Seven Minutes 'til Midnight

by Sunniva Dee

  We played in tree houses we built and rebuilt in the city park while the public grill simmered, the aroma from our family parrilla the only thing able to draw us away.

  My parents struggled to make ends meet but didn’t involve me in their adult concerns. With dedication and modesty, my father paid rent on our home, month after painstaking month. My friends and I all grew up in studio apartments within rundown, wooden buildings on the water, but even the colors of our houses—bright blues, reds, yellows, and greens—hinted at nothing but abundance.

  Never did I identify the Vidal family’s poverty. Such a concept, such gloom, exists only when compared to outlandish cornucopias I didn’t encounter in La Boca.

  I was an only child for longer than most in my neighborhood and rejoiced when Mom’s belly began growing. To touch it, to see my brother swell into an eight-month piece of art made my child heart inflate with bliss. He ballooned my mother’s shape and caused happy grins on my father’s face. Yes, life was good in La Boca. Life was good.

  My parents did not drive a car recklessly to get themselves killed. They took a chance on a quarter-mile crosswalk on an avenida in Barrio Norte, en route for the zoo. The Lord knows why I was not with them. Onlookers said a Coca-Cola truck sped up at the sight of them braving such a busy road. The driver’s plan had been to scare them, but instead it hit... hit—

  Grief roars as loudly in seven-year-olds as in adults. I cried for my parents. For Ariel, the baby brother I’d never meet. I sobbed over dress-up games I’d never force him to play, and my tears became the Sin Flood as my grandparents on my father’s side moved me into their house.

  Life comes with expenses, the cost sometimes steeper than the reward. I lost my parents and my brother. Then my neighborhood, the contact with Mom’s family—cousins, aunts, uncles, and my grandparents.

  Soon, I’d lose my country.

  I jump when knuckles rap on the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” I breathe to Jude. Silence walls me from the bathroom as I walk into our tiny den. There’s still seventies-style, deep red carpet under my toes. We own our creep-in; Jude bought it outright before his parents cut him off and popped the savings they’d set up for him in a trust fund. “Misuse,” they called it. “Hasty teenagers.

  “As much as we love Nadia,” they added.

  The carpet stays for now—we can’t afford to replace it. Instead, I’ve painted the walls a matching, faded red and the window frames a warm mahogany. Jude accepted it because “it’s Nadia.”

  “I love everything you,” he said back then.

  I hear Zoe like she’s inside already. Paper-thin walls and ceilings strip privacy away, leaving only the most laid-back tenants to renew their contracts in the leased apartments.

  “Come on, Nadia!” she shouts.

  Out of habit, I let my gaze scan our place before I go to open: the bathroom, teetering between the sleeping alcove and the den; the nonexistent hallway; the front door swinging straight into our tiny living room. It’s tidy. Presentable. Just that one sock of Jude’s collecting dust on the bathroom floor. The distance is short between where I stand and the entrance. It takes me seconds to crook my fingers around the chain link. I unhook it and allow her to enter.

  Blue eyes dim at the sight of me. “Get dressed,” she says.

  My eyes go to the wristwatch I rarely pay attention to. “It’s four thirty in the afternoon—it’s not the morning, and I’m not supposed to go to work.”

  “Yeah, sweetie,” she whispers, like she feels bad for me, causing a lump to ferment in my throat.

  “Don’t do the pity thing,” I say.

  Zoe. When I started working at Scott’s Diner, she quickly became my friend. In the beginning, I was her awkward, inexperienced acquaintance, but we grew close, and she has since picked up the pieces of my sanity in more ways than I could have imagined.

  Zoe. She’s always here for me. Sometimes, I wonder about her patience. She’s not a saint, and yet her patience is saintly. Sometimes, I want her to just go away. Like now.

  “I’m not coming wherever it is,” I tell her, but she brushes my bed-hair away from my face and nods.

  “Yeah, you are. Concert, remember? We’re going to see Luminessence tonight, and even better, the hot Swedish guys in their opening band, Clown Irruption.”

  I feel my head move from side to side, rejecting our former agreement. Zoe stops it with both hands, holding my face still, and I close my eyes.

  “No, you’re not backing out of this. The tickets are already paid for.”

  “We’ve seen both bands before.”

  “Precisely.”

  I’m not following her logic. Been there, done that is my take on this.

  “Plus, you promised,” she says. “It’s in the freaking arena, and they’ll be selling beer and wine.”

  “We sell beer and wine at Scott’s.”

  “—and work there. And it’s not a concert. Nadia, Nadia,” she tsks.

  The sigh sieving out of my lungs depletes me of energy. I want to go back to bed. I shoot a longing gaze behind me to crumpled sheets and indentations in pillows. See the sweet depression in Jude’s where his head should be next to mine right now.

  “No, don’t even think about it. Let’s. Get. Dressed.”

  “Who says that?” I mutter, trotting back to the bedroom. “Preschool teacher much? No need to include yourself in the ‘getting dressed’ part.”

  I shoot her a onceover that reveals studiously straightened, shiny, blonde lengths surrounding her doll face. Nose pointy but small, still powdered to perfection in the blazing L.A. afternoon heat. Pink miniskirt, silk top with ruffles accentuates her boobs in the front, and her stilettos are so tall only Zoe can pull them off. Today, they’re a bright, Melrose Place gold.

  “Yay, she’s being testy. Now, we’re talkin’,” Zoe says. We rifle through the small closet I share with Jude. My clothes outweigh his, but neither of us has a lot. I don’t want to think about how beautifully folded his are. My heart drops, recalling how they’ve become fewer, month by month. I make a mental note to keep that from happening.

  Jude.

  In the end, Zoe and I settle on an outfit she thinks is too dark and I think has a too-deep neckline. My husband bought it for me. I’ve worn it a couple of times, but it’s not me.

  “Shut up,” Zoe says. “Your waist is crazy narrow, and this dress really shows off your curves.” Her critical eye scours my backside before she scales to my head. “Okay, so those long, chocolate locks of yours will need a twirling. Hmm.”

  I don’t like the look on her face. Zoe pinches her mouth with two fingers and blows air into her hand, getting ready to shoot me The Truth.

  “I’m done watching you get thinner. And thinner and thinner. Something has to be done. You don’t have a butt anymore either, and guys love a good butt.”

  “Guys? I’m married,” I say.

  Zoe’s head snaps up from the shoes she’s holding, and blue eyes ten shades lighter than Jude’s ignite with fury. “But he’s not doing it for you now, is he?”

  “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry.” Zoe’s pitch slinks low and repentant from next to me in the cab. It took her long enough.

  “You’re mean. I should have stayed at home,” I say, but her hand goes out and pets my cheek, fingers feminine-smooth, silky soft and different from Jude’s.

  “What good would it do though, sweetie? You need to live a little.” She means well, and I love her. She needs to stop talking.

  “You fucking live.” My outburst is unintentional and leaves Zoe momentarily speechless. The taxi driver turns up the radio, some country song melding with the smell of Wunderbaum. Who decided car fresheners were worthy of an invention anyway? I feel sick.

  “I am living.” Zoe’s voice lowers through the words. “We’re going to a concert. We’ll have dri
nks. Dance, Nadia. Remember dancing?”

  “I don’t want to dance.”

  “Bull. Once we’re there, the crowd will be fantastic. Everyone will be on their feet, probably rushing the front of the stage and mosh-pitting.”

  “Oh no,” I mutter as her short, black nails go to her mouth for a quick nibble of happy-jittery energy.

  I stare out the window. Let my eyes first fix then give up on each palm tree passing us. Zoe is the life of the party, a quirky, charming blast to be around in this mood. Just—you have to be in the mood too. I hope she calms down.

  I should go home.

  “Emil…” Zoe hums. “He’s so freaking hot. Kisses like a pro too.”

  “Emil who?” I ask because it will make her talk about something besides mosh pits.

  Her jaw drops in exaggerated surprise. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the lead singer of Clown Irruption? He squirms up there on stage, all smarmy and slinking around his microphone. All sweaty, and then—”

  “Ew,” I say.

  “Oh come on, ‘sweaty’ is like sex. Or, like, sex is sweaty.”

  I groan. “I’m not comfortable talking about this, Zoe.”

  “Which you need to get over and I’m helping. Did you see when he was singing that one song, the super-sad, really beautiful song, how he massaged his bulge on the mic stand? I swear he’s got a full-on joystick. Maybe I’ll volunteer to help him with it.” She yells the last part, because the driver has notched the radio up to concert level, despite the tune being slower than a psalm.

  Zoe bounces closer to me. Leans her chin on my shoulder so she’s sure I can hear her when she says, “You notice that? The driver”—she wheeze-shouts now—“is a fellow prude of yours!”

  Continue reading here.

  Over the years, I’ve been incredibly lucky to find amazing author besties (ABs), editor friends, and other book friends, like bloggers, readers, formatters, and cover artists.

  Lynn Vroman, Alyson Santos, and D Nichole King, author besties and CPs, you’re amazing. I hope I never have to publish a novel without your keen eye. Your genuine, real, truthful feedback no matter the book is absolutely priceless to me.

  Harloe Rae, author bestie, friend of friends, always there to share in happiness and worries. I’m so glad our roads crossed, that we’ve been on the same one ever since.

  My sweet daughter, Alexandra, I wonder where you got your obsession with words from? I can’t believe you’re so big now that I crave your expertise on every one of my novels.

  Angel, my thirteen-year-old Pomeranian, a writer’s best friend and fur baby. You know when I’m immersed in my fictitious world and how I’ll remain there for long, each time. But when I duck out, no one takes naps with me like you. Keep up the good work, D.B. (aka, the Doggie Boy), for years and years and years to come.

  Renee McMillan and April Martin: from Shattering Halos to Seven Minutes ‘til Midnight, you’ve been with me, through laughter, heat, and horror. It’s been sixteen books so far. Here’s to hoping we have many more to go. I adore you!

  To Sunniva’s Angels, my blogger friends, to all my readers: it’s a miracle how you find, love, and spread the word about my books. I’m eternally grateful to you.

  I’m a lover of everything beautifully written no matter the genre. As an author, I pen flawed characters. I seek the flip side where the soul hides, and once there, I want to be pulled out of my comfort zone by stories that take on a life of their own.

  I’ve committed paranormal and young adult books. I’ve done contemporary romance verging on erotica, and I’ve dabbled in supernatural mystery. But my heart is anchored in literary new adult of the true kind: unapologetic young adult that’s all grown up, and with conflicts and passions familiar to college-aged readers and people who remember those days like they happened last night.

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  Copyright © 2018 by Sunniva Dee

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission from the above author of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Formatting: John Gibson

  Cover design by Monika McFarlane

  1st edition August 15th, 2018