Love and Relativity

by Rachael Wade

  LOVE AND RELATIVITY

  RACHAEL WADE

  Also by Rachael Wade

  The Resistance Trilogy:

  Amaranth, Book One

  The Gates, Book Two

  The Tragedy of Knowledge, Book Three

  The Preservation Series:

  Preservation, Book One

  Reservation, Book Two (2013)

  The Keepers Trilogy:

  Repossession, Book One (2013)

  Praise for Amaranth

  “A beautifully written story about love, sacrifice, and friendship that has a lot of fun twists and turns.”

  -Seeing Night Reviews

  “As wonderful and enchanting as its beautiful cover…”

  -Shadow Kisses Reviews

  “…a new, exciting, and riveting tale of love and loss. The part that really stood out for me was that it is not just about fighting for your love, your soul mate, but it was about redemption of an entire clan so to speak.”

  -Alchemy of Annes Anomalies Reviews

  “...I was hooked from the first chapter. I just wanted to step into the dark, dangerous world of Amaranth.”

  -Fiction Fascination Book Reviews

  “A fantastic journey from beginning to end.”

  -Gothic Angel Book Reviews

  “…far from ‘just another vampire book.’ ”

  -Live to Read Book Reviews

  “Amaranth was in NO way a direction that my mind EVER would have gone. Talk about beautifully written, Rachael built a world that is absolutely stunning!”

  -Taking it One Book at a Time Reviews

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2012 Rachael Wade

  Rabbit Hole Press

  Orlando, Florida

  www.RachaelWade.com

  Cover Design: Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  Editor: Susan Miller

  ISBN: 978-0-9840208-7-4 (Paperback)

  DEDICATION

  To anyone who has loved and lost, or never had the chance to say goodbye.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my Creator and Savior, for endless love and forgiveness.

  Thank you, Tess (my BBB), for all your input on Jackson and Emma’s drama, for recommending Downton Abbey, for loving Olympic swimmers, and for a crap ton of other things that have made me smile. You rock, my friend. Also, thanks to my other Goodreads girls: Maria, Chanda, Melissa, and Fathima (the original Crazy Book Chicks!) for the best book gossip EVER. Love you, ladies. xoxo

  Thank you to the book blogging community and all of my blogger friends—you know who you are. You guys are amazing. My books never would’ve made it off the ground without your support. I am beyond grateful for all that you do.

  Thank you, Cath, for your input on the story and just for being you—my bestie!—and to Dave and Patricia, for putting up with my crap and loving me anyway...even when I disappear to the writing cave for weeks, don’t speak to you, and wear pajamas all day. Pat, my time with you on our last trip fueled the completion of this novel. Thank you for your acceptance, love, and encouragement.

  Finally, thank you to my readers. I love you all to the moon. You guys have no idea what a blessing you are to me. I hope Emma and Jackson’s story makes you smile.

  Author’s Note

  This story was inspired by the song, “The Story” by Brandi Carlile. If you haven’t heard it, stop what you’re doing and listen to it now, before you begin reading. If you want to get to know Emma and Jackson, everything you need to know is there. Brandi Carlile and The Twins are some of the greatest, most underrated artists of all time. Listen and be moved.

  Also, this story coordinates with The Preservation Series. If you want to read more about Emma, Jackson, Carter, and their friends Kate and Ryan, Try Preservation, book one of the series. You can read Chapter One for free at the end of this book.

  What I remember most is the sirens—their wailing as they faded in and out, and that I should’ve been headed in the other direction, toward the scene of the accident. Instead, I rode my bike as fast as I could into the darkness toward Pete’s Tavern, slowing down when my legs started to fail me and my lungs gave out. I slid off the bike and started walking it with me, dragging myself for what felt like hours, when in reality, the effort lasted a minute at most.

  Everything in me slowed down then, all of the disbelief draining from my body. A desolate, static hum pulsed there now, and the sirens disappeared. The sea breeze whipped around my face and stilled my movement on the side of the road. My head tilted slightly toward the direction of the ocean, where it lay behind the roadside shops, as if Jen’s spirit were dragged out to sea and I needed to catch it before it drifted too far.

  And then I was on the ground, my bike crashing onto the sidewalk.

  At first sitting on my bottom, I curled my knees to my chest and sucked in a sharp breath, eyes glued past the shops and out to the sand dunes, where the ocean’s dark horizon called to me. The moonlight rained down on the beach as if to shine a spotlight on my solitude, and I wanted to cry out at it, ‘Why did you take her? You, surrounded by all of your twinkling stars and infinite wonders and darkness. There’s already enough beauty where you are.’

  At one point my lips moved, although I couldn’t hear my voice, and then another voice overpowered my internal grudge with the moon.

  “Emma,” it said. “Can you hear me?” By now I was flat on the cement, arms and legs limp. The voice called out to me again and I was lifted up, wrapped in a blanket and carried into a pick-up truck.

  “I’ve got you,” the voice echoed as I faded out. “I promise, it’s all going to be okay.”

  I managed to push out two final words before a tide of troubled sleep swept me away.

  “Thank you.”

  Part 1

  Love

  Chapter 1

  The muggy evening heat engulfed me when I stepped outside of the classroom, causing my glasses to fog up the instant I hit the campus pavement. Pulling them from my face, I tossed them into my book bag. I didn’t need them for anything other than reading, but every now and then, I toted them around in public. They made me feel like a different person, an alternate me—the one who would’ve been clear across the country right now, finishing up college in Washington, with my ex high school sweetheart by my side. Only that would require an alternate him as well, because the real him decided he didn’t want to leave Florida after all, and that sleeping with some freshman he met at a beach party was a wake-up call that he didn’t love me as much as he thought he did.

  It was a miracle I didn’t hinder his ability to have babies the night he told me the news.

  That was a year ago, and now I was back at Edison State College for round two, beginning my sophomore year. Chris, the ex-boyfriend, and I had taken some time off after high school and made a pact to spend our freshman year here together in Florida, at Edison, to knock out some general education classes before transferring to the Northwest to finish our degrees. I was preparing for a Bachelor of Science in Biology with a Marine Biology concentration, and he had his sights set on psychology.

  The original plan was cool with me. The Southwest Florida lifestyle had suited me well since I was born. I loved the sunshine, the tropical humidity, the weekends at the beach and afternoons by the pool, and the year-round flip-flop and tank top wardrobe requirements. It also gave me tim
e to save some money. When Chris ditched me for the freshman and my sister passed away shortly after, all of that changed.

  Now I craved cloudy days, hated the unbearable heat, and found myself interested in wearing more than shorts and a bathing suit all the time. Not a day went by when I didn’t imagine what it would be like out West with Chris, or where Jen would be right now if she were still here, which lives she’d touch and the amount of light she’d shine. I might’ve given up the dreams to leave this place a year ago, but my desire for them wasn’t dead, just dormant.

  And Jen’s absence never let me forget it.

  Hopping in my car, I pulled out of the campus parking lot and made my way toward Sanibel Island, where I lived and worked. Driving inland to Fort Myers to go to school a few days a week was no biggie. In fact, it was a relief. I liked getting off the island, and it gave me a chance to think. I seemed to emerge from my car after every ride with a little more clarity, which was something I ached for lately. You think when someone you love passes away, everything becomes clearer, that your priorities and perspectives align in a way they’ve never aligned before because of the sobriety of it all.

  But it doesn’t.

  Those revelations just become skewed and distorted until you’re forced to rewrite them entirely. You can’t walk straight on a new path when you have too much luggage on your back. You just keep swerving, trying to find a way to accommodate the weight, but it’s all dead and you know it’s going to take you down. The only answer is to re-route.

  I pulled up to Pete’s Tavern at 9:30 p.m. on the dot, relieved to see Whitney already waiting for me when I walked in the door. There she sat, propped in our favorite spot at the bar, with her petite frame swallowed up by the wide high-back bar stool, and her dark, onyx hair piled high up on her head in her signature messy bun. The seafood joint felt more like New England than Southwest Florida, but it was cozy and offered the best drinks and coconut shrimp in town, not to mention the best karaoke selection.

  Jimmy Buffet was singing about it being 5 o’clock somewhere, and the Friday night regulars were just getting started. There were only two kinds of music that made it onto the radio here: Jimmy Buffet’s greatest hits, and country. We might have been in the tropical Sunshine State, but we were also in the South. And that meant a lot of country. And whiskey. And pick-up trucks, muddin’, and crazy-ass Southern boys who loved to raise hell. While most of the region was a melting pot like the rest of the state, that didn’t stop Fort Myers from carrying its own particular brand of backwoods Southern flair.

  Whitney swung around to meet me with a smile when she heard Pete whistle at me from behind the bar. His voice boomed across the restaurant, prompting head turns and a whole lot of hooting and hollering. “Well I’ll be damned, kids. Our favorite lush is in the house. Come on in, darlin’, I know you missed me, now. It’s been over a week!”

  “Hey, Pete.” I grinned up at him while I took my seat, tossing my book bag near my feet. “Yeah, just been busy with the new semester.”

  “Soooo....how was class, chick?” Whitney asked.

  “Okay,” I said, pulling the clip from my hair to let my wavy, chestnut-brown hair down. Pete was already busying himself behind the bar, working on my usual. “How was work?”

  “Eh, same old, same old. Snotty bitches turning their noses up at me because they have money and they know I don’t.” Whitney worked as a maid at one of the most uppity resorts on Sanibel Island. Most of the time, the guests were seniors: mostly sweet, occasionally grumpy, or something in between. But the recently renovated, urban chic atmosphere attracted all sorts of locals and tourists now, including younger people with daddy’s money and yachts waiting at the dock. Whitney worked hard for her money, working another waitressing job on the side to make ends meet, and I was damn proud of her for doing all that, plus taking classes. Friday night was the one night a week we both shared off, and Pete’s was our watering hole of choice.

  If our Friday nights were ever taken away from us, I was sure I’d lose my sanity.

  “Did you fluff their pillows to their liking?” I batted my eyelashes and gave her my most sarcastic eye roll.

  “Girl, some days, I’d like to take those pillows and tell them to stuff ‘em where the sun don’t—”

  “Here ya go, darlin’.” Pete slid me my drink. “Shrimp’s comin’ right up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So,” she gave me that devious look I knew so well, “I’ve decided to take a weekend trip to Orlando. You game?”

  “Nah, not this time, Whit. I requested this weekend off for a reason—because I need a break from running around...and to deal with...ya know. The new class and work schedule is already wearing me out. I’m staying home. It’s going to be me, my Kindle, and the beach.”

  “I need a break, too, chick. I rarely get a weekend off. But I can catch some sun, sand, and read a good book in Orlando, and so can you. And there will be guys. Lots and lots of guys. I’m driving. Come onnnn, Em! You shouldn’t be home alone this weekend.”

  Her expression turned earnest and I raced to deflect the direction she was headed with that piece of conversation. “Somebody’s on the rebound.” I snickered, raising my eyebrows.

  “I am not on the rebound, thank you very much.” Whitney had recently gone batshit crazy after breaking up with Adam, her boyfriend of two years, morphing into a serial dater. She’d go on one date with someone and be out the door before he even picked up the check. No matter what, no one would ever compare to Adam. Whitney was like me in that way. We’d both been hopeless romantics since kindergarten, believing in soul mates and the ability to be perfectly content in a committed relationship. Still, we never felt the need to have men in our lives to make us happy. Both Adam and Chris—before they were assholes—knew this about us and were pretty supportive of our independence.

  I grew up seeing a partner as an equal, someone who made you a better person and encouraged your individual growth, not a lesser or a better who dictated your every move. I had my mom to thank for that. She’d been happily married to my dad for 30 years until he randomly died one day from a heart problem. They were positively my role models in the romance department, and although my hope for a healthy, genuine relationship had been mired by a new, less-than-optimistic outlook on love, deep down, I knew not all guys sucked. Only the high school sweethearts with football player abs, massive egos, and pearly white smiles—the ones who walked straight out of Abercrombie catalogues, like Chris Williams—did. Damn him, damn him, damn him.

  I repeated this mantra at least three times a day.

  “Whit, you’ve been on the rebound for six months,” I said. “You’ve left a trail of broken hearts from here to Mexico, and it’s not getting any better.”

  “Excuse me, miss I-don’t-date-at-all-and-I’m-22-years-old.” She gave me her own signature eye roll and popped a cherry in her mouth. “I’m just trying to keep my options open. It’s not my fault they follow me around with puppy dog eyes and then cry a river when I don’t agree to a second date.”

  Pete returned with my shrimp basket and I dug in, savoring the coconut flavor and exotic spices as they melted on my tongue. “Mmmmm.” I sighed contently and glanced over my shoulder when I heard the front door open and the familiar laughter roll into the restaurant. “Hey, I date. Just...not very often. Well, you could always opt for more temporary solutions, since you don’t seem to be interested in anything serious.” Nudging her in the ribs, I waited for her to pivot around and follow my gaze.

  She eyed the group of guys who’d walked in and made a gagging sound. “Please, Em. Jackson Taylor and his dimwit assclowns? I don’t think so.”

  “What?” I feigned innocence. “They’re hot and they’re with different chicks every week. I’m sure they’d be happy to oblige to your serial dating ways.”

  “Ugh. Emma, sometimes I wonder if you even know me at all. Would you look at them? Strutting in here like they own the place. Ppffftt.”

  “Brac
e yourselves, ladies,” Pete’s voice made us snap our heads back around. “Looks like trouble’s making its weekly rounds.”

  Hearing the laughter grow louder, I glanced over my shoulder again and sighed. Yup. Once again, Jackson Taylor and his army of mischief-makers were on their way over to Whitney and me to commence their Friday-night ritual: harassing us until we agreed to dance and sing karaoke with them.

  There was a generally amicable understanding between all of us: They were allowed to entertain themselves with the idea that they actually caused us to swoon and grow weak in the knees, as long as they didn’t interfere with our girl time when we told them to screw off. Most of the time, they abided by that rule. By the sounds of them tonight, though, something told me they were all about interfering.

  “And how are my favorite angels tonight?” Jackson’s voice called out in a sing-song tone behind us, meeting me with that mega-watt grin of his and that wild, mussed-up dark brown hair that made him look like he’d just had hot elevator sex. “Emma, looking stunning as usual.” His blue eyes raked down my body, then back up. He leaned in, aligning his eye level with mine.

  I crossed my legs and straightened my back, deadpanning him. “Ah, Jackson, you’re looking simply divine yourself, as usual.”

  “That’s because the heavens opened up and out I fell, just for you.” He winked, swiping the olive from my glass to toss it in his mouth.

  “Hey! I was going to eat that.”

  “No you weren’t. You never eat the olive.”

  “Tonight I was.”

  “I call bullshit.” He chomped down playfully before unleashing that smug grin again, flicking his gaze down to my lips, making me squirm in my seat.