But I don't want to lose the only person who knows something real about who I am, and still has a smile for me. Reaching into my back pocket, I open my phone and turn it on.
“Sorry,” I say, waiting for it to load before I can read her my digits.
“Cool.” She smiles after giving me hers. “See you, Bliss.”
For the first time, I don't hate it.
WHEN WE get home from the store, I clean my room. I shower ,and I make an appointment to get my hair cut.
I go for a walk, and I walk until the stars come out, and when fireworks open up above me, I let myself cry.
THE NEXT morning, I take another shower.
I shave my legs and put on clean clothes and mascara.
Dad's at work, but Mom's making coffee when I get downstairs.
“I want my iPod and my computer back,” I tell her.
THERE ARE some songs I can't listen to, but it's not because of the lyrics. Certain specific combinations of beats, bass, and guitars take me right back too clearly to summertimes that were too innocent and are still too raw. But the world is full of new music, and old music that's new to me, and I keep it going.
I cry to it.
I dance to it.
I shower to it and walk to it and trade it back and forth with Valarie. I pack up to it, and when my future roommate and I start emailing back and forth, and she wants me to tell her about myself, I sit down at my desk with it. With gently layered guitars touching and holding me from the inside-out, I start a new playlist and consider the idea.
Of me.
Myself.
It still feels like it started with him, like I began when purpose introduced himself to me when I was nine years old. But in truth, I was born before then. And despite half of my heart tearing itself away with his absence, it still beats.
I'm still me.
Nothing about him entering or leaving my life changes the fact that I have my mother's eyes or my father's nose. I still crack my toes when I'm nervous, and my freckles still come out in the sunshine. But there are other pieces of me that I know came from knowing this person.
Both because of and in spite of Thomas Castor, I'm a strawberry-blonde with collarbones that show. I'm a monster, but a soft one, and my favorite color is clear blue.
I can double Ollie on a skateboard, drive a stick shift with my eyes closed, and make Slushee art like a champ. My French accent is to die for, and I know what it means to talk with your eyes, and exactly how to toast the perfect marshmallow. I can curse in Italian, and I can have exactly two shots of anything before I feel it. I know which wine to cry into and which to celebrate with, and who to find if I ever need a lawyer for anything.
I've suffered alone in a bathroom stall, died in the shade of a favorite tree, and come back to life in a hotel bed. I've looked up at Heaven from a grocery cart and blacked out walking down a snowy street. I have a sweet tooth like none other, one girl's number in my phone, and a scar on my chest from a boy that once loved me stronger than the ocean is deep and hotter than fire burns.
I always eat the middle bite of peanut butter and jelly first, and I will never, not ever pierce my belly button.
Maybe I won't ever feel again the way I did with Dusty. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe our deal was enough for one lifetime, and that scares me because it's all I've ever really known.
But I remember that it's okay not to know.
I'm broken, made of pieces, but my pieces are made of more than just love.
Adding songs for all of them, I send the newest piece of my life a playlist as my reply.
IMPARTIAL AND unapologetic, the sun doesn't care about anything but shining. It pours down on me just the same as it always has and just like it does across the road and all the other cars on it.
The Rabbit's top is down, and my skin tingles and hums with the start of a burn that will probably hurt tonight but feels good right now. As miles roll by, my shorter than ever red-blond hair flies around my face. Freshly-cut soft strands tickle my neck and cheeks in the late summer heat, but the wind caresses me with salty-sweet ocean air. My parents are behind me with boxes and bags that wouldn't fit into my car, and I have music up, up, up.
Despite waking up too many mornings wishing I hadn't and every indolent effort on my part to waste life away, it's happening. I'm driving to college that's more hours and miles from home than I've ever stayed, and spinning at the precipice of being more free than I've ever been.
Live, my heart beats steadily in the pause between songs. Live.
My lips curve into a smile as my new favorite comes on, and I turn it up a little louder. In my lap, my phone vibrates with a new message from Val.
Good luck today, little sister.
It's her way of saying love.
Maybe it always was.
Glancing between the freeway and the screen, I send glad gratitude back and drop my phone in my lap. With my right hand easy on the wheel, I move my left with the breeze out my window and sing along about dust and bones and darlings and falling.
When my phone vibrates again, the feeling in my chest is utterly distinct.
I used to measure everyone and everything in my life against the pull I feel between my lungs and all through my veins right now. I only knew who I was in relation to it—to him—but that wasn't fair or right or smart or good.
Bad choices, I think as I look down at a number I don't recognize, but know. I'm not an innocent kid holding a yellow Popsicle anymore, but I'm still young, and I've learned a lot.
Chances are meant to be taken.
Rules are made to be broken.
Smiling higher than the first time I couldn't help it, I accept the call and bring the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
I have to start this off with a special thank you to the team of people who helped make this book available for the world, Arijana Karčić, Debbie Rios, Maxann Dobson, and Melissa Jones. Thank you for your part in making my dream a reality, and for teaching me a thing or two along the way.
To my best friend Ashley, my sister-in-law Jennifer, and my sister Christina, words cannot explain the appreciation I feel toward each of you for the loving and unconditional support you’ve each given me as I made myself crazy breathing life into Dusty. You each played a huge role in keeping me semi-sane, and I thank you for that.
To my mother, who never seems to understand how much I love her, thank you for your sacrifices.
Jason, you have given me a life I never imagined living. Your support is invaluable.
To my children who are still too young to hold this book, I love you.
Silvia and Dee, thank you for being there when I needed you the most.
Catherine Jones, you’ve become such a vital part of my writing process. Because of you, Pickup Truck and Low exist. Because of you, I am a better author. Thank you.
Natalee, Cjay, Kelly V., Mandy, Sam, Samantha, Heather O., Peta, Amber L. Johnson, Charity Pierce, Sarah Pierce, Jeanne McDonald, E.K Blair, Debra Anastasia, Willow Aster, Teresa Murmett, Thaigher Lillie, Valentine S., Brenda and the crew at the salon, my aunt Angela and everyone who threw me the party, Dionne (Thank you for taking a chance on me), my puppy, OGs, Dusty Lovers, the Dusty Street Team, every blog that had ever featured my books, anyone who has taken the time to reach out to me, and THE READERS—THANK YOU!
And finally, to anyone who is or has lived through the cycle of addiction. Know that you are not alone, and there is an end to the madness if you want it bad enough.
Don’t live life being a victim. It’s not worth it.
The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. —Jeremiah 17:9
To Brand New, William Fitzsimmons, APES, The Mowglis, Damien Rice, Taking Back Sunday, The Used, Imaginary Cities, Blink-182, The Violent Femmes, Mumford and Sons, The Silversun Pickups, The 1975, Lykke Li, Live, Nirvana, The Head and The Heart, Our Lady Peace, Marina and The Diamonds, Jimmy Eat World, Tyler Knott Gregson, Tom Petty and Stevie Nicks, HAIM, Shakespeare, Kund
era, Nabokov, Lindelof, Waheed, and Wilde — you continue light my dark. Thank you for all that you've shared. I love all of you.
To Catherine, thank you for correcting my commas and for your time and energy spent with Dusty. It means a lot to me.
To Sammi, thank you creating dustyislove.tumblr.com and giving us such a beautiful place. You're truly supercalla and such a wonderful friend and I love you.
To Ari, Pico, Panda, Jac, Karla, danikool, Crystina Falero, Lauren, Erika, Peta, Mildred, mericuh, Rosalinda, Mandy, Melissa, Mollie, Bree, Berta, Stacey, my mimosa, my carebear, Anahi Lacey, Riley, Nicola, AnaLisbeth, Cerece, Sophie, Jamie, Stephanie, sariedee, nicoluscious, Amber Sachs, fragilecloud, dayzee, adoublea, Natalee, Ernest, Katy, Ray, Sherry, Heather, Palin, Michaelbear, Frederico, Emily, Zero, Sam, Mister Jones, Eli, Johnna, and tater tot — thank you all for sharing with me, for listening, for laughing, for shelter, thoughtfulness, inspiration, sincerity, wine, music, hearts, tumbles, flutters, hugs, so much love, and for continuing to show me where the good goes. Thank you for being a part of this and a part of my life. I love all of you.
To Frenchie — tell your mother that I do mean you, Ariel. I love you and I'm thankful to and for you.
To Sam, please, have some cinnamon rolls! Thank you so much for being one of the first to read and love this story. I love you.
To Diane Rinella, Jennifer Theriot, and tbird, thank you so much for making Houston a thousand times cooler than I could have imagined. I love you guys.
To my darkling, my KRG, my brightheart, and my Bunny, my love for all of you is beyond compare. Seneca said that one of the most beautiful qualities of friendship is to understand and to be understood. I've found that on so many levels with each of you and I'm thankful with all of my heart to call you my friends.
To Max, for giving love in my heart your time and focus, late nights, patience, care, and support. Thank you for all of your help and kindness. I love you.
To Moses, thank you for being a person I truly and wholly admire, a friend in the deepest meaning of the word, and a girl I always feel so fucking cool with. I love you more than small silver wreaths and iron lungs.
To my grandmother who I love and miss so much. Thank you.
To Karin, for sticking with me during what have been the hardest seven months of my entire life. Thank you for being the person I share everything with and want to for always. Thank you for loving my heart and for filling my cup, for trail mix that keeps me from dizziness and for helping me feel not alone. Thank you for reminding me what to focus on and for voiceletters and your gasp and the way you sound when you smile and for loving him too. So much, thank you for loving him too. Thank you for careful help with this and all my work, for late nights and for looking up and opening things I can't. Thank you for being my good morning and the bombardment I look so forward to and my goodnight. Thank you for being my person to turn to, no matter the reason. I love you more than the sun and the moon and all the stars, more than books are good and more than coffee coffee all the time. Je suis nee pour elle aimer.
To Bishop, for sticking with me just as strongly for these last seven months and our whole lives. Thank you for videos that make me laugh when I'm crying (apparently) and for killing that wasp in my bed netting. Thank you for suggesting words and for sharing ideas. Thank you for helping me wake up on time and for bear assistance. Thank you for hugs, and for the way you love Ziggy and Sawyer, for mini-feasts and for letting me play life with you and for flying with me and for sitting beside me at that table and for letting me sit by you at the movies today. Thank you for being the coolest person to share Houston, and so many of my days with. I love you, all the way down to your blood and bones and guts. I love you so much. I love you, goddammit.
To you, the reader, thank you for giving not only this delinquent and his princess a chance, but all of the people in this story. Thank you for giving them a place in your heart-memory. Our time is one of the most precious things we have to give, and the fact that you've given yours to this incarnation of love means more to me than I know how to say. Thank you doesn't feel big enough at all to convey that feeling, but from my heart and soul, sincerely, thank you.
To the little buffalo fast asleep on my toes and keeping them warm, I love you more than the sunrise. Thank you for letting me lay my head on your heart when I couldn't get a grip on anything else. Thank you for being there when I go to sleep and when I wake up. Thank you for being one of my very favorite parts of this life. I love you.
And to trouble, how is it that almost five years feels like a few too-short seconds right now? I'm sitting in my quiet room and it's this moment that's finally here and with everything that's hurt, all I want is for this moment to last forever. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for Paris and for walking with me, for courage and validation and for being the only reason I need. Thank you for taking my gun away. Thank you for your trust and your truth and the reckless, helpless way your heart beats and beats and beats. You are Heaven-sent, and I won't dare forget.
I love you.
Mary Elizabeth is an up and coming author who finds words in chaos, writing stories about the skeletons hanging in your closets. Known as The Realist, she is one half of The Elizabeths--a duo brave enough to never hide the truth.
Mary was born and raised in Southern California. She is a wife, mother of four beautiful children, and dog tamer to one enthusiastic Pit Bull and a prissy Chihuahua. She’s a hairstylist by day but contemporary fiction, new adult author by night. Mary can often be found finger twirling her hair and chewing on a stick of licorice while writing and rewriting a sentence over and over until it’s perfect. She discovered her talent for tale-telling accidentally, but literature is in her chokehold. And she’s not letting go until every story is told.
For more Information on Mary’s solo work, including her upcoming project True Love Way, set to release in January of 2015, and Closer in 2015, follow her on:
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And you can also visit her on her website
Love's listener works from her heart.
She did this for Dusty.
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Delinquents (Dusty #2) Page 36