Beyond the Happily Ever After: Navigating Grief, Chronic Pain, and the “Happy-for-Now” Relationship Mindset

## The Path to Publication: A Literary Journey
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‎“READY?” GUS SAID.
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‎I clutched the **advance copy** of *The Great Family Marconi* against my chest. I suspected I would never be ready—not for the launch of this **literary fiction book** and certainly not for him. Handing my **manuscript** over to the world felt like falling headfirst out of an airplane; I could only hope for a **five-star book review** to rise up and catch me. I asked Gus, “Are you?”
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‎His head tilted as he considered. He had just completed the **line edits phase** of **professional book editing**. His manuscript was currently secured by binder clips, awaiting the **cheapo paperback binding** used for **advance reading copies (ARCs)**, which would arrive any day now.
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‎In the end, my **debut novel** sold three weeks before his, though his **publishing contract** fetched a higher **book deal** advance. We both decided to ditch our **pseudonyms**; we had written stories we were proud of. Even if these **new releases** were a departure from our usual **book genres**, they were still ours.
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‎It was strange not to see the familiar **publisher logo** on the spine—the little sun over waves that defined my previous **bestselling books**. However, I knew my next **romance novel**, *Curmudgeon*, would feature it. I loved that upcoming project just as much as *Family Marconi*, but I felt more protective of the Marconis. When a writer explores **creative writing** outside their comfort zone, they never truly know how the **literary critics** will judge their work.
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‎## The Reality of Professional Book Reviews and Writing Life
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‎Anya had insisted that anyone who didn’t want to swaddle the Marconis in the softest silk and hand-feed them grapes is just swine with no need for pearls. “Don’t you worry,” she’d said. She sent that while forwarding the **first trade review** this morning—a **starred review** that had been largely positive, though the **literary critic** described the cast as “unwieldy” and Eleanor herself as “rather shrill.”
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‎“I think I am,” Gus answered and handed his **final manuscript** pages to me. He had no reason to worry about his **author platform**, and I told myself I didn’t either. In the past year, I’d read both of his **best-selling novels**, and he’d already read all three of mine. So far, our **creative writing styles** hadn’t left either of us repulsed.
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‎In fact, reading *The Revelatories* felt like swimming through Gus’s mind. As a piece of **contemporary fiction**, it was heartbreaking and beautiful, but also a **character-driven story** that was very funny and extremely odd.
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‎I passed him my book, and he grinned at the **illustrated book cover design**. The stripes of the circus tent swooped into curls, binding the silhouetted characters together. “It’s a good day,” Gus said. He usually said that during mundane moments, like when we were wearing our cleaning clothes. Since the **real estate sale** of my Dad’s house in February, I’d spent a lot of time at his **beach house rental**, though Gus often visited my apartment too.
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‎Our workspace was over a music store. During the day, as we navigated our **daily writing routine** in the breakfast nook, we could hear college students testing drum sets. Even when the noise bothered us, it was a shared experience in our **author life**.
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‎Truthfully, Gus and I liked to be grumps together. At night, after the shop closed, the owners played **classic rock vinyl**—Dylan or Neil Young—and shared a joint on the stoop. Gus and I would sit on my tiny balcony, letting the sounds float up. “It’s a good day,” he’d say. Or, if he’d accidentally locked the balcony door again, he’d say, “What a fucking day.” Then he’d climb down the **fire escape**, talk to the siblings, and reappear a minute later with a fresh beer in hand.
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‎## From Lakefront Vacation Rentals to Winter Adventures
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‎Sometimes I missed the kitchen in the old house, that hand-painted white and blue **backsplash tile**, but these past few weeks as summer began anew, I’d heard the clamor and laughter of the six-person family staying in that **short-term vacation rental**. I imagined they appreciated the **custom interior design** as much as I ever had. Maybe someday, one of the four kids would describe those careful designs to his own children—a piece of memory that managed to stay bright as everything else grew vague and fuzzy.
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‎“It is a good day,” I agreed. Tomorrow was the anniversary of the day Naomi left Gus, the night of his thirty-third birthday, and he’d finally told Markham he’d prefer not to have the big party.
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‎“I just want to sit on the beach and read,” he’d said, so that had been our **summer reading** plan for the last two weeks. We would finally swap our latest **signed first editions** and read them outside.
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‎I was, of course, surprised he’d suggested it. While we both loved the **scenic lakefront view**, I’d seen in the last year that Gus wasn’t lying about how little time he spent on the beach. He thought it was too crowded during the day, and at night, it was too cold for **open water swimming** anyway. We’d spent much more time down there in January and February, walking out along the frozen waves, holding our arms out as we stood on the edge of the world, squinting into the dying light, our **heavy-duty winter jackets** rippling.
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‎The lake froze so far out that we could even walk on it past the **historic lighthouse** my father had once ridden his tricycle into. And what was more, the water froze so high and the snow piled on top of it such that we could walk right up to the top of the lighthouse, stand on it like it was part of some lost civilization underneath us, Gus’s arm hooked around my neck as he hummed, *It’s June in January, because I’m in love*.
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‎I’d had to buy a **high-performance winter coat**—one that looked like a sleeping bag with arms. It featured a **faux-fur lined hood** and rings of down-stuffed **Gore-Tex waterproof fabric** all the way to my ankles, and still I sometimes had to layer **thermal moisture-wicking sweatshirts** and long-sleeved T-shirts under it.
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‎But the sun—fuck, the sun was brilliant on those winter days, glancing off every crystal edge sharper than when it had first hit. It was like being on another planet, just Gus and me, closer to a star than we’d ever been. Our faces would go so numb we couldn’t feel the snot dripping down them, and when we got back inside, our fingers would be purple (gloves or no) and our cheeks would be flushed, and we’d flick on the **energy-efficient gas fireplace**.
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‎## The Art of the Plot Twist: Summer Beach Reading and Author Life
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‎We would collapse onto the couch, shivering and chattering, too numb to undress and tangle up beneath **premium weighted blankets** with any semblance of grace.
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‎“January, January,” Gus would sing, his teeth clacking from the cold. “Even if there aren’t any snowflakes, we’ll have January all year long.”
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‎I had never liked winter before, but now I understood. Sitting on a **picnic blanket** on the sand tonight was nice, but we were sharing the sparkling waves with three dozen other people. It was a different kind of beauty, hearing shrieks and squeals rise between the crashing water on the shore—more like those nights I’d spent at a **summer camp** or in my parents’ backyard listening to neighbor kids chasing fireflies. I was glad Gus was giving this **outdoor lifestyle** a try.
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‎We read for a couple of hours, then staggered home in the dark. I slept at his **lakefront property** that night, and when I woke, he was already out of bed, the burble of the **espresso machine** coming from the kitchen.
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‎We went back to the beach that afternoon and sat side by side, engaging in a **beta reader** session with each other’s books. I wondered what he would think of the **plot twist** at the end of mine—whether it would feel like a **contrived ending** or if he’d be disappointed I hadn’t committed to a **tragic realism** finale.
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‎But his book was shorter and I finished first, with a burst of laughter that made him look up, startled, from the page. “What?” he asked.
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‎I shook my head. “I’ll tell you when you’re done.”
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‎I lay on the sand and stared up into the lavender sky. The sun had started setting—that perfect **golden hour** for photography—and we’d long since eaten our snacks. My stomach growled. I stifled another laugh.
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‎Gus’s new book, tentatively titled *The Cup Is Already Broken*, was far from a **contemporary rom-com**, although it featured a strong **romantic subplot** and came extremely close to a **happily ever after**.
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‎The protagonist, Travis, had escaped the cult with all the **forensic evidence** he needed. He’d even talked Doris into leaving with him. They were happy—extremely happy—but for no more than a page or two before the **apocalyptic event** the prophet had been predicting hit the Earth.
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‎The world hadn’t ended. In fact, Travis and Doris were the only two casualties. It had missed the compound and hit the woods just off the road. It hadn’t even been the meteor that caused the **wrongful death**—it had been the distraction of it, Travis’s eyes skirting off the road he’d worked so hard to get onto.
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‎The right tire had run off the shoulder, and when he’d cranked it back too hard, he’d hit a **semi-truck** flying past in the other direction.
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‎## Navigating Grief and the Reality of Chronic Pain
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‎The car came to a screaming halt, crumpled like a stomped-on can. I closed my eyes against the dusky sky and swallowed my laughter. I didn’t know why I couldn’t stop, but soon the feeling hardened in my belly and I realized I wasn’t laughing. I was crying. I felt both defeated and understood.
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‎I felt angry that these characters deserved better than they’d gotten, yet I was comforted by their experience. Yes, I thought. That is how life feels too often. It’s like you’re doing everything for **stress management** and survival only to be sabotaged by something beyond your control—maybe even a darker part of yourself.
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‎Sometimes, it was your body. Your cells turning into poison, a **biological battle** fighting against you. Or **chronic pain symptoms** sprouting up your neck, wrapping around your scalp until it felt like **migraine pressure** or fingernails sinking into your brain.
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‎Sometimes, it was lust, heartbreak, loneliness, or **anxiety and fear** driving you off the road toward something you’d spent months avoiding. You were actively fighting a **mental health struggle**.
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‎At least the last thing they’d seen—the meteor streaming toward Earth—had distracted them with its beauty. They hadn’t been afraid; they’d been mesmerized. Maybe that was all you could hope for in life.
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‎I didn’t know how long I’d been lying there, tears trickling down my cheeks, but I felt a rough thumb catch one. I opened my eyes to Gus’s gentle face. The sky had darkened to a brutal blue—the kind of **cyanosis** color that on skin would make your stomach turn, but in this context, it was gorgeous. It’s strange how things can be repellent in one situation and incredible in another.
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‎“Hey,” he said tenderly. “What’s wrong?”
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‎I sat up and wiped my face dry. “So much for your **happy ending trope**,” I said.
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‎Gus’s brow furrowed. “It was a happy ending.”
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‎“For who?”
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‎“For them,” he said. “They were happy. They had no regrets. They’d won. They didn’t even have to see it coming. For all we know, they live in that moment forever, happy like that. Together and free.”
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‎Chills crawled down my arms. I knew what he meant. I’d always felt grateful Dad had gone in his sleep—a peaceful **end-of-life experience**. I hoped the night before, he and Mom had watched something on TV that made him laugh so hard he had to take off his glasses and wipe the tears away.
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‎## Mastering the Happy Ending: From Character Arcs to Book Launches
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‎I hoped he’d had a few too many of Mom’s infamous martinis—made with **premium gin**—to feel any worry when he crawled into bed, apart from the fear that he might not feel so hot in the morning.
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‎I had told Mom this when I’d gone home to visit for the **Christmas holidays**. She had cried and held me close. “It was something like that,” she promised. “So much of our lives were something like that.” Talking about him came in fits and starts. I learned not to press it; she learned to let it out bit by bit, realizing that sometimes it’s okay to let a little ugliness into your story. That it would never rob you of all the beauty.
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‎“It’s a happy ending,” Gus said again, bringing me back to the beach. “Besides, what about your ending? Everything tied up with a **perfect plot resolution**.”
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‎“Hardly,” I said. “The only boy Eleanor had even thought she’d loved is married now.”
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‎“Yeah, and she and Nick are obviously going to get together,” Gus said. “You could sense that through the whole book. It was obvious he was in love with her—a classic **unrequited love trope**—and that she loved him back.”
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‎I rolled my eyes. “I think you’re **projecting feelings**.”
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‎“Maybe so,” he said, smiling back at me.
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‎“I guess we both failed,” I said, climbing to my feet.
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‎Gus followed me. We started up the crooked, rooty path toward his **lakefront real estate**. “I don’t think so. I think I wrote my version of a happy ending and you wrote your version of a sad one. We had to write what we think is true to the **human condition**.”
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‎“And you still believe a meteor hitting the Earth is the **best-case scenario** in a romance.”
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‎Gus laughed.
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‎We’d forgotten to leave the **LED porch light** on, but usually, there was nothing to trip over. He’d never had **luxury patio furniture**, and when I’d given Dad’s to Sonya, we’d decided to save up for a **modern outdoor set**, then promptly forgotten. Tonight, however, the porch wasn’t empty. A **cardboard shipping box** sat against the door. Gus scooped it up, studying the **UPS tracking label**.
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‎“Must be the **advance reader copies**,” he said. He sounded a little nervous but didn’t hesitate to balance the box against his hip, using his keys to slice open the **heavy-duty packing tape**. He set the open box down, withdrew a copy of the **trade paperback**, and passed it to me.
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‎“Don’t you want to see it first?” I asked.
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‎He shrugged. “You first. I’ll just watch your reaction for signs that the **book printing service** accidentally printed it upside down, or with the wrong title.”
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‎## The Art of Book Design and the “Happy-for-Now” Philosophy
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‎But the **book printing company** hadn’t printed it upside down or made any other ridiculous mistake. The **professional book cover design** looked gorgeous, with shades of blue swirling across its surface. The clean white **typography** of the title was so large I could read it perfectly even in the dim light of the stars and moon. “It’s perfect,” I said, running my fingers over the **matte finish** words.
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‎I flipped the flimsy cover open and thumbed through the first few pages. “The **typesetting and interior layout** are really wonderful and—” I’d just hit the **book dedication page**, and whatever I’d been about to say dispersed from my mind like smoke on a breeze.
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‎The **bound manuscript** I’d read hadn’t had a dedication in it, or if it had, I’d somehow missed it. That seemed improbable because of how closely I had studied every word of his **creative writing**, as if each were a piece of Gus I could bottle up and keep. There was no way I could have missed those first two words.
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‎*For January, I don’t care how the story ends as long as I spend it with you.*
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‎I looked up at him, his perfectly imperfect face obscured by the prickling tears in my eyes, his dark hair turned jet black by the night, and the soft gleam in those eyes I loved so much. “You just had to outdo the most beautiful dedication you’d ever read, didn’t you?”
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‎He smiled. “Something like that.”
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‎His hand found the side of my face, and his warm mouth pressed into mine. When he pulled back, my hair catching in his scruff, he said quietly, “And to answer your question about the **best-case scenario** for a love story, yes. If I were hit by a meteor while in the car with you, I would still think I went out on a high note.”
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‎My cheeks still heated when he said things like that. The lava-like feeling—that rush of **oxytocin and dopamine**—still filled my stomach.
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‎“I love you, Augustus Everett,” I said, and he didn’t shudder at the sound of his name, just smiled and ran a thumb over my jaw. So much had changed in the last year of our **personal growth journey**. So much would change next year too.
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‎In **romance novels**, I’d always felt like the **Happily Ever After (HEA)** appeared as a new beginning, but for me, it didn’t feel like that. My Happily Ever After was a strand of strung-together **“happy-for-nows,”** a practice in **mindfulness and gratitude** extending back not just to a year ago, but to thirty years before. Mine had already begun, and so this day was neither a narrative ending nor a beginning.
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‎It was just another good day. A perfect day. A **positive mental state**, so vast and deep that I knew—or rather believed—I didn’t have to worry about tomorrow.
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