I take a deep breath and stand with everyone else. I close my eyes, and I listen to the music. With every song, the muscles in my body start to loosen. Not everything can be perfect every time, not even a concert.
I breathe in the smell of sweat. The floor vibrates with each pulse of the drums. I smile to myself, feeling the buzz in my veins that only music gives me, like I’m alive. Really and truly alive.
And then they melt into my favorite song, “Stubborn Love.”
I remember that cold night, my and Oliver’s very first date, sitting in the back of his truck, wrapped in a blanket together and looking up at the stars while this song played through the open windows. A tear makes its way down my cheek. I feel like an idiot, crying in the middle of a concert, where anyone might see.
They’re moving into the final chorus when I feel something brush against my hand. My first reaction is to jerk away because I’m surrounded by strangers, and I certainly don’t want to be touched by any of them. But when I open my eyes and look down, I see a hand tilted tentatively toward mine, a very familiar hand. And I’m completely crying before my eyes even make their way all the way up the six feet and four inches of Oliver York, standing beside me.
He has this look on his face like I shouldn’t be surprised to see him standing here. Like there’s no reason at all why he wouldn’t have come. Like this, holding my hand after not seeing each other for almost two months, is a completely average occurrence.
He just holds my hand, and I let the tears get crusty on my face while I listen to the rest of the concert, feeling so alive, it just might kill me.
AMY
HE DOESN’T SAY anything while we walk to his truck. He doesn’t say anything while we drive out of Kansas City and into Independence. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls onto the same quiet road where we parked during our first date and stops the truck. And as the gearshift rattles with the hum of the engine and the Colourist plays softly in the background, Oliver looks at me, and I know he’s waiting for me to speak first.
“Oli, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it back. I wish I could undo it.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me spill my guts as we sit beside a field of tall grass, watching it sway in the wind.
“It wasn’t about you. Any of it. I was just freaking out because I was so scared that I was going to lose what I’ve been working so hard for, and I thought the only way to stop it was to cut out everything in my life, and that meant punishing you for something you didn’t have any control over. I thought you were the thing holding me back, but you weren’t. I was holding myself back. You were the thing pushing me forward.”
I stop talking because none of the words coming out of my mouth seem to make it any better. They’re just building up and not clarifying anything.
“I love you, Oliver,” I say because it’s the only thing that means anything. “I love you, and I want you, and I don’t want anyone else. All this time you were worried about being a fuckup, and here I am, the biggest fuckup of all.”
“You’re not a fuckup.”
But it’s a lie, and I think we both know it. “I won’t hurt you again, Oli,” I say, looking up at him. “I swear. I never meant to hurt you, and I swear on everything I am that I won’t hurt you again.”
He’s watching me, and I just want him to say something, anything. I want him to tell me he forgives me. I want him to tell me he loves me. I want him to say that he never wants to see me again and this night was just like what Brooke said, closure. Because that would be better than his mouth not moving, not saying anything.
But he still doesn’t say anything, just leans forward and kisses me. I’m too relieved to be embarrassed that I’m crying into his open mouth, that my tears are getting his face wet, too, as he pulls me across the console and onto his lap, and I hold on to him as tight as I can because I’m never letting him go again.
OLIVER
“I MISSED YOU,” I say against her mouth, the thing I’ve wanted to say since I saw her standing alone at the concert, swaying to the music, looking every bit like that girl I fell in love with in the stockroom at Spirits. Amy and I have only been friends for a few months, but in the time we’ve been apart, I’ve felt like I lost a limb, and I didn’t even know it until I was holding on to her again.
“I missed you, too,” she says, wrapping her arms around me and burying her face in my neck.
I wish I could explain to her how everything feels different. But I don’t know how to put into words how I feel, like I’m jumping off a cliff and hoping to fly, and I’m taking her with me. Like the way I love her has shifted, into something quiet and solid.
I pull away from her so she’ll look at me, and even though I didn’t really plan to say any of these things on a dark road in Independence with her straddling me like this, I want to say it.
“I’ve been in love with you since almost the day we met. I’ve never felt like this before. I feel like I handed you my fresh, beating heart and maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe it’s not fair to put all your hopes into a single person and think they can be everything you need them to be. I looked at you, and I saw my future, and that was too much to push onto one person.”
She shakes her head and presses closer to me. “But I’m okay with that. I want you to see me in your future, Oli.”
I bite my lip. “It wasn’t right of me to put that pressure on you. You’re not responsible for my happiness.” I think of my parents. I think of the expectations they had for each other, the expectations they had for themselves. “It’s not going to be perfect. It’s never going to be perfect, but I’ve seen what happens when you walk away, and I think we can do better than that.”
Her eyes are wide, her chin wobbling. “I love you,” she whispers, and I feel like every inch of my skin, every cell in my body, is screaming out for her. She presses her forehead to mine and then sighs against my lips. “I have to go home. Mama has been extra worried about me, and if I’m late, she’ll panic.”
I nod at her, but everything inside me mourns her touch as she pushes off me awkwardly and climbs back into her seat. She puts her seat belt back on while I start the truck, and when I reach for the wheel to make a U-turn, she reaches out a hand, putting it on my arm, stopping me.
When I look at her in the dark, I see something brewing in her eyes. “Come to California with me.”
OLIVER
BROOKE LEANS AGAINST the front counter and smiles at me. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite employee. What’s cookin’, sweetheart? Did you come here hoping I’ll take you back?”
Hoping isn’t really the word I would use. More like, expecting. “Yep,” I say, “but you’ll have to forgive me. I can only work through the summer.”
Brooke narrows her eyes. “Is that your way of telling me that you’re going to Missouri Baptist after all, and you can’t manage a part-time sales position while you’re a full-time student? Because that is just so not like you, Oli.”
I grin at her. “No, that’s my way of telling you that I’m moving to California with Amy at the end of the summer.”
It’s hard to shock Brooke. But when I say this, her mouth falls open. “Are you … are you serious? You’re leaving?”
I shrug. “Don’t you think it’s time?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “So I guess all that romantic gesture garbage worked on you then, huh?
“You know me,” I say. “I’m quite the romantic.”
She narrows her eyes at me again. “You don’t have to tell me that, Oliver York. You’ve never been able to fool me.”
I laugh because I know she’s right. “I love her,” I say, “and maybe fairy tales are bullshit and maybe I’m making a huge mistake, but when I look at her, I feel like maybe I have something to offer.”
Brooke’s expression of suspicion melts away, and she sighs. She reaches for her phone, and then I’m just standing there, watching her scroll through something, a thoughtful expression on
her face.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask.
Her eyes slide up to mine. “I have some contacts in California. I’ll make sure you have a job by the time you get there. And you better start looking at buildings for us because I wasn’t kidding about Lauren and me moving Spirits out there someday.”
I wrap my arms around her and lift her off the ground.
“Oliver,” she screams in my ear. “You know I’m not a hugger. Put me the fuck down!”
AUGUST
AMY
OLIVER AND I lie flat on our backs on the floor of Oliver’s new apartment and stare up at the spotted gray ceiling. Oliver reaches over with just the tips of his fingers and laces them through mine.
“Is it everything you imagined?” he asks me.
I’m quiet for a long time. No. This isn’t how I imagined it. When I imagined moving to California, I imagined being alone. I imagined being terrified but keeping my head held high because that’s what I’ve always done. Never did I imagine Oliver here with me.
This is so much better than I imagined.
But I don’t say any of that. “I guess maybe I expected you to have carpet. I don’t even know why.”
“Carpet is old-school.”
“Apparently.”
I turn my head to look at him, and he turns his head to look at me, and his green eyes seem to shimmer in the light of the afternoon sun streaming in through the window. I reach out and run my fingers along his jaw as he reaches for his cell phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask, letting my hand drop back to my side.
“Trying to win a contest,” he says, and I roll toward him, trying to snatch his phone away. He holds it out of my reach.
“You’re never going to win!” I shout, climbing on top of him in an attempt to reach his phone, but Oliver’s arms are so much longer than mine.
“Just cave to my musical genius already,” he says, and I put my face against his neck and laugh as he wraps his arms around me. He clicks around on his phone, and then Ed Sheeran starts to play from his tiny speakers.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” I ask him, pushing up from his chest and smiling down at him.
“Technically, I’m trying to let Ed Sheeran seduce you,” he says, and I laugh again, but this one is swallowed up as he leans up to kiss me.
SONGS AMY AND OLIVER LISTENED TO IN ALL OUR WORST IDEAS
“DO YOU REALIZE??” BY THE FLAMING LIPS
“CERTAIN THINGS” BY JAMES ARTHUR
“EVERY LITTLE THING SHE DOES IS MAGIC” BY SLEEPING AT LAST
“MOLLY” BY THE FRONT BOTTOMS
“ST. PATRICK” BY PVRIS
“POISON & WINE” BY THE CIVIL WARS
“HALLELUJAH” BY JEFF BUCKLEY
“WANNABE” BY THE SPICE GIRLS
“AIN’T NO SUNSHINE” BY BILL WITHERS
“FRIDAY I’M IN LOVE” BY THE CURE
“SHE IS LOVE” BY PARACHUTE
“YELLOW” BY COLDPLAY
“PARKLIFE” BY BLUR
“COME ON EILEEN” BY SAVE FERRIS
“I FOUND” BY AMBER RUN
“VARM” BY KRISTIAN KRISTENSEN
“MAPS” BY THE FRONT BOTTOMS
“NEXT IN LINE” BY WALK THE MOON
“LOVER, PLEASE STAY” BY NOTHING BUT THIEVES
“LET’S GET IT ON” BY MARVIN GAYE
“SHIRTSLEEVES” BY ED SHEERAN
“SLOW IT DOWN” BY THE LUMINEERS
“FLASHLIGHT” BY THE FRONT BOTTOMS
“SATURN” BY SLEEPING AT LAST
“GHOST” BY HUNTER HUNTED
“HUNGRY LIKE THE WOLF” BY DURAN DURAN
“STUBBORN LOVE” BY THE LUMINEERS
“SPIRITS” BY THE STRUMBELLAS
“WE WON’T GO HOME” BY THE COLOURIST
“DIVE” BY ED SHEERAN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
One of my favorite things about working in this industry is how, with every book, my list of people to thank gets longer and longer.
First, always, my God, who has given me this job and these experiences and all of the people in this section. I am truly, truly blessed.
A huge thank-you to everyone at Swoon Reads. Jean Feiwel, for letting me write another book for you. Lauren Scobell and Emily Settle, for being tireless and always supportive. Kat Brzozowski, for believing in my stories and always being patient with me when I have a billion questions. And for excellent guinea-pig content, which always helps the editing process. Also, Rachel Diebel, Ilana Worrell, Kelsey Marrujo, Katie Klimowicz, and Raymond Ernesto Colón, for working hard for me and the other authors at SR. Everyone else at Swoon Reads, especially those who have helped make this book possible without ever having known me. Your hard work is endlessly appreciated.
Swoon Squad. You guys know how much you mean to me, and I won’t get sappy, but I would be lost without you all. Thanks for always having my back and being the most supportive group of people I’ve ever known. A special thank-you to squad members Katy Upperman and Claire Kann, for listening to me complain and always being wonderful friends and coworkers. Dallas Area Kidlit group: it has been an absolute honor to be in this with you guys for the last year. And especially Karen Blumenthal and Polly Holyoke, for always being willing to share your wisdom with me and not letting me hide in the background. Upperclassmen, you have been endless help and support for me, and it’s a joy to know and be a part of you. And lastly, my Electrics, my ever-constant group who always has fierce advice and never-ending virtual hugs. Love you guys.
The majority of this book was edited at my home away from home: the library. Endless gratitude to the Smith Public Library, the Sachse Public Library, the Richardson Public Library, the Grand Prairie Library, and the entire Plano Library System for giving me a place where I feel comfortable enough to work on draft after draft, especially the lovely people at Smith who always kindly looked the other way while I ate prohibited Starburst by the handful. Also, thanks to all of the librarians and bloggers I’ve met over the last three years who have been supportive and kind. This industry wouldn’t run without all of you. And, of course, the readers. Thank you for caring and for leaving kind comments and just sharing your enthusiasm. It is so, so lovely.
This book took a village of extremely kind people who took time to help me with details, and I am extremely grateful to that village. Jacqueline Fane, Sean Enfield, and Jonathan Upchurch, for sending me music to help drive the story forward, with a special thank-you to Chris Fluitt, who spent way too long trying to educate me on jazz (sorry the jazz chapter got cut), and Scott Fane, who introduced me to the Front Bottoms. As you’ve probably figured out, they became integral to this story. Christina Babu, for sharing your knowledge with me on the valedictorian race. De Vickery and Cherelle Sparkman, for standing by me while I wrote this book in the lobby of Snoopy’s. If you had ever asked me to please turn off my music, I never would have gotten through that awful first draft. Stephanie Crowe, for being an excellent beta reader and always being up for talking about books. Aiden Thomas, for sharing your knowledge on Spanish grammar rules with me. You’re a star.
The village it took to make this book is nothing compared to the village that it takes to keep me moving every day. Kathy, there were many days in there when I was squirreled away in my office working while you were making sure the house and my husband were taken care of. Thank you for that. Meghan, you spent hours helping me brainstorm this book and listening to me moan and groan and just generally being my support system any time I needed it. There are no words for how thankful I am that you’re in my life. Yoon, I love love love you. Thank you for always putting me back together when I fall apart. Any book I’ve ever written wouldn’t exist without you telling me I could do it. Mom, you gave me books and music and movies that you loved and then told me to find what I loved, and for that I am forever grateful. Thank you for letting me be me and always being willing to love that person. And Jeremy. There are really no words. If anyone has been beside me t
hrough the absolute best and the absolute worst, it’s you. You’re in every love interest I write because I wouldn’t know true love if it weren’t for you.
Also by Vicky Skinner
We Are the Ghosts
How to Breathe Underwater
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vicky Skinner was born and raised in Texas. She doesn’t like country music or horseback-riding, but she does like her motorcycle-riding husband and her two adorable Labs. Everyone told her not to get a degree in Literature, but she did it anyway. She works as a full-time homemaker and a part-time nanny, and if she’s not at home in her office/library, she’s probably hanging out with her church group or eating at the nearest pizza place. How to Drown is her debut novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
January
All Our Worst Ideas Page 26