, cut the lights, locked the front door, got in your car?

I laugh. That’s right, Officer.

You drove toward the exit, and out of nowhere a car crashed into you and kept going?

"It didn’t come out of nowhere; I said. It came from behind the building at a high speed. I didn’t see it till a split second before impact."

And you don’t know the make, model, or color?

Make and model, no, because everything happened so fast. It was dark outside, except for a dim light on the far side of the parking lot. But I could tell it was a car, not an SUV. It was a luxury sedan, dark gray.

You should sue the landlord for insufficient lighting.

"There is no landlord. Owen owns the building."

Wait. Did I know that? Fallon shakes her head. Not important. So anyway, the guy just what, plowed into you and drove away? Never stopped to check on you or exchange insurance cards?

Could’ve been a guy. Maybe not. I never saw the driver.

What did the police say?

I never called them.

She flashes a look of frustration. Why not?

I was in a fog. I passed out for several minutes, then came to, got out of the car, and walked around to clear my head. Then called Samantha to come get me.

"Your friend Samantha? Why not Owen?"

"Samantha’s your friend, too."

Not anymore, Fallon says. Not since she spread all those rumors about Nick.

I happen to know the rumors are true. But I don’t tell her that. Instead, I ask, Are you sure they’re rumors?

She frowns and changes the subject. Why’d you call her and not Owen?

I knew Samantha would take me wherever I wanted to go, meaning home, not the hospital. Owen would have gone ballistic.

Would he have hit you?

No.

But he’s hit you before, hasn’t he?