Surviving Us

by Erin Noelle

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  OTHER TITLES FROM ERIN NOELLE:

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, copied in any form or by any means. Electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author/ publisher, except by a reviewer that may quote brief passages for review purposes only. This book is licenses for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each participant.

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

  All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

  Cover Photography by Toski Covey

  Cover Design by Hang Le

  Editing by Kayla Robichaux

  Formatting by Kassi Cooper

  Sirens.

  Loud, loud sirens break through my sleep, disturbing the happy dream I’m having.

  I don’t want to get up, not ready, not yet.

  “Bristol!”

  “Bristol! Get up! Get up now!” My eyelids fly open; Mommy is in my room, yelling frantically.

  Angry rain pounds against my window while noisy winds howl a warning that echoes through the house as the sirens continue to blare.

  “Abigail, Bristol, in the tub now!” Daddy rushes into my room, his face pale like he’s just seen a ghost.

  I’m frozen in my bed with fear. I don’t want to get in the tub.

  “What about the—”

  “It’s too late,” he cuts off Mommy’s question. “Tub. Now. I’ll get her.”

  She rushes out of the room in her nightgown as Daddy scoops me out of the bed and into his arms. He kisses my forehead and tells me he loves me. I think he’s trying to make me feel better, but it scares me more.

  He places me in the bathtub next to Mommy and tells us both to tuck our legs under us with our hands on top of our heads. He’ll be right back, he says.

  He doesn’t come back.

  Mommy says she’s going to find him, and she’ll be right back too.

  She doesn’t come back either.

  The minute I’m by myself, everything gets louder—the rain and the wind, the wind and the rain—everything except the sirens. I can’t hear them anymore.

  Roaring.

  Rumbling.

  Hissing.

  The sounds happen all at once. And I’m all alone.

  Shaking.

  Trembling.

  Swirling.

  Everything around me is moving. And I’m staying still.

  Then, everything else is still too. Scary-still . . . and silent.

  I wait in the bathtub for Mommy and Daddy to come back.

  But they don’t.

  They never come back.

  Granny says they went to Heaven.

  I wish they would’ve taken me with them.

  “ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS, Bristol?” Granny’s voice, heavy with worry, follows me down the hallway. “It’s so far away. What if your phone doesn’t work there?”

  I stop in the foyer with an audible groan, twisting to look over my shoulder at her petite frame resting against the door of her bedroom. “Gran, we’ve talked about this,” I explain softly, hoping she doesn’t hear my growing frustration. “My phone isn’t going to work there, but I’ve written down all of the resort’s information for you—name, number, address, website—all of it. I won’t know which specific cottage I’ll be assigned to until I check in, and I promise I’ll email you the first chance I get.”

  “What about the flight? Are you going to know how to change planes whenever you layover? What if they lose your bags?” She folds her arms across her chest, grabbing at any reason she can to make me second-guess this trip I’ve been planning for nearly a year.

  I leave my suitcases at the door and march back to where she stands. Understanding she’s nervous—hell, I’m nervous, but my anticipation and excitement far outweigh any apprehension I may have—I wrap my arms around her shoulders and pull her into a tight hug.

  “I’ll be good; there’s nothing to worry about. I’m almost twenty years old, lived all of the last year away at school on my own, and managed just fine. No nights in jail, no pregnancies, straight A’s.” I lean back to look into her eyes, the same shade of blue my dad’s were, and smile reassuringly. “I want to do this, Granny. I need to do this.”

  She nods, her gray, chin-length hair swaying back and forth, and kisses my cheek. “I know, baby girl. It’s hard for me to accept you’re growing up sometimes, hard to let you go out there in the real world. You’re all I’ve got left. But you’re right—this will be good for you. There’s no way anyone here can understand . . .” Her voice trails off, but the compassion in her gaze finishes the sentence. There’s no way anyone here can understand how you feel, the guilt you live with every day.

  One last squeeze and I head back towards the front door. “I’ll see you in a couple weeks. Check your email tomorrow.”

  “I will, and don’t forget to have fun!”

  Fun. Yep, that’s the plan.

  The taxi waits patiently out front of her small, well-maintained house, our house for the last twelve years. The driver helps me load my two matching bags in the trunk, and minutes later, we’re on our way to Tulsa International Airport. By nightfall, I’ll not only be in another state for the first time in my life, I’ll be in a completely different country, a tropical paradise.

  Ready or not, St. Lucia, here I come.

  The first leg of the flight from Tulsa to Miami is rather uneventful, and to be quite honest, I’m a little disappointed. Not that I wanted to experience extreme turbulence or anything crazy like that, I just had flying so built up as this exhilarating experience in my mind for so long, and it didn’t quite live up to my expectations.

  Stuck in-between two strangers—an elderly man who snores for two straight hours and a business woman with her nose buried in some sort of spreadsheet on her laptop—I’m left with the music from my headphones
, my e-reader, and a few magazines I picked up in the airport. I want to look out the window, to see what the ground looks like from this high up, but the sleeping giant has the shade pulled down over the window.

  Oh well, maybe on the next flight I’ll have better luck with seatmates and a view.

  My layover in Miami is just long enough for me to grab a quick bite to eat at one of the little shops and then get back to my gate, waiting for them to announce it’s time to board. Glancing down at my seat assignment, I’m elated to see I’m next to the window for this flight at least. Now, if only I knew who I’d be sitting next to.

  I scan the gate area, analyzing the other people waiting for the same flight, and smile to myself, remembering what Alyvia, my best friend back in Norman, told me before I left.

  “Airports are the number one place in the world to people watch. You’ve got every emotion in the spectrum running rampant there—excited people leaving for vacation, depressed people coming home from vacation, miserable lovers and family members saying goodbye, while others are ecstatic as they reunite. Then there’s the people deathly afraid of flying, and those who get an adrenaline rush from it. All of that to watch in one place. Do yourself a favor; just sit back, watch, and take it all in.

  Most of the people around where I’m sitting seem to fall in the very first category: excited people leaving for vacation. After all, our plane is headed for one of the highest-rated tropical destinations in the Caribbean. Who wouldn’t be elated over spending time on sandy beaches with crystal blue waters lapping at the shore?

  There are a few families seated in the chairs closest to the windows, complete with both parents and a couple of kids each, who are getting a bit restless as they wait. However, the majority of the group is made up of couples—romantic getawaying, honeymoon-taking, hand-holding, neck-nuzzling couples. All the men are dressed in polos, khaki shorts, and boat shoes, and the women are in designer sundresses with blingy sandals and handbags that cost more than I pay for a semester’s worth of books. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they all went shopping together for their trips at Neiman Marcus.

  Suddenly, I feel a bit self-conscious about not only what I’m wearing, but myself in general. I peek down at my frayed, cut-off denim shorts, fitted New York Mets ringer tee, and checkered Vans, and I exhale a loud sigh. I don’t even have a purse with me, just a backpack stuffed with my iPad, phone, e-reader, headphones, wallet, and a spare change of clothes—in case they lose my bags like Granny mentioned. My entire appearance screams irresponsible, soul-searching, poor college kid, which isn’t too far from the truth. All of it except the ‘irresponsible’ part pretty much fits the bill.

  At least everyone’s too caught up in undressing each other with their eyes, counting down the hours until they’re frolicking in the sheets—or sand, in this case—instead of paying attention to me, the young chick sitting on the floor with oversized headphones on, tapping her toe to CCR singing about Willy and the Poorboys playing down on the corner. I’ve got my nickel, boys.

  Shrugging my shoulders, I continue my people watching, grateful to finally find a couple of other singletons like myself. Two, to be exact.

  The first is a lady who reminds me quite a bit of Granny. I actually have to do a double-take to ensure it’s not in fact her; I would so not put it past my grandmother to follow me on this damn trip, ensuring I’m okay the entire time. Once she finally looks up, I verify it’s not, but someone who could definitely pass as a long-lost sister, and I move my focus to the guy in the corner of the waiting area.

  Like me, he’s sitting on the floor, even though there are a few open chairs scattered around. Apparently he doesn’t want to be squished between the various sickening couples, one of which is now full-on making out in their chairs. Seriously? I’ve got to send a picture of these people to Lyv.

  Pretending that I’m scrolling through music, or doing anything but what I’m actually doing, which is taking pictures of random strangers getting hot-and-heavy in public, I can’t help but giggle at myself, even if I feel like a total perv.

  I attach the photo to our never-ending text message thread and type out a quick message.

  Me: Layover in Miami airport and I’m not sure which “airport people” category these two fit in.

  She answers in a matter of seconds.

  Alyvia: Bahahaha! That’s in the waiting area???

  Me: Yeah, who needs to pay for porn? I’ll just hang out here a while.

  Alyvia: They take “excited people going on vacation” to a whole new level. Got any other freaks? I’m bored to tears.

  I look around, my eyes subliminally drawn back to the guy by himself. He’s staring down at the floor and has been since I first noticed him, which is a shame, because from his vantage point, he’s probably got a pretty good view up Kissyface’s dress, seeing how she’s now on her knees in her chair, leaning forward to suck the life from her boyfriend or husband’s mouth.

  Because I haven’t gotten a good look at his face, I’m not sure how old he is, but based on his worn cargo shorts, flip-flops, and t-shirt that reads Cougar Hunter, I’m guessing he’s around my age. A Yankees baseball cap is pulled down low on his head, further covering his face and concealing any hair he may have; none is sticking out the back. Earbuds are securely nestled in place, blocking out the rest of the world, and overall—appearance and body language combined—he’s rocking the leave-me-the-fuck-alone aura like a champ.

  I snap a few photos, zooming in the best I can with the camera on my phone, and send them to her.

  Me: Think he’s listening to “Stacy’s Mom?”

  Alyvia: LMAO. That or “Mrs. Robinson.” Maybe you should go ask, he looks cute.

  I roll my eyes at her, even though she can’t see me.

  Me: You can’t even see his face. Shit, I’m here, and I can’t see his face.

  Alyvia: His style is cute and he’s not there with anyone. Go talk to him.

  Glancing up, I see he hasn’t moved a muscle. He may even be asleep.

  Me: I’m at an airport, not a party. And he’s wearing a Yankees hat . . .

  Alyvia: Ooh, maybe it’s Derek Jeter, and he’s trying to be incognito.

  Me: Yep, cause Jeter would wear a Yankees hat if he wanted to hide from people.

  Alyvia: Good point. Go talk to him anyway.

  Me: Nope. You can’t peer pressure me from across the country. Plus, he hasn’t looked up once. He’s either sleeping or doesn’t want anyone to talk to him. I’m good spying from over here.

  Alyvia: You disappoint me.

  “We are now prepared to board Flight six-zero-two, nonstop service to Vieux-Fort, St. Lucia,” a loud male voice boasts over the intercom, startling me from my blatant gawking of Mr. Unfriendly, who thankfully is completely unaware of my creeper tendencies. “Rows twenty-one through thirty-three, please line up now and have your boarding pass out.”

  Me: Time to board.

  I hastily jump up from the floor, still a bit ashamed over my staring and paparazzi episode, and throw one strap of the backpack over my shoulder before striding over to join the already formed line. My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

  Alyvia: Pussy

  I belly laugh and shoot back a quick answer.

  Me: Stop begging for it. I’ll give it to you one day.

  As the line slowly creeps forward, I notice that both of the families remain seated, and I chalk that up as a good thing. At least I won’t have any whiny kids around me, but unfortunately, the PDA couple is a few spots in front of me, and the loner guy is now standing against the wall, grabbing his backpack as well.

  Please, God, don’t put me by him or them, and I’ll be just fine. I’ll sit happy and quiet, listening to music and looking out the window, and mind my own business. I’m just ready to get to the resort and finally meet some of the friends I’ve been chatting with online for several years, especially Charlotte, Ashleigh, and Kayden, people who aren’t necessarily from the same age group, place in lif
e, or even the same continent, but people who understand me and what I’ve been through. People who understand the guilt that waits for me on my pillow each night.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your trip,” the attendant standing at the door says, scanning my boarding pass with a fake smile. He looks like a mannequin and sounds like a robot. Fun job.

  After several minutes of waiting in the jetway, I step foot onto the plane and the excitement about the trip returns. Just a few more hours and I’ll be there. Slowly, I make my way down the narrow aisle through the center of the plane, pausing every so often for someone to put their carry-on bag up in the storage areas. I’m not a master of flying or anything, considering today’s my first time, but I don’t quite understand why they don’t put their bags in the compartment over their seat.

  I catch the eye of one of the flight attendants standing by the wing emergency exits and try to ask my question telepathically. She rolls her eyes and laughs, shaking her head. Apparently, my ESP skills are better than I originally thought.

  Finally, I reach row twenty-seven, seat A, and lo and behold, the couple is in my row. Yeah, the one getting warmed up for their Mile High Club audition they’re shooting later. And not only are they in my row, but she’s in my seat.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I say politely, tugging my headphones down around my neck. “I think you’re in my spot. My boarding pass says 27A.” I hold it out, showing them, but neither of them even bothers to look at it.

  “Oh, yes, we were going to ask whoever’s seat this was if I could switch with them.” She looks up at me through her heavy eye makeup and smiles, flipping her fake blonde hair over her shoulder. “I’d requested a window seat, because I get very airsick if I can’t see outside, but the airline messed up somehow. Is that okay with you?”

  I stare down at her, then him, both with swollen lips and glassy eyes, and nod with defeat. The only thing that could make this worse would be to sit in a row with them and watch her vomit profusely.

  “Yeah, no problem,” I reply, sliding into the aisle seat. Maybe I’ll just take a nap.

  Bending at the waist to store my backpack under the seat in front of me, I struggle a bit getting it to fit, but finally jam it in the tight space. I lean back, put my seatbelt on, and take a deep breath, resting on my seat. Pulling my phone out to send one last message to my best friend before takeoff, I see she’s sent me a string of erotic photographs, all graphically showcasing very well-endowed men, and a single message.